It’s no secret I’d like to add about 10 more hours to my day. In fact, I bitch about it to anyone who will listen to my droning on about how I work full-time, work on web designs at night, two kids, house, pets, laundry, cleaning, blah, blah, blah. Not to mention that since March, I’ve also been working out 3 – 5 times a week, which is all well and good, but a little time consuming nonetheless.

Yet somehow through all this, I have managed to stay relatively sane save a few breakdowns here and there.

But now? We’ve added kindergarten to the picture, people. Kindergarten.

Our region has an integration program for the kindergarten classes where the children visit, one-on-one, with the teacher for an hour one day, then an hour with five or more kids, and THEN they start class: this is a two-week process.  Just this past week, Carter began his kindergarten routine.

And now? I have proceeded to: Lose. My. Ever-loving. Mind. AND! I’m not even the one that’s doing the pick up and drop off routine. In fact, my week has  become a tad bit easier since my step-mom comes over two mornings a week and my dad the other day. They get the kids dressed and walk Carter to school and take Hudson to the daycare.

That’s all fantastic, and am really lucky, I know. I am so grateful they are able to help us out…

But tell me: what’s with all this homework? It’s KINDERGARTEN.

I remember kindergarten. In my class we rode tricycles down the hallway and played house until someone received a blow to the head by some hard plastic food thrown at them in a fit of rage. Then all the kids were forced to sit on the ground in the dark with their hands on their heads like some sort of police raid was about to go down.

Good times, people. Good times.

Now kindergarten is all about learning! and parent contribution! and HOMEWORK!

We have books to read every night now; and sure they’re about six pages long, repeat the same five words throughout, and have prompts for the parents to make it fun! and easy! but it’s not. I get frustrated because I just want to tell him the word, but instead have to let him K-k-k-k-eye-eye-eye-eye-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh through the whole thing. We get half way through a word and then OH! Something shiny! where we then we proceed to all over again. It’s nice to see him progress (Already, yes. My child excels at level 1 reading. Booyah!), but every night?

Okay, okay. I digress.

I can do this. I know I can do this. I will teach this kid to read.

But the REAL kicker?  I find out there’s two “nutrition breaks” instead of one lunch hour and two recesses; I’m required to make two meals. I didn’t even want to make the first one! And why are kid lunch bags so damn small? Those things are busting at the seams with a sandwich, yogurt and carrots. I’ve been jamming two meals into this itty bitty little kid lunch bag like I’d pack an overstuffed suitcase. Seriously, I throw all my weight on that 10-inch by 8-inch flimsy bag just to get the zipper around it, then I precariously place it in the fridge hoping it doesn’t explode.

Would it be weird if I sent my child with two lunch bags?

Tell me: how have you survived kindergarten? Drink excessively? Find yourself a meth dealer? Remind yourself that you’re contributing to the future of your great nation by taking full advantage of this early learning?

Basically, I just wanna know if I’m the only one that sucks at it.

* I don’t think kindergarten sucks entirely. It’s CHANGE, and it’s CHANGE that I don’t do well with. And the fact that my kid is in KINDERGARTEN. I can’t believe he’s already in kindergarten!

• A 459 Character Tweet
• Succomb
• Restaurant’s Closed

I know this exercise shit is getting old. I promise it won’t be forever.

DUDE.

I did a sit-up.

Actually, I did a BUNCH of sit-ups.

In a row.

My legs straight out in front of me, and from lying down to SITTING UP RIGHT.

FUCK YA!

Ahem.

I know Jillian says it’s the easy way, but if you burst my bubble I will be forced to cut a bitch.

My weight went up my 0.6lbs but I am attributing that to the rock hard muscle I’m building not the Big Mac I ate last week.

And! I can do push-ups.

Awesome, right?

Well, I thought so.

Plus, my apron is shrinking.

Did you know an apron is the flap of skin that hangs down after you’ve birthed 9 pound babies from your lady bits? You’re welcome.

Not so cool? My boobs, they’re leaving too.

Speaking of babies…

Hudson’s 2nd birthday is creeping up on me. I can’t believe he’s going to be two. He’s still so tiny, but his mouth? It’s big. He has so many new words and is stringing together small sentences already. His baby fine white-blonde hair is finally beginning to grow, and he’s got nearly a full mouth of teeth.

And Carter. My sweet little boy. I can’t believe he’s going to be five. We’ve signed up for kindergarten in the fall and soccer for the summer. He’s a bundle of energy that just doesn’t stop. He’s hilarious and wonderful and such a great big brother.

I bet you’re wondering what I used to take those amazingly wonderful shots of my kiddos, aren’t you? Well, actually… IT’S MY NEW iPHONE!!

