Thursday, December 30, 2010

"that's so gay"...

If you go to the aforementioned cool site,, among other nifty tidbits of info and resources around homophia, they keep a constantly running ticker that tallies the number of times "that's so gay," "fag," "dyke," and other homophobic slurs are used on Twitter.  At the time of my writing, "dyke" has appeared 927 times today, and mentions of "fag" and "that's so gay" capped out at over 1500 times each.    Alrighty then.

In addition to those 'expressions' (if that's what you wanna call them) being all kinds of homophobic and generally ignorant, folks should also know this:

When you say "that's so gay," this is what I hear you really saying:  "I'm not actually all that bright."

When you call someone a "fag", or "dyke" or "queer" (after seeing red), this is what I hear you really saying: "I'm not actually all that bright, and on top of that, I'm hateful and mean-spirited."

(Yeah - I know you're 'just joking.'  Yeah, I know 'we can't take a joke.'   Yeah, you do 'just have to be so politically correct all the time.'  And it's, like, such a drag and such a hardship, and blah blah blah.)  Here's the thing:  you don't get to play the 'just kidding' card when you put other folks down.  Doesn't work that way. 

So please.  Do us all a favour and stop telling us how dumb you are.  Stop telling us how hateful and ignorant you are.   We get that stupidity and ignorance exists, we just don't think you need to shove it in our faces all the time. 

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

post-Christmas shell shock

We have entered the shell-shock phase of the holiday season.  You know - the time when the magic of Christmas is fading, and boring old daily realities (as well as the coming down from the frenzy of activity) sets in for everyone.  Our home looks like a (too generous) toy-wielding tornado has ripped through it.  There are bits of tape, ribbon and wrapping paper under every imaginable surface, mingling with the dustbunnies and furballs I haven't had time or energy to tame since the holidays began.  There are so many toys (new and old) strewn around that the kids don't know where to start playing, and besides which, they're still all wonky, cranky and moody from the spree of visiting, running around, eating, staying up late, being totally out of routine, and missing naps - such is the stuff of holiday fun. 

And it is fun - don't get me wrong.  We had a lovely time visiting with out of town family, experiencing the kids' Christmas exuberance, sledding, eating, playing, eating, drinking, eating, and more visiting.  It's been grand (and I mean this in an uncharacteristically non-sarcastic way).   But now I'm a bit on the weary side.  Okay, I'm pretty tired.  Maybe even bone tired.  Yesterday, I somehow managed to seriously throw out my back just picking up Girlio to put her in her highchair, rendering myself totally, well, buggered up.  Someone suggested to me this was proof that my level of exhaustion had hit the muscular level.  I think there might be something to that.  (Though it should probably also be noted that it's also likely proof that I'm dreadfully clumsy).   And I've got these smalls who are also tired, needing routine, but wanting the hoopla and non-routine-y-ness of Christmas to keep keepin' on.   It's not necessarily a winning combination.

Anyways - Christmas was magical.  Marvellous.  Magically marvellous.  And now, I am thrilled to pieces that it is over and I won't have to experience it's magical marvel until this time next year (when I'm sure once again get all  excited and nostalgic over the holiday splendor).  

But for now, I'm all Christmas-ed out.  So bring on boredom.  Bring on routine.  Bring on the order of regular naptimes and bedtimes.  Throw in some pajama mornings (and pajama afternoons!).  Right about now - that feels like all the magical marvellousness I can handle.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The dreaded doctor's visit.

I have begun to dread my kids' check-ups at our GP's.  It's a teaching practice, so we get to see a nurse, then a resident, then our doctor.  Sometimes this sequence of events works out better than others. 

Anyways, one of the things I really hate is the "is your child 'normal' developmental checklist:  (I could rail all day about these kinds of checklists, but suffice it to say, I think they're a bit absurd.)

My favourite was at Girlio's 12 month check-up:  "Does she go and fetch her shoes when you tell her to?"  Me:  "Well, she can't walk yet, so I haven't really started asking her to fetch things...".  A friend told me she was asked at the same 12 month stage if her daughter was speaking in sentences yet.  (Oh yes, and she's enrolled in Yale for the fall semester!)  And at Boy-o's two year check-up, our resident was extremely bothered by the fact that Boy-o wasn't toilet trained yet. 

