Confessions of a BAD mother

It's not that I'm a horrible mother. I mean, you know, I 'm not totally selfish. Sure I push my kids out of the way during a parade to get good candy. And yeah, maybe I post embarassing potty pics of them all over my facebook and then add their friends....and when I finally give in and let Shelby finally have a facebook...oh my. There will be little "I love you sunshine bunny" notes all over her wall. (Heeeheee...I can't wait!!)

But that's totally not the point of this write-up. In my glorious state of bad motherness, I'm looking for some recipes. I'm amidst my back to school baking, and I want to freeze a bunch of cookies. But cookies are my best friend and never seem to get into the kids hands. It's true. I love cookies SOOO much that I make them for me, myself and MOI. I hide them in margarine containers labeled "BORSCHT 2004" and lay them at the bottom of the freezer where a child could never venture. I eat them for breakfast in the bathroom while I'm pretending to shower. Or at 3 a.m. when I get up for my ritual insomnia snack. My poor kids will ask for cookies and I'll direct them to the rock-hard Harmonie brand store bought ones in the pantry.

So I need to find a recipe that is delicious to the kids, but not to me. A challenging task, no? So fellow mothers (or fathers) please inbox me your recipes. Make them easy ones, and perhaps ones with oatmeal (I don't care for it.

Give the poor Graham kids a chance at cookies.

In 20 years....

My favourite son is taking this two week class at school called "The 2020 Program." It basically tells you where you'll be when you're 30.

The idea is to plan your entire life before you're 9. It's pretty cool.

So let's pretend Oscar is now 30. Here is what he's come up with in this class:

He is a long haul truck driver. He is unmarried, no children, and lives in a meager house on I9 (wherever that is). He drives a motorcycle that has winter tires. He also hopes that he can play in the NHL on the side. (but that wasn't an option when they were picking their careers so he just verbalized that to me at suppertime)

Now this is not exactly what I had planned for my future humanitarian. My plans go something like this:

My 30 year old Oscar is an accountant (pays well and is physically safe). He lives across the street from his parents in a lovely house with a kind-hearted wife (who he doesn't love more than his mother).He has three perfectly adorable children that LOVE their grandma. He volunteers at a soup kitchen on the weekends and coaches kids sports every night of the week. He drives a safe and reliable hybrid minivan and visits his mother every other day to help her with her garden.

As you can see, our plans are rather different. So I tried to think back to when I was around his age. What were my dreams? Where did I think I would be? So I looked in an old school journal.

It went something like this:

I hope to be a country western singer on the Tommy Hunter show. I think I'll have a pretty good chance because I do a lot of singing. I also hope to have some daughters. And I'll probably still be raising cats. I think I'm going to copy the style of Loretta Lynn or Crystal Gayle. If the singing doesn't work out, I'll stick to being an actress.

So its not exactly how things turned out for me. But I'd say I'm doing alright. I will strongly attempt to support Oscar in his current goals. ( But I will most certainly drop hints that accountants get all the chicks.)

I've got the spirit!!

I know it's early. And how do I know it's early?

Because I haven't turned the Graham house into Halloween heaven yet. Y'all know how I love me some Halloween spirit.

But whatev. I'm starting my Christmas lists early this year. Yes, perhaps I say that every year, but maybe, just maybe, Mama Graham will accomplish it all! That's right! I will miraculously finish my shopping, decorating, baking and card writing whilst singing carols and tramping all over hockey rinks by November 1st. HOO YA!

SO without further adieu...

MAMA WANTS

a snugglie. it's a blanket with arms. you've seen it on QVC. no? Only I am up with horrible insomnia at 2 am when there's nothing else on but Felicity (gag, gag, puke)?

sweatpants and hoodies. My jeans don't fit anymore because my left thigh got fat and the seams rubbed a horrible red mark into them. AND, it has nothing to do with those 2 Mars bars I had for breakfast on Tuesday, do you hear me? NOTHING.

DADDY G. WANTS

tools. (He has no use for tools and is a complete floundering helpless minion when it comes to any type of renos. That's why I do the caulking, drywall filling and sanding in this house. That's right. I'm incredible.)