I HAZ iPHONE.

Finally.

Annnnd this is going nowhere, so I’ll just end it here.

Look! Cute kids!

Random Posts

• I’m so ‘blah’ today
• Come Visit
• Hey Momversation: Let’s Talk About REAL Working Moms For a Second

It’s not often that I cook. Everyone who knows me well knows my cooking typically consists of quick and easy items: macaroni and cheese (Velveeta, not that Kraft powder shit), spaghetti, sandwiches, zoodles, sometimes boxed preservative laden meats even.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

:::

This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.

• Eighteen and counting
• Disconnected
• 2011: Suck Less

I hate age four.

We’re technically not there yet, so I hate age 3.8333333333…

We’ve reached the crossroads between independence and needing mommy for everything and it ain’t pretty people.

As of late, everything has been a fight. Questions and defiance all the time. It’s almost as if he’s mocking my authority, because seriously? Killing me.

This morning for instance: Carter kept insisting that today was Thursday not Wednesday. As much as I’d like him to be correct, he wasn’t. I attempted to tell him that today was in fact Wednesday, not Thursday to which he continued to insist that today was THURSDAY as if that would make it THURSDAY. I tried valiantly to ignore the constant But today’s Thursday Mommy. It’s Thursday, not Wednesday. Mommy, it’s Thursday right? Today’s Thursday.

Then tears started (his not mine -yet) and I gave up. I just let him go on believing that today is Thursday.

Choose your battles people, and choose them WISELY.

I never thought I would be a spanker, a yell-er or so frustrated with a child. I think I’m a relatively patient person, but this kid? Carter’s trying every ounce of control I have. Time outs are futile. He’ll sit there talking and fidgeting; I start the clock over each time until he sits there quietly and waits out his punishment but he’s sometimes so disobedient and difficult to the point where I end up yelling. He cries, I yell and everyone’s just pissed off at the world.

I’ve become That Yelly Mom.

You know That Yelly Mom. The one that can be heard from the road screaming at her kids while all the windows are open? The one that you wrinkle your nose at and think “She doesn’t need to talk to her kids like that,” or “Holy shit lady. Calm down.” Okay, so maybe not to that extent, but yes. That’s me.

I hate it.

I despise it.

Before I realize that I’ve done it, it’s too late.

I ask and ask  and then yell when he doesn’t listen; and before I realize that I’ve turned into That Parent I never wanted to be.

There has been no spanking to-date; I’ve resisted the urge so many times resorting to taking away privileges, time outs or early bed. Sometimes they work and sometimes it all just seems like a wasted effort.

So then I yell.

I know it’s a normal stage of development for a child to find and exert their independence, but it’s a stage that I am finding I don’t handle very well. With the combined whining from Hudson, who is also at a stage where he’s developing some semblance of independence, my patience are at an all time low. The stock I once had in my ability to parent effectively is about as deflated as the US housing market.

I just don’t know how to get through the next 12 months without having a constant and unforgiving battle of wills with a four year old child and not be admitted into a 12-step program in the end.

• Stepping up my game
• Failed
• Hierarchy of Suckage*

Growing up I was a kid of many questions. I would bombard my parents with questions asking: why is the sky was blue? how do we get to space? why is that man there? what are they doing? How come!?

Before having children of my own, I thought I would love that stage where my children would ask questions and I would answer; we would have meaningful conversations about how astronauts get into space and why the grass is green. I would teach! and they would learn! and we’d be a happy little family. The End.

Unfortunately what I didn’t realize what the tenacity of a young child. The questions come on fast and furious with reckless abandon quite often at the most inopportune times.

Sitting in heavy traffic trying to get Carter to daycare before they begin his daily phonics,  attempting a left-hand turn across three lanes of traffic where the drivers rarely abide by the speed limits and he’ll hit me with a barrage of questions.

“Why is that man walking on the road?”

“How come that car is in front of us?”

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“Is the light red? Why are you wating?”

“How come the man is still on the road?”

“Mommy?”

“Mommy?”

“Did you bring my monkey?”

It’s enough to make me want to just pull out in front of the next oncoming car.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. I would never pull my car out in front of oncoming traffic because of an interrogation at 8:00 in the morning. If they ran out of coffee at every store in the city – yes. But questions? It’s highly unlikely.

I try my hardest to nicely answer each and every question even though I feel like turing around and yelling shutthehellupI’mtryingtodrive! Doyouwantmetocrashthisfuckincarrightnow!?

I smile at him in the rear-view mirror as I wait to negotiate the next available opening in traffic.

“He’s crossing the road honey.”

“Why?”