This last time, for Girlio's 18 month check-up, I was asked:  "When you show her a picture of a body, does she point out and name at least three body parts?"  (Yes sure - every single time I pull out my pointer and body chart, she calls out the proper latin and everything!)  And when it was Boy-o's turn, (the four year old checklist) they wanted to know:  "When he draws people, does he make a shapes for the body parts?"  Me:  "No".  "Oh, so he just draws stick people then?"  Me:  "He's not really into drawing people."  Long disturbed pause... "You mean, he just.... scribbles?"  Me (somewhat irate at the fact that this woman is not so subtly putting down my child right there in his face):  "We prefer to call it art." 

And then I chat with the resident, which is mostly fine, until it comes along to Girlio's lack of sleep.  Here she grills me on our routine,  breastfeeding habits, how we choose to comfort etc.  I can feel exhaustion setting in here because I already know where this is going:  The lack of sleep is our fault, we aren't doing it right, etc.  We've been down this road a time or two.  And then she asks if Girlio sleeps in her own room.  (She does.)  "Oh good." She says.  "We find babies do so much better in their own rooms."    Now this crap drives me nuts.  She states itso matter-of-factly, as if this were, in fact medical and not moral advice.   Now North American docs get all funny about co-sleeping, it's true, because of the fear of suffocation.  But babies ALL over the world co-sleep.  Like ALL OVER.  And there are LOADS of ways of co-sleeping and room-sharing with babies that this risk wouldn't ever even come into play.  SO - just exactly how do "we" find that babies do better in their own rooms?  Do they turn out smarter?  More well-adjusted?  Do they get more sleep?  Do their parents?  I've done a fair share of reading on the subject, and I'm pretty clear that there's no consensus on the deficits or the merits of co-sleeping.  And so I say:  "You know what?  We've tried co-sleeping.  It didn't work for us.  But if Girlio would sleep in our bed, I'd let her stay there til college if I had to.  I'd let her sleep in the bathtub if I thought it would help!"    I got a nervous, "I don't know what to do with the uppity woman' smile.   I seem to get that smile a lot.

Then my actual doc comes in (after my kids have been sitting in this office for over an hour, seeing the nurse and then resident), just to talk to me about the sleep stuff.  And though kind and empathetic about the exhaustion I am living with, she advises that what I need to do is have the adults and Boy-o sleep downstairs, put in earplugs and just let Girlio cry upstairs on her own for a few nights.  "It's the tried and true patient and parent-tested way," she informs me.  And then she sends me off with this warning:  "You've got to get this sorted out.  Otherwise, she'll end up like my neighbour's daughter, who's seven, and still screams for hours at bedtime everynight."   Mmmhmmmmm.   See now, this is parenting advice.  Not medicine.  Show me a study that say children raised in a cry-it-ou household are better adjusted, smarter, happier in their lives.  It doesn't exist.  It doesn't exist because sleep concerns aren't really about babies - they're about parents.  The babies are just fine.

I'm glad my kiddos have universal healthcare.  I'm ever so grateful I can take them for check-ups and make sure that they are growing up healthy and strong.  But I hate the tyranny of 'normalcy' that awaits every time we walk through those doors.  (Ie. 8 kids out of 10 can do x by the age of y - therefore the 2 kids must something wrong with them.)   I also really resent feeling like I am no longer considered an expert in my children's growth, learning and development from the second we arrive.  AND - the dropping of "We find" and presenting parenting advice as empirical knowledge (as if avoidance of co-sleeping and cry-it-out-ing are somehow medically superior methods of child-rearing), well... I find - that just ain't right.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

South African Queer women and sexual assault

Please take the time this weekend to head over to this link and learn about the horrendous and shocking situation of queer women (and all women) in South Africa, where campaigns of 'corrective rape' are being undertaken to turn women 'straight'. 'Cause nothing makes a queer woman want to hop into the arms of men quicker, I'm sure.)  Very, very few men are being punished for these crimes, and there is a petition to the South African government to urge the to take this situation seriously. 

In the last 10 years:

*31 lesbian women have been murdered because of their sexuality

*More than 10 lesbians a week are raped or gang raped in Cape Town alone

*150 women are raped every day in South Africa

*For every 25 men accused of rape in South Africa, 24 walk free

Please consider CRAZY statistics, and then sign and share this link far and wide.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Hatin' on Santa

A whole lotta parents with young kids seem to be hatin' on Santa these days.  There are various veins of thought around this, 1. teaching kids about Santa is a lie and lying is always bad/truth is always good, etc.,  2.  Teaching kids about Santa encourages rampant commercialism and doesn't reflect the 'true meaning' of Christmas, or 3.  the Santa story conflicts with the Little Baby Jesus story (henceforth referred to as LBJ for brevity). 