SHELBY WANTS

a cell phone. HAHA...
Can I get a group "NEVVAAAAHHHH " here? (Ideas are welcome on what to buy a little miss tween who won't wear dresses and thinks Hannah Montana is super gay.)

OSCAR WANTS

hockey stuff.

I just cannot wait for Halloween and Christmas.

A Date with Oscar

Barry's been working late in the city all week, and Shelby is now old enough to go "hang" around town with other tweens, so tonight, it was just me and my boyo.

Oscar always treats me extra special when Barry's away, even going so far as to call me "wife" as Daddy does. He opens doors for me, carries ALL the groceries, and cuddles me with blankets.

Tonight, he decided that we should go on a date.
Okay, son.

First, we walked to the post office where he mailed a letter. Then he asked if I wanted to go throw rocks in the river at the train bridge. Of course.

As we stopped to look both ways, he took my hand to cross main street. (He held it the rest of the way home. )

He stopped on a bench in the grassy area of main street in case I wanted to rest. He then entertained me with dance moves and crazy made-up rock songs.

We sang songs most of the way home. He asked me lots of questions about my childhood. I showed him where the bakery used to be, where some of my old friends used to live, and where the apartments used to be a pharmacy. He acted very interested and wished he could've been alive to have a donut with me at that bakery back then.

When we got home he helped me with the supper dishes, and asked me about how much I love Daddy and why. He said it was a good thing that I got Daddy because not all boys are as funny and handsome as him. I agreed.

After the dishes, he told me to sit on the couch so he could read me a romantic book. I waited and he brought out "Dora and Boots Valentines Picnic".

When Shelby arrived home, we had her take a picture of our date because he said we both looked really cool tonight with our hats.

It was probably the best date I've ever had (no offense Barry).

Until he farted and almost made both of us puke.

.

Being a Hockey Widow

“He Shoots, He Scores!”
Four of the most powerful words on earth.
They have the power not only to turn grown men into little boys, but to turn wives into widows at the push of a button.

Unfortunately for me, I not only have a hockey obsessed husband, my sweet 7 year old son has come down with the disease as well. (I question whether this has anything to do with the fact that his father was watching playoffs whilst I was painfully labouring him?)

What it's like at the Graham house during playoff season:

My TV is no longer for me or Shelby. The timer is set for games on a daily basis. Good bye “Dancing With the Stars”, “American Idol”, or CSI. Even when the game isn’t on, some horrible show like “Pardon the Interruption” or “Off the Record” is. It’s excruciating.

The girls are not allowed in the living room unless we promise to be silent. Isn’t hockey supposed to be a visual game? Why are THEY allowed to yell like mentally deranged apes??

Our dinner table is no longer being used. We have set the TV tables up semi-permanently in the living room. Our children drink from their lucky hockey mugs every meal.

I fully believe Barry would be more attracted to me if I came out in a canary yellow suit, a fruit adorned tie, and a dog named Blue, rather than some sexy lacy lingerie.

My son has to mask his growing love for Boston Bruins right now as they are playing the Canadiens. If you know Barry, you know that he is a member of the Church of Latter Day Habs. So that would mean we would have to put poor Oscar up for adoption. Poor, poor, Oscar. He’s not even allowed to be true to himself!

Oscar has learned what “drinkability” means and has asked me to go get him a “Bud Lite” at snack time.


Behind our couch are two small nets, 2 sticks, street goalie equipment and a ball. During intermissions or non-hockey shows, Barry and Oscar act as their favourite players and hammer the ball at each other, my bay window, my piano, and my picture frames.


I hear chants of “Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole” continuously throughout the day. The sing it when you least expect it, and least want to hear it. It is a most dreaded sound in this house.


I am secretly praying that the Montreal Canadiens get eliminated tonight, so that I get a little relief. If not, someone send help. PLEASE.

What happened to Oscar?

Spring Break started out great. I hate flying so I cried, but the kids liked it.

Rae Ann and Gary were wonderful hosts and we had a great time the first few days. We took in the hockey fall of fame, CN tower and did a little shopping. We had lots of fun with our favorite family and miss them tons already.

