Times (they are a) Changing

Having kids has significantly altered the "road trip" for me. Aside from additional snacks and potty breaks I am now packing for three. My husband still packs for one - that hasn't changed at all. He often brings his one tiny, half-filled bag to the top of the stairs at the last minute and sets it next to my open, still being filled, melee of a pack job. Seemingly out of pity for my situation he then asks if I need to put anything into his bag. Ughhhhhhhh. Of course, the children's bags are packed, (BY ME!!!) waiting at the door and have been there since last night.

Thanks to Murphy's Law something gets left behind. More often than not it is my something. My shoes, my bathing suit, my mittens, my makeup, my hose, my snack, my gift certificate et cetera. It seems no matter how many lists I make, or how much attention I pay, my efforts are insufficient to get everything into the vehicle without fail one really important item sits at home awaiting my return. Awesomesauce.

Anyhoo we set off to a wedding this past weekend. Prep was particularly harried because Mike was home for roughly five minutes in between trips to Vancouver and the cesspool hot tub needed to be drained and refilled. This has to happen at above freezing temperatures, so we needed to wait till that happened. We had guess-timated the time for refilling and cleaning, but really underestimated the unbelievable amount of time it would take to drain it. Seriously, it took the better part of an hour.

The wedding ceremony was at 4. We were in the truck by 11:30, which would put us in town by 3:00 and we could check-in to the wonderful Cinnamon Bear Lodge, get dressed, figure out what I left behind, and get to the church on time. Fwhew. Then to the party. At least that's the plan.

As I wrestled Isla into her crinoline, straightened my hair and found my shoes it occurred to me that, possibly for the first time in 5 years everything I had meant to pack made it on the trip!  Our picture perfect family rolled up in front of the church (where Mike and I had been married 7 years before!) into rockstar parking. We had 5 minutes to go...wait, why was there still rockstar parking? We pulled the poppets out of the truck. I re-checked the invitation. Right day? Check. Right location? Obvious. Ummm, what the crap was going on?

The church was empty except for one or two women. Seeing our faces they asked where we were going. "A wedding" I answered, then "what time is it?". "5 to 5" came the answer. Wheels began to turn, something familiar began to claw at my brain...then there it was - the time change. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

How could we forget the time change?! I mean, by the time we were on the road it was already too late we had lost that extra hour, but everytime we drive past the Mountain Standard time change sign my husband is forced to point it out like he has Tourette's. But, for whatever reason, it didn't happen this trip and was so far off the radar I don't even know what to say.

I felt like such a heel. Still do. At least there was still the party, and we were right in time for that!

Technical Difficulties...

It is Monday and I am feeling overwhelmed and under-researched. We were away all weekend (in the car mostly) and Mike has gone back to Vancouver to work for the next week and a half.

Not usually one to get a case of the Mondays I am finding this day particularly debilitating thus far. I have one baby to the left and one to the right - both are spewing a constant barrage of verbalization at an unreasonable volume, and being especially demanding... about EVERYTHING. I think they need some concentrated attention.

What I am saying is I will be back tomorrow guns blazing and my wits will be functioning at full capacity, so thanks for stopping by and I hope you'll be back in the morning! For now I have an arse to wipe and it is not mine.

Honestly?!

There is nothing more moving than the glaring honesty of a child. It is not filtered, or manicured, manufactured or checked. It is akin to verbal diarrhea. The brain sends an impulse and the mouth lays it out for all to hear.

A few years ago I was in the grocery store with Jack. When we got to the till I confess I let some air escape, from my behind. The store was very busy (read loud) and in my defence I was probably pregnant. Anyhoo, no one heard. Except for an arse high Jack. With his new found language skills he declared, "Mommy fart. Mommy fart." to the cashier/anyone within earshot, over and over with increasing persistence as I attempted to ignore him and get the heck out of there. Awesome.

When one of my children says to another, "you talk funny" or refers to the neighbour as "the grumpy man who lives next door" I am mortified more often than not. Sometimes it is hard to remember they are not judging, but stating what they perceive to be fact, and I receive the comment coloured by my own experience and/or embarrassment. They are not saying these things to be mean. The neighbour next door looks like a grumpy character from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but also like Santa, so I was able to suggest as much - and as everyone knows Santa is never grumpy. I told them stories about when they mispronounced words because they too were little once and learning. Yet, despite knowing this, it still stings when a two year old makes a comment about my spotty face.

We bring them books, teach them songs, play stacking and sorting games all geared towards differentiation and separation and then we are shocked when they bring their astute observations into the real world. Because you cannot un-ring a bell, and words can hurt, especially when they come out of an innocent face. But we are all different. My children adore being told they are special and unique, so I need to seize the opportunity when they notice that others are different from themselves. To help them acknowledge and appreciate the difference rather than fear and judge. If I wait until they are in the schoolyard it will be too late. Again I am reminded of the steep learning curve that is teaching empathy without loosing individuality.