I have some opinions about the aforementioned business of being down on old Santa.

Kids will, all too soon, be confronted with all kinds of shitty, shitty 'truthes' this world has to offer them.   Far too soon, in my not-so-humble opinion.   I'm not in any rush to invite that shit in.   Moreover, I don't actually agree that lying is always wrong.  The ins and out of truthing and lying is mostly about grey area and very little about black and white, so to speak.   Which brings me around to the fact that I don't actually see encouraging a belief in Santa as lying, at least not in a bad lying sorta way.  

I believe that Santa is about far more than presents.  Santa, his reindeer and elven pals, his work, his journey, his belief in the intrinsic goodness of children, is about believing in magic, suspending disbelief, choosing possibility over impossibility.  (This may get me into hot water here) but I believe that our old Santa story isn't really all that different than our cultural LBJ stories (though I'm not even remotely Christian, a girl can still appreciate the good bits an LBJ story has to offer now and again).   Both Santa stories and LBJ stories can be used to encourage the good in people, kindness, and love for one another.  Both Santa stories and LBJ stories encourage the belief in magic, and in possibility.   Both can be used to instill wonder and excitement about life.   And for me, that wonder and excitement about life is every bit the 'true' meaning of Christmas. 

(As an aside here, both Santa and LBJ stories can be used in sucky ways too.  I can't get behind using Santa to control kids' behaviour - in much the same way I can't get behind using LBJ for controlling people's behaviour.  We don't and won't ever tell our kids that Santa only comes to children "that are good."  For starters, I believe, (and so should Santa, dammit!) that all children are good.  And I think using the magic of Santa to punish kids is kinda sucky.  To each their own, I suppose, but you're not going to catch me threatening that "Santa won't come" if the kids don't do x, y or z.)

I also don't think that Santa has to be about rampant commercialism.  Boy-o wrote a letter to Santa this year, and there was no long list of "I WANTS".  He asked for dress-up clothes for himself, and for Girlio, so they could play together.   I hope that in part, this is because we're trying very hard to create a family culture that runs contrary to that kind of me-me-me-ness.  This is something we make every effort to continue emphasizing throughout our kids' lives.   

So all you Santa-haters - say what you will.  But I'm going to choose MAGIC.  I'm going to help my kids believe in that magic.  I'm going to feel as excited and as giddy and as giggly as they do, heading downstairs on Christmas morning (even thoughlike most mornings around my house, it's likely going to come far too early), finding the note from Santa, and the dress-up clothes they asked so sweetly for and likely a few surprises they didn't ask for. 

And if I'm really lucky, I'll get to tap back into that amazing time in my life, when I too wholeheartedly believed in magic.  That time was nothing short of a gift. 

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

A letter to my Boy-o on his birthday

Dear Boy-o,

Today you turn four.  Four!   Four years ago, around 8 p.m., you made your entrance into this world in, and this in now unsurprising to us, highly dramatic fashion.   (And what an amazing gift you have been!) 

As I type this, you are sitting beside me, long legs sprawled over the couch, watching a Christmas special.   How did your legs and arms and body grow soooooo impossibly long?  Lately, I've found myself just lost in watching you, and marvelling your grown-up-ness.  As you are so fond of saying these days, "I'm a kid!"  And indeed you are, sweet child.   It is almost impossible to picture you as that tiny, big-eyed baby that fit so perfectly into my arms.  And yet, while I mourn the loss of the baby-ness of you, I am so amazed and so grateful that I get the privilege of watching you grow and learn and figure out how to navigate the world around you. 

I want to take the time to celebrate your you-ness today.  Sometimes I worry that you will read these old blogs of mine and confuse my discussions of the challenges of parenting with being upset or dissapointed with you or you sister.  So let me be clear on this.  Parenting is bloody hard work.  But you, my little love, you are the personfication of joy and delight and amazement in my life.