A few hours after our arrival at Niagara Falls, Oscar became very ill. The next 36 hours consisted of Oscar puking and diarrea-ing about every 15 minutes. 6 hours after Oscar started vomiting, Shelby also started, although not nearly as much. For two nights, Barry and I were awake the entire time, taking care of our sick children. We did not get to take in the Falls. Shelby got better quite quickly. Oscar did not. He progressively and frighteningly got worse.

By the time we checked out of the hotel, I knew he needed medical attention. We drove back to Hamilton and took him to Urgent Care. They transferred him to the Pediatric Unit at the local hospital where he was listed in severe condition and given immediate IV therapy. It was very scary (I balled my eyes out) to watch my boy deteriorate so fast that day. His dehydration had caused his blood pressure and his heart rate to drop and his kidneys to make too many creatins (whatever that means). He has very little memory of that day until nighttime. He awoke and started asking about hockey scores. That was when we knew he would be okay. The next day, his vitals were good, although he was still battling fever, and not eating. We still don't know what kind of virus caused this. It was certainly not your standard flu.

We had to change our flight to make sure that he was okay to come home. He was released from the hospital on Thursday afternoon and we are now home. He is exhausted, but is doing much better. He is joking around, and eating and drinking lots.

Not only am I never leaving my yard again, I am placing my son in a glass bubble for the next 15 years.
Don't try to stop me.

Gnarly.

You know how you know when you’re cool?

When you hang out in foggy basements of clubs sitting on red couches listening to electronica - you’re wearing giant scarves around your neck, ballet slippers, and ordering crantinis - and having meaningless NONversation with the lifetime students studying world affairs.

OH FART. That’s not me. It wasn’t me 15 years ago when I DID go, and it’s not me now, when I WON’T go.

Here’s my idea of cool. Or “rockstar”, or “wicked tight”…or whatever you kids call it these days.

I like to call it “being a mom”. Here's a few reasons why.

I get to read to my kids. EVERY DAY. Sometimes it’s the same book over and over. Sometimes its not. I read Twilight just cuz my eleven year old recommended it to me. Turns out it was awesome. I mean radtacular.

I do a pretty rad ape impression and will do so on command. My kids love it and squeal in delight when I chase them around the house arms swinging and head bobbing. You should all try it. I learned it from SuperKewl Dad.

My boyo likes to go on the escalator again and again… and I let him. Because “it’s just like a ride, Mommy!”

I get to see the first joys of winning a hockey game, riding on an airplane, seeing Niagara Falls, and eating Mongo’s stirfry all through the big bright eyes of a grateful child.

I have kids who will alarmingly look for days into the corners and crevices of the earth (or the Emerson Skating Rink), when Mommy loses her lucky pocket ninja. We never found him, but who needs him when you have two little lucky charms by your side anyways?

And the biggest reason I’m cool?

I get to dance with these two.

What love means to me...

The most romantic present I ever got.

I will cherish it all year long.

I love you husband.

The Psycho in Me

You watch your heart and reason for living run down the hallway and into their perspective classrooms. One wears the latest Jonas Bros. fashions while the other boasts some NFL Vikings attire. Both are confident. Both smile and high-five their friends.


Tears well up as you shakily fumble with a combination for a locker, then attempt kisses or at the very least…a darn’d hug.

When did they stop being babies that clung to me like little monkeys? Who authorized the use of a sports bra? Or gave them the self esteem to go and meet the new kids? Or choose carrots over pudding for their own lunches?? Why am I the only one in a panic over the fact my cherubic babies are now cool little individuals with MP3 players and day planners? Shouldn’t mothers have the ability to stop time? HECK…we can do practically everything else!!

My emotions twist and turn as I walk out of the school. The house is empty. Quiet. 6 hours stretches before me like a menacing bogeyman. What will I do?

I do what any normal psychotic mother would do. I lay curled up in the fetal position for 2 hours then force myself out of bed to make my miniature grown-ups some chocolate chip muffins.


“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” ~Elizabeth Stone

Louise, the lovely snake

You know it's summertime at the silly old Graham's house when the pets start arriving. And departing....

