Twelve Days 'Til Christmas

*cue music*

There are twelve days until Christmas, and to say that I'm excited may be a bit of an understatement.

Christmas is my favourite time of year. Ever. And so every December November October September I start to get super excited about Christmas and plan out every little detail. The best part is that my "Christmas" normally extends far past the 25th, on either side.

On the... 7th? I think it was the 7th, we purchased our real Christmas tree. That means that after the kidlets went to bed we put out all of the presents from the family - to the family, and that on the 8th we had it fully decorated.

Yes, we put the presents out before Christmas. The children are allowed in the room, there are no gates to keep them away, the rule is that they are not allowed to touch the presents before Christmas. Thus far my 1 and 3 year old children follow the rules and do not touch the presents. (To be honest, Splat *did* touch a bow on one of them, before I told her not to. There have been no repeats of this behaviour.)

On the 10th Boyfriend and I decorated (and cleaned...boy was that needed) all of the main floor, which is in addition to the small artificial tree that has been up and decorated in the girls' room since November, and the tiny artificial tree that has been up and decorated on the pipe chase of the landing on the staircase since December 1st. It is amazing to be able to sit by the glow of the tree lights in the evening, sipping my tea and becoming greatly nostalgic. My anticipation of Christmas greatly exceeds the children's at this point. I think they'll be more pumped come the 23rd or so.

So what does that leave for the last twelve days prior to Christmas?

*ahem*

On the twelfth day 'fore Christmas I will stay at home: putting out the large item garbage.

On the eleventh day 'fore Christmas I will be at home: cleaning and organizing.

On the tenth day 'fore Christmas I have an appointment, followed by best friend coffee.

On the ninth day 'fore Christmas the family will write letttttttterrrrrrs to Santa.

On the eighth day 'fore Christmas Santa will reply, and ifIcangetbabysittingwe'll visit friends for dinner!

On the seventh day 'fore Christmas I'm hosting a potluck lunch, for one person maybe two. (probably just coffee...bring cookies.)

On the sixth day 'fore Christmas I will go to Walmart and buy gravy trains and tablecloths.

On the fifth day 'fore Christmas I will go shopping, and buy all the food for Christmas dinner.

On the fourth day 'fore Christmas we will be at home: cleaning and organizing.

On the third day 'fore Christmas we'll be in the kitchen: doing our Christmas baking.

On the second day 'fore Christmas we'll host Christmas dinner: for Boyfriend's Mom and family.

On the last day 'fore Christmas we'll go to extended family Christmas dinner. And put out cookies and milk for Santa. And Santa will come after we're sleeping. And we'll watch Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. Sweet.

On Christmas...IT'S CHRISTMAS!!! AHAHAHAHA!!!! YAYYYYY!!!!! We'll open stockings and presents, and then have breakfast (useless meal on Christmas). Later, Shake'n'Bake will go to her dad's house, and we'll go to Boyfriend's Dad's house for Christmas dinner.

For the next couple of days we'll relax at home. Yes!

Then on the 28th Shake'n'Bake comes home and we go to my Dad's house for Christmas dinner. Yay!


About January 10th we'll take down the tree. Christmas is the greatest time of year.


So what are your plans for the 12 Days 'Fore Christmas? If you're super creative you can write them all out and I'll post them on the blog, or you can make your own blog post and send me the link. I'll post the links here!

The Week(s) From Hell

Well, not really. Things have been super awesome - they've just been super busy.

Oh, except the sicknesses. Both girls and hubby (and this morning my throat is hurting) are/have been sick. Nose running, head pounding, cough inducing, grump causing sick. Oh, and Shake'n'Bake threw up on my birthday.

During these past few weeks of sickness I have been packing everything I can get my grubby little paws on, in an effort to make moving day (and the days leading up to said day) much easier. I have purchased sooooooo many diapers and Easy Ups that I have a dangerous tower in my bathroom of unboxed diapers.

And yes, it is dangerous, it fell on my head the other day. *insert sad face*

As of yesterday, not only did I use my last box, but I also filled the toybox (soon to be the front hall chest), two baskets, one plastic bucket, one bag, and packed the PlayStation3 into its appropriate box filling the extra spaces with other living room items.

No more boxes. Finit. All done. Exhausted.

I've considered buying more diapers and Easy Ups, but even I have my limits, and I believe that having 10 sleeves of diapers and 8 sleeves of Easy Ups that I will have to move loose is it.

For the past 10 days or so (wayyyy too lazy to count right now) my awesome friends have been coming to my house and babysitting my rugrats for free so that Boyfriend and I can go and work our buns off (see: renovate) at the new house.