You have grown into such an amazing little person - with such an open, gentle and kind spirit.   I love how when the door buzzer goes off at school, you immediately drop what you're playing with in order to run to the door to greet your incoming classmate.  Each and every time that buzzer goes off, for each and every classmate, each and every morning.   I love your compassion, and how you always want to stop and encourage another child who's having a hard time, or crying, or scared.   I wonder if you know how special this makes people feel?    And I wonder if you have guessed how much I covet those full-bodied, spontaneous hugs that sometimes come from you as I pick-you up from school? 

You have never been one to do things equivocally.  Just like your birth, everything about you is intense, fiery, passionate, whole-bodied.  Your laugh fills up an entire room with mirth (and fills up my entire heart too).  The things you love, you love with everything you've got!  Your brave (sometimes too fearless!) spirit makes you a bit of a daredevil, but we made it through this whole year without a trip to the emergency room this year, so you must be getting a bit more sure-footed too :)  Insert sound of your mama knocking serious wood here!

Your ever-growing love of musicality makes me 'happy in my heart,' as Nannie would say.  I love watching your bad-ass air-guitar routines on whatever can be found to use as a guitar (pens, combs, broom handles, whathaveyou).  I love the way you're addicted to Glee songs, but have the words totally (and passionately) all wrong. And the way you can't stop yourself from moving and dancing when you hear music that you enjoy is a joy to watch.  (My heart is doing a little happy dance of its own right now, as I imagine the look on your face - and the show that will ensue - when you open your real guitar tonight!).   Just like your Mommy, you are a natural-born performer.

Your imagination is exquisite.  While playing outside yesterday, you told me the most amazing story about the moon and her baby star, whose name was Francis Huffington.  And when we talked about the nights' expected meteor showers, you worried that they would be loud.   I assured you they weren't, explaining how the stars were moving too, but they were too far away to hear.  But you looked up and me and said:  "Oh no Mama.  If you stand very very still and listen, you can hear the stars singing!"  What a beautiful little soul you are.

Though I sometimes think you have enough energy for ten kids, keeping up with you -though sometimes challenging - is never, not ever dull.  And not that I'll probably ever admit it again, but it's probably good that you keep your old mama on her toes.   I love that you're all fire and spunk and sass and spirit.  I love that you like loud over quiet and fast over slow.  I love that you live with gusto. 

It seems so paltry and not nearly enough to say that I love you.  But love you I do.  So much so, that the thought of you, now, growing up and turning four, makes my heart swell until I feel it might implode, makes tears of sad/happy burn behind my eyes, makes me prouder than proud in the child you have become, and are becoming still.  

So, sweet Boy-o.  Happy fourth birthday.  You have filled our home and our hearts with such joy.   Your Mommy and I (and your baby sister who profoundly adores you) are immeasurably grateful for the day, four years ago, when you came into our lives and made us a family. 

Thank you for being you, buddy.  Thank you for teaching us, for growing with us, and most of all, thank you for loving us right back.

Always yours,


p.s.  You'll always be my baby.

p.p.s.  To the moon, and the stars, and all the way back again...

Monday, December 13, 2010


Okay- so I used to be a fan of What Not to Wear on TLC.  Clinton and Stacey could be quite funny, and, never having much money to shop, and generally being an enjoyer of fashion, I liked the hour of fantasy shopping. It's good old escapeist, fashion, fun.   I'd love the 5000$ shopping trip.  Really.

But two nights ago, as L. and I were wrapping Boy-o's birthday gifts, it became abundantly clear that Clinton and Stacey have begun to take themselves way too seriously.   Here's my response to them.

Dear Clinton and Stacey:

The other night, my partner and I watched an episode centred around a girl's choir/glee coach and mom (of a daughter) who needed some fashion help.  Okay - so far, so good.  Nothing too nefarious or out of the norm, here.  But it became quickly apparent that this show was going to be dedicated to teaching women that their worth in the world is, in fact, skin deep.

You repeatedly ask this poor woman if she believes she is a good role model for her daughter, and for the girl's in the choir.  She says 'Yes.'  Presumably, she's a good mother and a good choir coach - which, is, for most folks, the stuff of role-modeling.  Not so.  You inform her time and time again that the message she is sending her daughter, and her female students (I believe the gender of these children is paramount to the message) with her fashion is that "she has given up on herself", that she "doesn't care about herself" etc. etc.  etc.  And you repeatedly insinuate that she is not actually a good role model, due to her poor choice in fashion. 

