SNOWSTORMS AND HORMONES AND STALKING, OH MY!
I have been very very distracted lately. Not only have hormones come out to play, but add to that Christmas, as well as the recent discovery of 'Blogs of Note' and you have a recipe for distraction. It's funny, I read and read and read (okay, stalk) all these other bloggers, and then stop and think - hey, I have a blog, maybe I should stop clicking and start typing!!!
So here I am. While my life has been crazy busy, I am facing a bit of a block as to what to say. So please excuse any insane rambling that may proceed from my fingers....
THE PARENTS RETURN
Both sets of parents (mine and hubby's) have recently been away. And finally, both sets have returned. The exodus of my in laws is nothing new, as nearly every month they are trekking off to some exotic destination. But for my parents, this is a once or twice a year thing.
Normally my parents vacations have very limited effect on me, as we don't see much of each other when they are firmly planted at home. This time, however, was different. In the time they were gone, we had two big snowfalls. And my parents have a BIG driveway. It has become in a way an unwritten rule that my hubby and I are responsible for the snow removal from this massive slab of asphalt. Okay, that is not entirely true. My hubby is responsible for it since I have not a clue as to how to operate a snow blower (although you would think that any good Canadian girl should know her way around one of these machines of wonder).
I drove past my parents place between storms and saw that the original snow had not been touched - save the footprints from the mailman and paperboy(or to be completely correct, the paperperson....or is it media delivery person...you get my point). I had not heard from the 'rents so I wasn't sure whether the snow removal torch had been passed to my little (younger) brother.
So we get an email asking if we would mind going over to clear the driveway before they come home. And then we got the snow. And when I mean snow, I don't mean a light dusting-isn't-that-pretty-let's-go-for-a-walk-and-catch-it-on-our-tongue. It was a massive dumping followed by blowing and drifting. All of these factors combined to create the biggest snowpile we have ever been witness to. And where was this pile? Yup. In the aforementioned driveway.
Hubby huffed and puffed and blew that snow down. It took him a couple of hours! And he came home smelling like gas. Even worse, it was 2 stroke gas. Even worse than that is the fact that I know the difference between the odor of 2 stroke and regular gas.
I love my hubby. And I love my parents. But I must admit, I have no love left for snow. Or 2 stroke.
THE FAMILY IS HERE
As you may or may not know, I have 3 kids. a 2.5 year old boy (the Joker), a 4 year old girl (the Mouth) and a 12 year old boy (the Fidget). Fidget lives with his dad and stepmom in another town about 1/2 hour away. This all came about a couple of years ago, when after living with me for 10 years, he decided he would like to try it on the other side of the fence. And it turns out, the grass may not be greener, but it is just as good to roll in. So there he stayed.
Having a child that does not live with you can be heartbreaking for a mom. When he is sick, when he is having trouble in school, and when holidays come around are just a few of those times. So in comes Christmas. Each year, Fidgets' dad and I switch up on who gets F. on Christmas Day. This year is his year.
So we will celebrate our Christmas on Christmas Eve morning....and my other two will open MORE GIFTS on Christmas Day. I guess from a kids point of view this is pretty cool since they get not one but 2 Christmas mornings. For a mom, however, something will just be missing.
Until then I have resigned myself to having a fabulous time with F., enjoying every minute of the festivities. Too bad not everyone else is in on my plan!! (Doesn't it always work out that way!!?)
THE OTHER OFFICIAL LANGUAGE
The Joker is fascinated with a show we often watch, called Little Einsteins. I have heard the pat-clap-pat-clap mantra more times than any mother should . Naturally, when it came time to decide what to get for his Christmas present, we KNEW it had to be the 'Rocket' - the hero of the show. I was beside myself with glee to discover that there was a "Pat Pat Rocket" that came with all the characters inside, as well as played music from the show. It was like knowing that you are - for that one special moment - going to be called the 'best mother on earth'...showered with kisses and hugs and loving every minute of it.
Off I go, to scour all the stores for the PPR. Each and every store was sold out. We got a flyer for a well known discount store which advertised the PPR on sale! I ran to said store, only to find it was sold out. I did, however, leave with a raincheck. Fat lot of good that is going to do me if they don;t get any in stock until after Christmas. But I grip it tightly, checking and rechecking from time to time that it is still in my purse.
On an impromptu shopping trip, my hubby discovers! ROCKET! ON! THE! TOP! SHELF!!!!!
The only glitch in this excellent find was that Joker was with us. We shoved the box in the cart (not so easy considering the box is about as big as the cart itself) and cover it with hubby's jacket. I fish for the raincheck, find it, and off we race to the checkout. Hubby strategically grabs the van, and I pay for the coveted toy without Joker seeing it. SUCCESS.....
At home, we store it lovingly in the laundry room, patting ourselves on the back (no wonder it is called Pat Pat) for our ingenious purchase of the most perfect gift.
Last night, Fidget and I are doing some wrapping and I haul up the bags from the basement. I open the red bag of wonder....only to discover......we have purchased the FRENCH VERSION!!!!
ACK!!! My heart sank into a space somewhere between my stomach and my toes. I felt nauseous. Fidget says - well, he should learn a second language anyways.....- I do not find this as humorous as he did.
Now the search begins again......grrr......
I may be a mother, but I am Not Your Average Mom