“So he can keep walking up the road to where he’s going?”

“Where’s he going?”

“Maybe to work, maybe the bus stop sweetie.”

“To work?”

“Yes Carter, to work.”

“There’s a bus stop there?”

“I guess so honey.”

“Why?”

“So the bus can stop and the man can get out.”

“Why?”

At this point I grit my teeth and try and ignore the questions as I see an opening coming.

“Are we turning yet?”

Sigh.

“Is the light red now?”

“How come you turned?”

“Where is the man, mommy?

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

OMFG, WHY!?

*******

We sat down to dinner last night and another full onslaught of questions began. I really can’t remember what he started asking, but I quickly turned the questions on him.

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

Evil parenting tactic, I know. But I don’t care, it was time to give the kid a taste of his own medicine.

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

Eventually he got this pained look of constipation across his face as he glanced around the kitchen, and as I asked him another “Why” question he quickly pointed across the table.

“Look mommy!” he shrieked, “We have MILK!!”

Dammit.

Duped by a three year old.

This isn’t over kid.

This is not over.

• Clinging
• Hierarchy of Suckage*
• Working My Way Towards The Unemployment Line, One Sick Kid At a Time

Updated: Apparently I should read my feeds before creating a post because when I think I have a great!, funny! idea, it would so happen that I post it on the same day as Jenny, The Bloggess – my  blog crush – *waves* Hi Jenny! What up? Can’t wait for your BlogHer vagina party! *fist bump*

Now this posts just makes me look like a total copy cat loser and I totally fuckin’ destroyed her awesome (Destroying her awesome is pretty well impossible, but get the jist – and if you don’t? Well could could get a fist). I just mulched a funny into a clusterfuck of crap. Do yourself a favour and just go read over there. She cuts and pastes and shit. Totally better.

In keeping up with this week’s theme, I thought I’d share this little tidbit with you.

Just picture it: Barack, Michelle and the children sitting down to dinner in their new White House dining room. Maybe a television on near by to hear the latest news and stories about Barack’s first couple days in office only to hear mention of Barack and fisting in the same sentence ON NATIONAL TELEVISION.

What? Don’t look at my like that, it’s entirely plausible.

Actually it’s a true story.

I shit you not!

An honest mistake: Fisting vs.  Fist BUMPING.

What do you wanna wager that she lost her job??

Now, remember to get your butts over HERE and leave a comment to win a sleek new pocket rocket.

And I’ve decided to jump in and get one, so I’m reading up on your recommendations. *blushes*

See? PRUDE.

And…

Because I know you love it so much…

Grace in Small Things: Part 2 of 365

1. Banana Nut Bread scented candles
2. Pureed prunes
3. Grande Non-fat Chai Tea Latte
4. Body Shop Body Butter – Satsuma
5. Stupid reporters that say fisting on air when they really mean fist bumping

• Sexual Revelation
• {Winners Announced!} Have Your Coffee And Drink It Too {Review & Giveaway}
• Life Lesson: Make-Up Will Make You A Whore

With his toy cars in hand, Carter walked up to an older boy and said, “Hi! Do you want to play with me?”, the older boy looked a little stunned, not sure what to say he just walked away.

Carter’s little face fell; he was so saddened to be dismissed like that. My heart burst into a million tiny little pieces as I watched my three year old little boy look down at his hands which held his cars, his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

Mike jumped up from his seat and assured Carter that he would play with him, and so they did. Mike sat down on the floor with Carter as they passes his toy cars back and forth in jam packed doctor’s office.

No parent wants to see that pain cross their child’s face, but on the other side of the coin, we also want to teach them that life is full of rejection. There will be times that you won’t get your way, people won’t do what you ask and you may be disheartened at times.

That’s life.

But should that be the life of a three year old? I don’t know. When is it alright to not jump up and assure your child that there will always be someone to play with?

I remember that rejection and how much it hurt as a very impressionable pre-teen. That rejection sticks with you throughout life and I molds a person, preparing them for the future. As painful as it is, it’s a factor of life.

Though Carter has moved on and completely forgotten about that incident, I can’t. I can’t help but worry that he may face worse than that through out his life. I want to sheild him from that horrible, horrible pain of being dismissed like that, left alone and wondering what it is that he may have done wrong.

Yes, kids will be kids, they don’t have a filter. They don’t know how to put someone down lightly. They don’t realize the impact of their statement – or lack thereof. Even if that’s the case, the pain is still there and still very real.

How have you managed to assure your child when they’ve been rejected by another child?

*** Cross-posted at BlogHers Act Canada ***

• Succomb
• Stepping up my game
• Failed

Carter is a great eater for the most part. A kid will eat when they’re hungry so I really don’t worry about his meals and snacks, when he’s hungry he’ll tell me.