I cannot even count the number of times she is asked, in a really condescending/pseudo concerned tone of voice: "What message do you think you are sending your students/your daughter?"  Even by the f@cking hairdresser.  I was literally yelling at my television set.  (I wonder if  this angle would have been harped on nearly as much if her child and students were boys, by the way.)

So - Clinton and Stacey - here's the thing.  Having nice clothes and presenting yourself well - this is not the stuff that makes you a role-model.     I would really like to recommend to you a wonderful book by an author named Robert Munsch.  It's called "The Paperbag Princess."  I think you both could learn a lot from it.  Really

And just so you know - I'm a great role-model to my kids whether I wear yoga pants or a power suit to the grocery store.  I'm a great role-model because I role because I model compassion, strength, dignity, bravery, respect for others and honesty with my actions and my words.  I'm a great role-model because I teach my kids that they can feel good about themselves wearing a garbage bag - because who they are doesn't change with their outer covering. 

Nice clothes are great.  I covet them all of the time.  They can make you feel good.  They can help give you a confidence boost.  Fashion can be beautiful.  Fashion can be art.  Down with bad fashion!  Rah, Rah and all that jazz.  I'm right there with ya there.  But wearing ballet flats and a nice skirt to take my kids to the park, while it might make me feel saucier, isn't actually going to make me a better mom, or a better person, or as you like to say, a better role model.  And conversely -  the fact that you two are just swimming in money to buy yourselves all kinds of nice clothes - doesn't so much make you good role models, either.   

Just a little food for thought from a ticked off, badly clothed and excellent role-model of a mama.


Mama T

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Don't call me "Mom"

It's easy to say you're not going to call yourself 'mom' when you have kids.  I thought so too.  But for ease of playground identification, at one time or another, you're going to be "so and so's mom."  That doesn't really bug me.  It's easy to say that you're not ever going to be one of those people who calls your partner "mom" or "dad", because, um ewwwwwww.  But I'm going to wager you'll let that one slip, at least from time to time, too.   I'm alright with that.  (It's not calling L. mom that dampens the sex-life... believe you-me, I blame the exhaustion for that one!  Yes - I'm talking about sex.  Sorry parentals).   

But I really, especially, hate it when other grown-ups (of the non-family member/close friend variety) randomly call me "mom".  (I don't mean saying "ask your mom if that's okay, little dude"  That kind of momming is for descriptive purposes and just makes good sense).  I mean the use of "mom" as an admonishment.  It is always accompanied by a particular tone-of-voice, and the calling out/tone really gets me going.

Here are some examples:

Stranger calling out your parental neglect - this one is often spoken sharply and is a particular favourite of the older-than-me-been-there-before crowd:
  • "Watch Mom - your child could fall!" (note that I was standing right beside my child at the time,) or "Mom - ______ isn't very safe, you know!"
Strangers calling out your child and insinuating you can't control your unruly smalls at the same time (not surprisingly, I get this one a lot.  My kids have spunk.  My kids have spine.  I can actually control them - I just seem to have different ideas than some about when the need arises.)  This kind of "Mom" is often accompanied by a sing-songy-I'm-trying-not-to-be-confrontational-voice, which is also often spoken through the tell-tale tight-lipped grimace.
  • "Mom, child shouldn't be _________ (running, jumping, laughing, talking, breathing, whatever) here."
Or take this one from my doctor awhile back, when I was desparately seeking help for my daughter's sleeplessness, which is just plain condescending. 
  • "You just have to be tough, Mom, and make her cry it out."
  • post-falling off a chair in a food court and whacking his noggin, someone once turned to me and said: "He really shouldn't have been up there, Mom!"  Thank you.  Thank you very much.
Stranger 'Momming".  It's annoying.  It's bothersome. 

It's the soundtrack to the spectator-sport that is mothering. 

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Looking for some last minute Christmas gifts?

How 'bout heading on over to FCKH8 to check out their fabulously potty-mouthed new video and buy some fundraising goods.  Proceeds go to counselling, education and suicide prevention initiatives for queer youth...

Friday, December 10, 2010

being at home sick

I was terribly, horribly sick last week.  Like rotten-assed-barfy-I-can't-hold-my-head-up-and-I-would-rather-die than-be-awake-for-another-minute-kind-of-sick.  With one sick and one healthy child (which let me tell ya, is challenging even when you're healthy).  And it was in the throes of these unfortunate circumstances that someone said this to helpful thing to me: 

"You're so lucky you're at home!" 