With Dad and Brother, we've scraped all of the old stucco off the ceilings, removed all of the trim from the house, pulled up two rooms worth of carpet, three rooms worth of tile, one hall worth of...plywood floor?, drywalled, taped, sanded, cleaned, wiped, primed, and painted. And we're not done.

We move in 5 days and as of right now, my goal is to have both bedrooms fully painted, carpeted, and trimmed. That'd be sweet.

Then we just live in the small area that is upstairs for a few weeks while the main floor gets finished (acutal finish time is greatly unknown: a few weeks is my hopeful guess) and then stick to the main and upper floors whilst the basement is polished.

Sometimes......
Picture from here.

I Hope Mine's A Football

Pop Tarts are awesome.

They were a kind of forbidden fruit when I was a child, my parents would never 'buy that crap' which means that I am forced to buy them WHENEVER they're on sale now and devour them with the freedom that being an adult brings.

Don't get me wrong...I wouldn't feed that crap to my kids.




Remember when I posted about how crappy this apartment is?

So Landlord has decided that all of the toilet problems in the pit-hole of an apartment are caused by my use of tampons. After throwing a temper tantrum and cursing, angry texting me, arguing with me in my own home, and giving me a pleasant ultimatum; it has been determined that I have temporarily switched to pads.

Oh, and then I determined that I'm moving out.

Image from here.

Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!


The best part of this decision to move is that I already have another place to go.

With everything all lined up, and a lease that is eagerly awaiting my signature, we have given notice to LaLandlordPoopyHeadFace and I have already packed over ten boxes.

I excite easily.


My new house is going to have awesome amounts of epicness and happiness and I am so super excited it's ridiculous.


Top Five Best Things About My New House

1. It is not in the Ghetto

2. It has a backyard! Eeeeeeeee!

3. The girls are in a bedroom that has it's own door and is not in my room!

4. It comes with an oven.

5. There's a laundry room and a line for drying clothes outside in the summer.



So, I am going to be busy. I'm quite sure that you will all continue to exist without me, but I thought it would be polite to let you know.

Happiness!

Father's Day

Father's Day is a day to celebrate dads. A day to recognize the efforts of those men who make a difference in someone's life.

I have already expressed my view of Boyfriend's 'father' status in this post: #1 Dad

Suffice it to say, I believe that Boyfriend would fall into the category of man whom should be celebrated on Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to the man who attended baby classes, held me while I cried, carried everything heavy, and changed poopy diapers.

To the man whose big hands are gentle enough to cuddle, soothe and caress.

Happy Father's Day to the man who learned and created Christmas traditions for the most important holiday in my year.

To the man who sings carols, jingles, and nursery rhymes.

Who is patient enough to answer 'But why?' one thousand times.

Happy Father's Day to the man who loves to teach: baking, hockey, soccer, jumping, dancing, singing, and anything else they want to learn.

To the man who wants to learn: dresses, dolls, hair brushing, diapers, baths, songs, wrestling, pony rides, airplanes, flowers, and everything else there is to learn.

You are an angel who has come into our lives, with so much to offer us. With so many memories to make, I know that you will fill our lives with joy. We love you. Happy Father's Day.






Of course, he is not the only man in my life who needs to be recognized on this day.

My Dad.

My Dad is a man who pulled his family out of poverty. Always a strong man, he sacrificed so much for our family...much more than he will ever tell me.

When I was young, I was a bit of a Daddy's Girl. I wanted his approval more than anything. At times, I feared my father. His anger was scary, both of their angers were, but as the years passed and things changed, he has become a rock in my life.

I made poor decisions, and my father was always around to listen. To give advice, but mostly to help me work it out on my own.

He gave me a roof over my head. A place to live with my small daughter while I got back on my feet.

He paid for groceries when there were none.

Money. Loaned for a car, and later school.


My father is many things in his life. Many things to many different people. But one thing that he always has been, and always will be, is my father. My dad.

The man that I am so afraid to disappoint, says he can never be disappointed in me.

And I, his oldest child, his only daughter, am so proud of him. I am proud of him for taking what life threw at him for many years, and for resolving it. For making the best decisions he could, and for seeing everything through to the end. I am proud of him for growing with his children, and for embracing his grandchildren.

Happy Father's Day to the man who held his grandchildren, both of them, even though babies make him uncomfortable because they're so 'fragile'.

To the man who says kids make him feel sad when they cry.

Happy Father's Day to the man who isn't afraid to get down on the floor and play with toys. Even if it is hard to get back up.

To the man who tries to understand what they're saying, even thought Toddler-Speak is an unknown and difficult language.