Goodbye Louise. You will be missed. Have fun back at the river and if you happen to see Susan or Luigi, please tell them we miss them too.

StrangeTales of a Hammock and a Girl

It probably happens every 200 years or so...
Or maybe when the stars align and the werewolves come out...
Or MAYBE it's because its Friday the 13th.

But let me tell you about the strange and unusual events that took place THIS particular Friday, June 13, 2008.
You see, the Grahams have a young daughter, aged 10.
Shelby has never been the independent type. In fact, you might call her a rather helpless minion. This is a child who still can't run her own shower, who looks in the living room when she needs a pot, and can't master toast.
But tonight.... that all changed.
It all started with a simple bet.
Mommy got a new hammock from Daddy. The hammock arrived clad in tiny, wrapped pieces, a thick, stapled, taped-up box and a multi-language 4-page instruction manual.
Shelby asked to spend the night sleeping on the hammock.
HAHAHA...right.
Jokingly, Mommy replied, "Sure my dear, providing YOU put it together."

"Okay".

And then it began.

And she trudged on throughout the night.

We sat in the living room and watched in awe. Oscar said it was better than a TV show.

And finally, it was over. She did it. She really did it. And we all had to eat our words. But Shelby, oh Shelby, you have sure raised the bar on your poor self!!

And everything I thought I knew, I now question. The world as we know it, has changed forever.

And I have me a fine new hammock.

Puppy Love

Oscar walked casually into the kitchen today as I was making supper and with furrowed brow, stated “Mommy, I love you more than all the places in the world. But I love Daddy more than all the universe.” He then walked out, as casually as he came in.

Moral of the story: I’m going to have to get rid of Daddy.

Are You Smarter Than A Mommy?

I know you’re all sick of me talking about my little NHL’er so I promise not to mention my inability to contain my excitement OVER HIS FIRST BIG GAME IN STEINBACH ON SUNDAY…oops, are my caps on? I had no idea.

ANYWAYS, remember the other child? The one who I love to frequently embarrass and who thinks she needs a bra and a Gwen Stefani bustier?

Well, she LOVES board games and has become very competitive with Silly Old Dad and myself. We bought her “Are you Smarter than a Fifth Grader” for Christmas and have played it over and over. It’s actually quite challenging for the smarty pants that I like to think I am. I mean seriously, who honestly remembers the frontiersman who blazed a trail to Kentucky? That’s a first grade question!!! Or how many rays a starfish has? GRADE TWO, PEOPLE!

So, the first few times, I humbly had to admit that I, Silly Mother Graham, am NOT smarter than a fifth grader. And yes, it was painful. Even more painful was little Miss Thang’s decision to use it as her creative writing topic at school last week. Of course she couldn’t write about our lovely times with our holiday guests and their new babies or our new mini-van or our crazy tobogganing days! NOOOOO.

It’s a little disturbing. My own flesh and blood choosing to thoroughly embarrass her mother and even threatening to send her little write-up to the paper.

However, the reason I am admitting all of this is because, after days of sharpening my brain with puzzles, quizzes, and Grade 8 math…..

GUESS WHO DOMINATED FIFTH GRADE AND BEYOND LAST NIGHT?????

Yeah, I won the million dollars. No big deal.

Little scoundrel. Don't let her adorable face fool you.

Hockey Baby

This is our boy.

He doesn't just like hockey. He eats, breathes, sleeps, and dreams about hockey.

He may not be able to tie his own shoes yet, but he can name every team in the NHL and probably give you the scores of the last few games.

When he's not at hockey practice, he's playing hockey in our living room. He owns three hockey toques and has many pairs of hockey PJs. (Except for the Maple Leafs ones he got for Christmas that he refuses to wear.)

This morning I fed him breakfast and lunch in front of the TV where he sat wearing his lucky toque (that's the reason Canada won), his favorite hockey PJs, and holding his indoor hockey stick. FOR 3 HOURS. HE'S 6.

Of course, it WAS the Denmark/Canada game of the World Juniors. And apparently that's important. GEEZ, MOM.

Silly Wishes

Just a little free advice to parents of female up and comer tweens. DO NOT…I repeat, DO NOT allow them to write a Christmas wish list.

