Time travelling robots are nothing to sneeze at

So the other day I had a debilitating accident... while lying in bed. (Lord help me if I ever actually get old.)  I was feeling particularly sluggish, so when my sweet baby woke up, I decided to bring her back to bed with me. Things were nice and cozy until suddenly, the unimaginable happened. I sneezed.

And this ladies and gentlemen (possibly, gentleman) was the end of the world. My neck seized and my breath caught in my throat. I actually wailed. WAHHHHHHHH.

I had a very, very painful (crabby) rough day. I thought about calling my mom (but she was out of town). I would have thrown myself a pity party, but, ugh, all the shopping for hors d'oeuvres, the decorating, and the ridiculous hats (am I right?).

So instead, I thought about Sarah Connor.  The woman (okay, yes, fictional character) who escapes multiple attempts on her life by a scary robot from the future. She genuinely takes a lickin and keeps on tickin.

I mean, I've never actually seen, "The Terminator", so I don't know if she ever has to endure a sneeze-spasm as painful as I did.

I'm just saying, if violent robots from the future ever come to take over the planet and its up to me to protect you... I hope you like robots.

Tell Me Something I Don't Know

Confession: Whenever life becomes challenging, frustrating, or even annoying, I often search for "the hidden message". I think to myself: "Argh. @#$%.... Double #$%&... " and then, looking up I think/scream: "What are you trying to tell me?"

Recently all of my small appliances are committing some kind of bizarre-o electrical mutiny and crappin' out on me at the same time. I've got no sniff what's going on, but I've lost a blender, a popcorn popper,  two crock-pots, an electric frying pan, and two coffee presses (which are not electrical, but still crapped out.)

Last year, during a lovely summer storm, our basement flooded and I lost almost all of my ill-fitting and uncomfortable pretty shoes, plus, my Sorel winter boots. It was a major blow. We were also forced to clean our basement and rid ourselves of some unused, broken and/or unnecessary "stuff".  It was a lot of work and it was a pain in the derriere. I looked for the "why". Why didn't God want me to wear pretty shoes?

But then, 5 months later, my husband got a new job and we had to relocate to a new house in a new town within a few weeks and I was so grateful not to have to pack up all that superfluous junk.

Eventually I got the message.

Today, as I broke the second crock-pot in as many months, I looked to the sky (dusty ceiling fan) and asked, "What are you trying to tell me?"

Clearly, the Lord wants me to cook faster.

True Wuv

I'm sure I've mentioned this, but naps are a bone of contention around these parts. Sooooo necessary, but no one goes down without a fight. Except me. I'd nap like nobody's business if I had the chance. (Which I don't.)

Mid-nap/fight last week, my sweet Wobot finally howled it: "No, Mommy. I don't want to sweep. I don't wuv you !!!!"

And even though I know he does "wuv" me, I still had to leave the room. And I cried.

I admit it. I hoped I would find some sort of Mommyhood-loophole where my babies would never, ever say it. Or feel it.

But maybe there's no loophole. Or if there is, I didn't find it.

I guess they're gonna grow up and I'm going to stop being the most important person in their lives. They're going to roll their eyes at me. They're going to make fun of my dorky pseudo-swear words and they're going to "not wuv me anymore" every once in awhile.

And even though this is, by far, the best job I have ever had in my life, Dwight Shrute (from 'The Office') was wrong-o. It sure isn't the easiest.

Hello Again

So everyone in my house has been sick for a month. All stinking month. A month of beautiful weather, of copious amounts of leftover Halloween treats, and holiday shopping... and we've been quarantined.

These poor babes are so run down, I've barely turned on the laptop for fear of someone catching a  'virus'.

For the first three days of his cold, my poor little Wobot kept crying/yelling, "Mommy! My nose keeps wunning." Roughly every 5 minutes.

By the Grace of God, everyone seems to be doing better. So I thought I'd say Hi.

I had a terrific day. My little guy gave me a completely un-requested hug. If there's anything better than that, I haven't found it.

And our little Princess said "Dada" for the first time.

So what's new with you?

10% Tuesday

It's 10% Tuesday. Do you have this?

Today this means I package the kids up, ply them with cookies and juice and head off to every stinking grocery store in the city. Oh yes, in an effort to save 10 percent off cookies and juice, I spent 3 hours, and a quarter tank of gas shimmying around THREE grocery stores looking for the "right" kind of cheese strings and the only baby cereal that my sweet baby girl will tolerate.

Grocery store number one had one of those mini grocery carts for my little robot to push around... mowing down senior shoppers like they were granny-sized bowling pins.

Grocery store number two decided only two tills were necessary for servicing their most frugal customers. Luckily my little guy likes an audience for his train impersonation. Unluckily, there's only so many times people want to hear "All Aboard... WOOO WOOOOO....."

By the time we got to grocery store number three I was on borrowed time. I said a little prayer, "Lord, please give my babies patience..."