All this being said, I could have a million dinner guests singing glowing praise for my fare, but it will never mean as much as when Jack starts in about how amazing my cooking is because he is incapable of insincerity.  This morning as I was pulling my hair back, Isla announced as if she could no longer contain herself, "Mommy, you are soooooo beautiful!".  I have never ben more flattered.

On the Road Again...

For the past ten years my husband and I have shuttled back and forth from the Coast of BC to visit our loved ones in Calgary. From Vancouver, the journey always begins in the wee hours of the morning, travels through several majestic ranges, up and down passes hemmed in by picturesque mountains, then we are finally pushed out into the breathtaking Big Sky Country that is Alberta.

It is a remarkable trip that we have down to an unremarkable science. He drives, we sleep (which is a nice change from "Isla screams").  We drive from full to fumes, sometimes rolling into gas stations just to make the very best time we can. Before kids the trip took around ten hours. After, it could take upwards of twelve. Rossland is smack in the middle, almost a perfect 600km bisector between Vancouver and Calgary. It now,  in theory, takes half as long to get to either end.
















I always envy my dear friend who stops. She stops in Osoyoos and lets the kids play a round at the mini golf. She stops at parks and she lets the kids out to play, completely disregarding how this effects the "time" she is making from point A to point B. As much as I "know" life is about the journey and not the destination somehow I never was able to make the literal jump!  We decided to stop and smell the proverbial roses.

Frank Slide sits at the foot of Turtle Mountain and neither Mike or I had visited the site for the better part of two decades. We left the dogs in the truck and went in with the kids to the lovely new interpretive centre. It was a wonderful digression. We watched documentary films, played with touchable exhibits, read heaps of first hand accounts and relearned about this historic, and preventable tragedy.

90 minutes later we returned to the vehicle ready and eager to get back on the road. Mike opened the door and was met with a terrible stench. Velma had unleashed an epic and entirely preventable tragedy of her own. We had left her out of her kennel. It was all over Isla's car seat and everything surrounding it. Not unlike most trips into the city we were returning at capacity and the kennel needed to be collapsed to fit Santa's booty into the wayback. That was a mistake. The mess only seemed to have hit porous, absorbant surfaces. Ughhh. I think we used an entire box of baby wipes to little or no avail. We lamented the remaining hours in the reek. As it turns out, nothing gets rid of that new car smell like a dog with diarrhea.

My Tiny Moose

A few weeks ago we had a house guest. This guest was not entirely unexpected, but had been somewhat waylaid, so when they finally snuck in unannounced it took me a little by surprise. My husband was out of town for work and so I was forced to host the guest alone. The visit was fiery, tumultuous, and although it seemed like they would never leave, just as stealthily as this guest had come they were gone.

I am a firm believer in the notion that a child never misses a stage, so I have no idea why I thought that my beautiful intelligent daughter would somehow escape the developmental stage known as the terrible two's. Or terrific two's. Whatever the euphemism you choose to use at some point this guest arrives. At two and a half, Mussolini's arrival should not have shocked me, but it did. She was stretching her new found independence and it is reminiscent of a baby bird upon hatching. Fugly. My tiny Moose stomped around shaking her fist, barking orders, screaming, pitching herself, accepting nothing less than complete submission and just being an all around tyrant. The fact that she responded to "Moose" as a nickname is probably what enabled both her and I to survive!

Our house guest.

When Moose was visiting I had an epiphany of sorts. It is often those who are most similar to us that rub us the wrong way. It is easier to see their shortcomings reflected back at us since we know these flaws so intimately. All this I knew (in my head!) but the revelation was this: this knowledge should be giving me a leg up! Isla was going through something. It was new and scary and no more enjoyable for her than it was for me or Jack. If I knew how she felt, what would I have liked the response to be? Easier said than done, but sharing this life with her is my practicum.

Anyhoo, Isla kicked Moose to the curb and a modicum of decorum has returned to our home. Thank goodness.

Olympic Sized Adventure - Part 2

Olympic Sized Adventure - Part Two: The Adventure becomes Legend.

Where was I? Oh yes, lineup one was winding towards the gate and we were about to head into lineup two for the Coca-Cola Pavilion. It was all downhill from there. As my girlfriend Chrissy and I rolled two strollers and 5 children into the breach once more Jack spilled his hot chocolate into his seat. All of it. Into the seat of a stroller with a cover that cannot be removed because the manufacturers maintain that its surface can be easily cleaned with a brush and a damp cloth, of which I had neither. Awesome. I have yet to remove these stains by the way and  it is not for a lack of trying. I digress.

Lineup two heads inside, finally, I thought. But no, we are herded into lineup three. This is when I discover Isla had silently, without affect, filled her seat with her hot chocolate. So now we are in very close quarters with hundreds of people and I am all, "Look on the bright side Alicia, at least you are not claustrophobic! Her back will be to the wall in the picture. I know it looks like she shat her pants but at least it doesn't smell! Think about the picture with the torch, Jack and Isla will tell their children about this day."