He takes so long to complete a meal that I am beside myself; trying so hard not to grab the fork from his hand and shove the food in his mouth. Most nights his meal will take about an hour which leaves me feeling incredibly guilty when we’ve cleaned up the table and the kitchen while he’s still eating. Sitting there at the table chatting to himself, playing with his fork and just doing anything but eating.

There is no television on. We sit at a proper dining table as a family. There are no toys. The child will just talk, turn his fork into a rocket ship, a car, a monster while he nibbles slowly, if at all. Many meals end with Mike and I at each other’s throats because he insists on feeding Carter just to get it done and over with while I refuse to feed him. Carter will learn that we eat at dinner time and once Mommy and Daddy have cleaned the kitchen and the dishes are done, dinner is over.

(He will learn that, right? Please tell me he’ll learn that.)

So last night went the same as just about any other. Carter played, Mike and I ate, then we cleaned. After everything was done, the clock was coming up on and hour and fifteen minutes since we sat down, so I removed Carter’s plate from the table.

He proceeded to scream that he was eating that – which is clearly was not – and insisted that he get his plate back. I refused, cleaned up and we went about our night. Now, I typically hang on to the meal in case he asks later, but last night I did not.

He came back about a half hour later telling me that he was hungry and asked for a snack, which Mike and I both refused. Wishing I had saved his meal, we stood our ground. I didn’t offer up anything.

He contiued on about how hungry he was (which he normally doesn’t do) and that he needed his dinner (which he never asks for) but I didn’t give him anything hoping that he’ll realize that once dinner is over – it’s over.

After he went to bed, the guilt was overcoming me.

Am I going to create food issues in my child? Is he going to be paranoid that his food will be taken away therefore eating too much? Will he learn if he goes hungry for one night?

OMG is this child abuse making him go hungry!?

No matter how much we try; we think we’re doing the right thing, guilt is an overwhelming emotion that I just can’t deal with.

Ironically? It makes me eat. I eat when I feel guilty.Yipee! Emotional eating!

Regardless, he was alive this morning. The fasting had not killed him. We live to see another day.

A day where he sat at the table and scarfed down 6 (ADULT SIZE!) pancakes and a glass of milk before daycare, then ate his entire dinner tonight!

What have I learned from this?

Starve your child for results!

(THAT’S A LIE. I WILL NOT STARVE MY CHILD OFTEN. Please do not starve your child because it seemed to have gotten mine to eat. I will feel eternally guilty if your child withers away through the night because you withheld a meal on account of my post, with will in turn resulting in me gaining 600lbs trying to eat away my guilt.)

• I Hate Kindergarten*
• Stepping up my game
• Failed

Whenever I protest any sexual advances I get asked, “But what about the butterflies?”

Damn butterflies.

:::

Carter insists that I have a “China”.

I’ve repeatedly tried to correct him telling him that it’s called a Va-gina which he then calls “Bah-China”.

I think I’m gonna call it a Bah-China from now on.

Sounds so much more exotic.

:::

I’m not participating in NaBlopoMo this year. I thought about it, but November first came and went and I hadn’t written a post. I know, I know… you can thank me in Starbucks. Preferably a grande, non-fat Tazo Chai Tea Latte s’il vous plaît (that’s French for please).

:::

I have nothing intellegent to share so go read these guys.

Who knew he had it in him? Neil’s murderous confession.

My dear Tanis is pissed. Who are you pissed at?

Fighting for her life and she’s worried about us. Why aren’t there more people like her?

If only The Apple Store took this kind of fortune.

If you force her to share her personal information Sassy will run. you. down. (Or give cigarettes to your kids. Whatever.)

* That makes me giggle like a twelve year old boy. Spread. Ha!

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Ask a three year old what shapes to use and this is the result:

The Lame-O-Lantern*.

Carter chiseled chest Superman costume will be a hit with the ladies at daycare. I’ll be beating the girls off my little man.

Maybe I’ll use The Lame-O-Lantern.

And I haven’t bought candy yet because I know I’ll eat it all between now and tomorrow night. This way I’ll be scrounging for the craptastical candy and whatever isn’t given out will just be substitute for the stuff I steal from Carter’s good shit tossed in the trashed.

Happy Hallowe’en!

*Dear 20 year-old Carter;

Mommy is just kidding; that’s what she does. She’s a jokester. I really loved your lame-o-lantern jack-o-lantern.

And what the hell are you doing here? You do not want to read this. Trust Me.

• I Hate Kindergarten*
• Stepping up my game
• Today