You see, well other little ten year old girls have visions of Bratz dolls and Nelly Furtado CD’s dancing in their heads, my little Shelby has:

Some kind of playstation or Nintendo thingamajiggy that is worth more than me having to sell one of her little kidneys. Yes, I am not above that.

A real live puppy. Yeah. Right. I hate dogs. She should’ve taken better care of the darn'd reptiles, Luigi, and Susan that I caught for her in summer. Now, THEY were cute.

Her very own website or e-mail address. HAHAHAHA….yeah, just so she can fall in web-love with a 60 year old naked/fat/hairy man from Utah who says he’s a 13 yr old boy named Logan who loves horses and High School Musical 2. He’ll then convince her to meet him at Chuckie Cheese. And then next thing you know, she’s got her very own picture on a milk carton. GAH….

A set of two-way radios or better yet…A CELL PHONE. It would be like a bad horror flick. Her and her BFF texting back and forth…”LIKE, OMG, hez SOSO HAWT”.

(excuse me whilst I go rinse the barf out of my mouth)

Luckily, she had a few other normal things like a CD/stereo system and some stupid Polly Pocket garbage. And that’s what she’s getting.

Barry and I are firm believers that raising your children modestly will teach them to grow up knowing the value of a dollar, and that materialism cannot buy love. So probably, we won’t need to sell vital organs or cancel our plans of purchasing a new Graham-mobile. We managed to keep our Christmas spending under our $500 limit and I must say, I’m darn’d proud.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on the list of our little Mr.G.I.Joe. I need a translator to understand all that Megatron and Laser Imperial Star Destroyer stuff.

Whatever happened to Barbie and Hot Wheels?

Ready, Set,... PLAY HOCKEY!!

Just when you thought the “hockey mom” was becoming an endangered species…..yes, that’s right. I am joining the official rankings of hockey mom’s everywhere!!! And I gotta admit… I’m a little excited.

I don’t really know anything about being a hockey mom, but I’m sure I’ll catch on quick.

From what I understand, I will learn to adapt to a new winter diet consisting of rink dogs, popcorn and diet coke. My son will learn to drink gallons of Gatorade.
I will also learn to bare my teeth at hockey moms of opposing teams as their wicked little tyrants body check or even snarl at my precious angel.
Apparently I will learn to make a 50 gazillion pound black CCM hockey bag look like a must-have fashion accessory…that is, if I learn to lift the damn thing…
I am busy making a check list of where all that equipment and other crap goes and whatever order it’s supposed to be in.
I pledge to become a road warrior, trekking across vast expanses of sleet, black ice or blizzards to get my little NHL wannabe to his destination battlegrounds!
I will learn to expand my vocal chords (and vocabulary) to deal with refs who dare put Mr. Handsome into a penalty box, or coaches who may bench him due to his ability.
I’ve seen that hockey moms tend to have longer necks to enhance their ability to see into each ice surface corner as well as expanded peripheral vision to catch any offsides. I hope to obtain these skills quickly.

And Hockey Dad has brainwashed both son and I that colour of uniform such as jerseys or heaven forbid - SOCKS!!, is important. IE – blue/white combo = VERY BAD. (Apparently Hockey Dad harbours ill feelings towards the Leafs – will look into therapy for him.)

I’ve also heard that sometimes, hopefully not in my case….hockey players tend to disown their hockey moms. I’m really not sure why. I shall adopt the “Can’t Happen to Me” attitude on this issue.


So wish me luck, internets! With Shelby in figure skating twice a week and Oscar embarking on hockey once a week, you can find me at the rink. I’ll be the crazy lady with the frozen butt and extra layer of winter blubber.

ISN'T HE THE CUTEST THING EVER?????

Innocence

Okay, I’m a fairly cool-to-the-hip mom. Or try to be. So when my daughter asks me questions about sex, gay marriage, baby birthing, and/or what to do when she’s kidnapped, I am usually pretty straight up with her. However, I am also smart enough to know that I should usually steer the conversation out of ear shot for my son.