Sorry, what?  And this is the thought process that went on for me in that moment:

Oh right, because being able to close my office door and put my head down on my desk for five minutes of quiet would really suck right now.

Or alternatively, being around other adults who understand the absolute suck-age of being sick and bring you tea and sympathy - that would also really suck right now.

Or alternatively, alternatively, getting to book off a sick day and sleep and get paid for it, I would certainly turn that kinda crap treatment down. 

Because, yes, lying here comatose on my basement floor, in between running to the bathroom every 15 minutes, and trying desperately to stay awake enough to supervise my kids (who don't understand what it means that Mama is sick, and keep jumping on me, and blowing up at each other and me because I'm not paying enough attention to them) - now that's a really lucky and fortunate turn of events.

Now believe me when I say that I get that (despite the lip service about this being 'the hardest and most important job in the all the world') all kinds of folks think my days are a cakewalk involving zero effort and brainpower (and ambition, but that's another story).  But let me just tell you for the purposes of clarification - stay-at-homing with a wild-boy nearly 4 year old and fearless-girl nearly 18 month old - this is not the position you feel lucky to have when you're sick.

Sure, I can stay in my pajamas if I need to- but even though paid-workin' folk have to get dressed for work, they can can tell a judge, or a co-worker, or a boss that they need to excuse themselves in order to barf on their loafers.   Let me be the first to tell you, if you don't already know, your four year old will not be similarly kind and, unlike your boss, your 18 month old will try to zerbert the top of your exposed ass as you puke your guts out and then demand, like a tyrant, to breast feed.  And they will both ride you gleefully like a pony while you are lying prostrate on the basement floor, feeling like you're cracking open (and up.)

So - next time a stay-at-homer (with a house full o' kids under the age of five) tells you they're as sick as a dying dog, I might humbly advise, based on my admittedly limited experience, opting for empathy over envy. 

Trust me on this one.

Sunday, December 5, 2010


So I'm at the airport this morning, really early (as in only one coffee early), picking up my visiting mom with Boy-o.   Miraculously, after a mad-dash drive in which Boy-o repeatedly asks if I am speeding, we arrived a few minutes ahead of schedule.  So in order to occupy my buzzingly excited little urchin, we hopped up on the side of this fountain thingy (for Edmontonians - it's the thing right in front of the Booster Juice) that has a super wide stone pathway all the way around it, and pretended we were airplanes circling the airport.  It was keeping Boy-o spectacularly happy and busy, though, I am highly aware that I looked like a bit of a fool.  Anyhow - the diversio was a win - win.  Well okay, it might have been a win-lose, since I mostly looked like an idiot, but that's the price you pay for having kids. 

Anyways, there we are merrily amusing ourselves (and/or looking foolish) when this lady comes by, shoots me this gloriously, blisteringly dirty look and feels compelled to loudly inform me (and anyone else in the vicinity) that I'd "better watch and make sure he doesn't fall."  As if I were letting him run around on the edge of a skyscraper or the edge of the Grand Canyon, and not some barely two foot high, pathetically empty water feature.  As if I were a total and complete idiot in dire need of some random-cranky-lady-advice.  As if I am the crappiest parent she's ever laid eyes on.  I loudly 'reassured' her:  "Oh it's okay - he bounces."  In other words - back off lady.  Mama's on the job.  She scowled and slunk off.

Why?  Why?  Why do you reckon this random passing cranky lady felt that she had the right to tell me how to properly parent my child?  Where do you suppose this urge comes from?  It's not like I'd left him alone to run willy-nilly.  I was right there (running willy-nilly with him, but that's sort of besides the point).  I should have just said: "Helllllooooooooooo!  I'm right here!!!"  or alternatively: "Man, if you think this is dangerous, you should see him juggle the flaming gas canisters while running with scissors!"  But I can never think of those things off the cuff.

Anyhow - a big growl-out to you bossy, cranky, know-it-all lady.  You should know that there's only room for one bossy-cranky-know-it-all lady in my life, and I currently hold that esteemed position.  Alrighty?

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Dear Blog

Dear Blog -

I miss you.   I haven't forgotten you.  I'm just lost in a sea of household sickness, and preparing for visitors, and preparing for Boy-o's birthday, and pre-Christmas insanity.  I'm coming back.  I swear it.  I can't live without you.  Honest.

Love Mama T