It was then one of them darted, I still can't remember who, half disappearing in to the multitudes and it all gets a little blurry. In this tiny room teeming with goodness knows who my MommaBear kicked in and I frantically grabbed for my child and fumbled my camera. This is the camera that Michael and I had gifted each other for our 5th wedding anniversary and this was by no means the first time it had been fumbled, but this was the day that it broke. Moments before I would use our too-expensive-to-replace-right-now camera to take once in a lifetime family heirloom photographs of my precious hot chocolate soaked children with the Olympic Torch. To say that my heart sank would be to downplay my sentiment enormously.

The meandering line pushed forward. Queue-mates proffered words of kindness and condolence, my face having told the tale, my wonderful friend said that she would be more than happy to take pictures of my kids too. Crestfallen I wandered on, into yet another room, then another still. Three hours in this day was feeling old and so was I.

This last room was where the coveted torch was kept. We ushered the kids into the appropriate lane (there were heaps of activities I had neither the energy nor the desire to take the kids to) and felt my heavy heart lift. Coke had provided professional photographers and individualized links to your picture online. Granted it would be flanked in advertising but I was stoked. Until, at the front of the line after HOURS of waiting, Miss Isla decided she was NOT, under any circumstances going to have her picture taken. ARE YOU KIDDING ME??!!!!

Jack had his taken. Then Mommy. Then Isla relinquished begrudgingly, but not without conditions!

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I just wanted to go home. I changed Isla (who was still in the throes of potty training) into the dry clothes I had brought, searched the grounds for something to sop up the now cold/congealing chocolate mess in the stroller and got ahold of my husband. He wasn't coming. Work was hectic and he wouldn't be able to get downtown before 5, which meant I still had as many hours to kill.  Awesome again.

Chrissy graciously offered to stay for lunch and so we squeezed our party of 7 into Subway. Then she (insert pang of jealousy here) took her tired babies home. I needed to get a birthday present so I walked from Gastown into downtown amid throngs of our cities guests all the way down Robson. My children had fallen asleep when I ran into Jack's godfather. I saw his camera and asked where he had been. The Cauldron. Great. I would take the kids when they woke and steal his photos, his would be better anyway! I told him about the adventure our day had been, and yet again in an attempt to be optimistic I spouted, "Well, at least she didn't pee, right?!"

Fast forward to the GAP. Browsing through the racks of clothing I can hear my precious cargo stirring in the stroller. I notice a puddle under Isla's seat. A trifecta of AWESOME!!! I am out of dry clothes so I buy her an uber cute pair of purple skinny jeans on sale. They in no way go with her outfit and I practically have to wrestle them onto her.

It is now 5 o'clock, we sit outside the Gap on Robson, leaning against the window, awaiting Michael's imminent arrival. Isla is digging the tunes. She has a sizing sticker half hanging off her cheek. It looks like a microphone. She dances, like no one is watching, hands on her hips, her recent skullet still shorn close, wearing her new jeans and a terribly mismatched olympic sweater, and begins to scoop at the air. Big grasping scoops as though she is wafting some unnoticed scent towards her torso, then over her face. It was hysterical and very much to the amusement of prolific amounts of tourists passing by. She honestly looked like a tiny crazy person and her innocence washed away the stress of the day.

I wish I could have taken a picture to share with you, but the latter half of this day will have to be passed down through the good old fashioned art of story telling alone.

PImply-faced teenager

Day 4 of having the kids all to myself here in Rossland. Things have been a bit harried. I don't handle stress well. I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve. When I was younger I fancied wrangling my wit and intellect and becoming a lawyer. I remember being a blubbering wreck at some point and thinking to myself, "Who am I kidding, breaking down in front of a judge on a regular basis is not a great way to be taken seriously.". Our high school theatre teacher, referencing the difficulty in making a career of acting, spouted "If you can do anything else - do it." I still chose acting. I would rather make an arse of myself on my own terms. I'll probably end up playing a lawyer at some point anyway!

It turns out I have been, despite my telling myself otherwise, very stressed. You could probably have guessed from my incoherent ramblings. Looking in the mirror I look like the pimply- faced teenager from the Simpsons. I also have a raging heat rash on my back to match, a delicious skin condition I had never had the pleasure of experiencing until after I pushed out two kids. Oh, and I got the MasterCard bill today. I will be heading out soon to do some returns.

I guess I'll be focusing my wit and intellect on de-cluttering and cleaning. Easier said than done with two knee-highs wanting to be fed and what-not on top of the mayhem. I know doing it myself goes a long way and costs so little, but I had been seriously considering a one time hiring of Cinderella House Cleaners to at least get the ball rolling. This must be a life lesson of some sort.