So last night, Shelby is asking me questions about babies and uteruses and stuff while Oscar seems absolutely mesmerized in the latest episode of Zack and Cody. I figger he’s not paying attention so I yip and yap and sing praises about my most awesome uterus and how pregnancy usually works.

When suddenly, Oscar runs in and asks in a panic “Mommy! What happens if you get sick and need to barf? Will the baby barf up out of your mouth????”

Shelby fell to the floor in a fit of giggles. I stifled mine and replied “Oscar! What a good question!” And then I attempted to explain all the fixings of a uterus in 6 year old language. Satisfied, he went back to his little man’s soap opera to get tips on picking up grade 2 chicks.

These are the moments I truly live melt for. Like when we’re driving to Grand Forks past the sugar beet factory and Oscar looks up at the tall building blowing fumes everywhere and in his dreamy little voice says “Look Mommy, that’s where they make clouds!”

Grade One is the devil

Soooo, it appears that I am doing mildly better than anticipated with this whole “Oscar is 6 and goes to school every day now,” thing.

You faithful readers may remember the letter blawg I wrote to his teachers last year(did not send however due to fear of being diagnosed with some kind of severe neurosis).

Well, Oscar has definitely grown up a lot in the past year. He will tell you himself he’s more than ready for big-boy-every-day school. After all, he can count to eleventy bazillion, is a super awesome monster truck driver, and mostly puts his clothes on frontwards. He can even brush his own teeth…and YES, the big boy teeth are coming!

I, on the other hand, am NOT ready for big-boy-every-day school. I thought I was. I walked out of the school yesterday morning feeling calm and mature. But then one mother asked me if I was okay, at which point, my knees started to buckle, and I booked it to my car and let the tears flow freely. And then today, I walked him all the way to school teaching him carefully to stop at each STOP sign and look both ways. TWICE. (I would like to know who taught him to roll his eyes at me and say “I KNOW MOMMY!!)

I watched him walk across the playground with his little Ninja Turtle backpack and felt an overwhelming sadness that he was not suddenly turning around in panic and running back to the safety of his Mommy’s arms, begging to stay home with me. And then I saw two much bigger shady looking grade two-ers approach him on either side, and was ready to run at them with my teeth bared and my fists flailing, but later learned that those were his friends who were saying Hi and hugging him, not pushing him and trying to sell him drugs.

I spent this bleak afternoon making fattening desserts that nobody needs and watching the clock for 3:30 to finally come.

New Faces at the Graham House

After we let our little river frog, Susan, go back to the wild, we felt an emptiness within ourselves.

So to replace the burning desire for pets, we caught a caterpillar yesterday. She is the biggest caterpillar on the earth. Oscar named her Vinegar.She is living in the habitat where Susan used to live.

And then, my great pal Rehannon, (the one who caught us Sasha the snake last year), caught us a handsome young salamander today. Shelby named him Luigi. We have a nice big habitat for him and are feeding him some tasty slugs and earthworms.

As you can see, the Graham family loves to take on pets. But fear not, we usually only keep them for a couple days... until Oscar makes us return them to their real home down by the river to ensure they don't get too sad.

Our precious Susan

Dear Susan,

It has only been a couple weeks since our son made us let you go home to your family down by the river, but heck, I miss you.

I caught you in the muddy swampishness that is the mighty Red when we were having a Graham hike and immediately my daughter decided you must come home and be part of our family. She carried you all the way home (we thought she killed you at one point) and gently put you in your new Habitat home. She named you Susan. Yes, I realize you may have been a boy. So what.

I caught plenty of flies and mosquitos for you, and tried to get my children to catch them also. They didn’t. Shelby thought you would self-suffice. Oscar stressed about you missing your frog family and not being happy.

Thus…we took you back. Even though we only had you for 4 short days, you became part of our family and we will forever miss you.

(okay, actually I was afraid we’d forget you in a week so I am blogging about this so I can remind Shelby why she can’t have another freaking reptile for the rest of her life.)

Take Care Susan,

Mama Graham

P.S. Please don’t be offended if you are actually a toad instead of a frog. I don’t see breeds anyways. I love equally.

Clips of taking Susan home.