When we finally made it home, I discovered (as I inevitably do on every 10% Tuesday) the remains of last weeks gastronomic experiments and needed to do a complete refrigerator-overhaul in order to squeeze in this weeks good-intentions.

Sigh.

Truthfully though, the $26 in savings means I'll be back for more next month.

God Grant Me Patience... (and hurry up)

Patience may be a virtue, but its virtually non-existent in this house. I know that technically I'm supposed to be patient. Well, maybe not even technically. I'm just supposed to. But if there's one thing I've come to understand as I get older, its that Popeye was right. I yam what I yam. And that ain't patient.

I like directions followed immediately. I like messes cleaned up immediately. I like lights to turn green and supper to be ready (you guessed it) immediately.

When my dear husband pointed out to me that I lacked, wait for it... patience, I was genuinely shocked to find that it was true. I had always believed myself a patient person (and all-round good guy). But I'm not. I'm not patient.

I know this because I used to pray for God to give me patience. And then one day, I realized, God was answering my prayers. But like Morgan Freeman explains in "Evan Almighty", God wasn't about to just give me patience; he was going to give me opportunities to be patient.

So I quit prayin' for that.

I should have called the people at Guinness World Book

Please believe me when I tell you that I didn't used to be the kind of gal who talked about poop. At least not as much as I do now.

Becoming a MommyBot changed so much about my life; my ability to sleep through the night, (I no longer have it) my ability to read ingredient lists, (I practically have a super-power for it), but mostly, the things I am willing to talk about ad nauseum. And I never would have suspected that baby poop would be one of these topics.

I used to loooooove talking about T.S. Eliot. Oh, I looooooooved him. In particular, (and over quite a bit of beer,) I could talk about this line from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas

mmmhmm

Now, let me tell you about what happened when I got home tonight.

I unloaded the car (while helping the Wobot hunt for hibernating ladybugs in the backyard), made my sweet baby girl some rice cereal and sat down to feed her.

Then, my sweet baby girl pooped the most poop that any human has ever pooped in the history of humankind. And I didn't realize. And I stuck my hand RIGHT IN IT.

Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! THIS IS THE MOST POOP THAT ANY HUMAN HAS POOPED IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF HUMANKIND!!

My sweet baby girl: giggle

The Wobot: Mommy, what are you saying?

And there I was, covered in the most poop that any human has pooped in the entire history of humankind, trying to talk myself out of a major gross out, telling myself (outloud, sadly) that I was going to live. That I was going to make it. That everything was going to be okay....

And that I used to be capable of talking about other things...

It's Up To Me

The sweet Wobot in the house has recently discovered the phrase, "It's up to you."

And this, I have come to realize, is the beginning of the end.

Sigh.

Gone are the blissful days (both of them) of following short directions and looking at me when I call his name. It's as if someone said to him, "It's up to you..." and a tiny light bulb went off on top of his cute robot head.

Now it's, "Robot, you need to finish your breakfast."

"It's up to ME".

"Honey, It's bedtime. You need to put your puzzle away and get ready for a story".

"No. It's not bedtime. It's up to me".

Ugh. HatShan's mom once told me that it was difficult raising a daughter with such an independent mind, but that she never wanted to "crush her spirit".

I admire that woman.

Giving Thanks

Standing in line at the grocery store for stinking ever, and overhear very intellectual conversation about whether or not Canada needs a Thanksgiving holiday-what it means, etc. Probably my very intellectual hubby would have had something intellectual to add to the conversation.

Me, not so much.

I just think to myself. "Folks, you're nuts".  Any time (and I mean this literally...) ANY time the government wants to give me a day off work to eat pie, I say, "Bring It On".

(And by it, I mean the pie...)

Happy Thanksgiving my friends.

Naturally, I give thanks for robots and pie. But I also give thanks for you.

Monday Hurts.

Well, it happened.

I woke up this morning and I was old. OOOOOOLD.

(And I firmly believe the ol' "You're Only As Old as You Feel" adage. That's what I'm saying...)

I got up and noticed my back hurt. Like, a lot. And all I was doing, is laying down. This did not happen to me before children.

Also, as I was slathering a world record amount of gloop onto my face, I noticed them... wrinkles. Their presence a slap in the face, (not literally, mind you, but oh... they FELT literal.)

"What gives?!" I wondered... My mother does not have wrinkles. She has beautiful skin. People (usually crazy people) cross rooms just to touch her skin, it's so beautiful.

So this morning, with wrinkles and backaches (and with an obvious bad-itude) I headed to the kitchen for a pint of industrial-strength coffee. And I began to feel slightly more optimistic.

Obviously, the un-caffeinated life is not worth living. But, with the vigour and pulse of caffeine, now circulating through my wrinkly ol' bod, I had this revelation:

Maybe I can pass them off as newly-formed (albeit, slightly misshapen) dimples?

Ah ha. Bring it on, Monday.