Happy Father's Day to the man who brings presents for all of the little holidays, but knows not to bring too much sugar because Momma will get upset.

To the man who learned to cook, so he could have us all over for dinner, and who's 'pack-rattery' has helped me on multiple occassions.

Dad, I may not agree with you about everything, but you have taught me that I don't have to. You taught me to think, and to make smart, informed decisions. You taught me to do what was best for my family, and that as long as I am trying, you will never be disappointed in me. You taught me respect, honesty, hard-work, and comedy. I still think of your heroism every time I see a snapping turtle.

To the man who once stopped and put out a forest fire by himself, Happy Father's Day. I love you.

The Furniture Obituaries

You may remember my couch.

It is the infamous piece of furniture that Shake'n'Bake spilled milk on, and then attempted to clean 'all my byself'. You can find the full story here: The Victims of Fussy Hour.

I REALLY REALLY tried to find a picture of the couch that included the stain from the story, but unfortunately (or an extreme coincidence...) every photo of the couch has a person or object conveniently in front of the stain.

My subconcious for couch photography is the bomb.


So here is a picture of the couch:

Hey look! Easter eggs! This picture must be from Christmas or something.


O_o


I've had three cups of coffee...bear with me.


Note all of the visible rips and stains:

And this is the couch at its optimum appearance. The cushions are placed (and flipped) so as to minimize the visibility of rips and stains; I've even carefully folded a piece of couch fabric over itself  to hide a rip. Underneath the cushions are more stains and rips, and even an exposed spring.


O_o


It was time for the couch to go.

White Sectional Couch

Unknown - May 2011

'It was a good couch... well as good as free can be. It smelled funny, had no back cushioning, and was mildly itchy. White Sectional Couch is survived by a loving spouse, White Sectional Loveseat, and four Small Cushions.'

After joking with everyone who ever stepped foot in my apartment, and hoping for the funds for a new couch, or for a gently used one to fall in my lap... it happened!

As an Easter present from my parents (I still get Easter presents from my parents?!?! I didn't know this!) they passed down a couch that has been gently loved. This lovely piece of furniture was passed down from my aunt, to my parents, to my dad's new house, and then to me. (With any luck my kids will get it.... hahahahahaha)

(Due to an animal dander allergy in the family) We tore the couch apart and cleaned the hell out of it. I took off every cushion cover, soaked them in the tub with buttloads of laundry detergent, and, using a mop handle, became a manual washing machine. We vacuumed, plucked, brushed, washed, and sprayed the couch with a deodorizer/antibacterial spray (for the dander).

Then I sewed the one rip shut.

Then I bought cushions.



May I present:

Beige Couch, The Great

Feel free to ignore the dirt all over the floor.


Welcome to the family! May you have many years ahead of you.

Special thanks to my parents...thanks!

My Precious Baby Boy

8:05am

You enter the world. Dead.

The panic button is pressed and the emergency team rushes the room. You are swooped out into the hall without so much as a word. Your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck and you suffocated during delivery. Your tiny, unmoving body was blue. I had no idea what was going on.

Every second stretched into minutes, waiting, wondering, and then you cried.

9lbs 1/2oz, small clenched fists of confusion and upset, you were a miracle within minutes of your birth.

You are a miracle to this day.

I remember not being able to hold you when you came home from the hospital. Some neighbourhood children came to visit and they held you without fear. Why couldn't I do the same?

I remember making your lunches for school. The walk there was fun, I believe we even held hands the first time. Venturing outside the home was a newer experience. And the first time you rode a bus! I'll never forget how anxiously we waited for that big yellow beast to pull up.

I remember when you'd get in trouble at school, or fight the children on the bus. Those little brats...they completely deserved it, you never started fights.

I remember the funeral we had when your pet worm fried in the sun. And then later, when your first (and second) hamsters died. I remember how we held each other after our first dog died. How you would look into my eyes and tell me everything would be okay.

We fought. Oh, the violence, but we didn't know. As time passed we learned to treat each other as safe havens. As sheltered ports for the storms. We came to rely on each other, often seeking the other's advice.

I threw you once... and cracked your ribs. It was an accident, but I remember waiting in fear for the ambulance to arrive. I was prepared to never forgive myself, and then you forgave me first. It would have been selfish for me to hang onto that guilt when you so easily released it.

I remember you teaching me how to play video games. Or how to work the computer properly. Or removing the viruses that I accidently allowed on to the computer with my naivety for the internet. Always helping me, without judgement.

I remember giving you the talk and then having you tell me that you had already learned it in school. Sigh.

I love how open we always were with each other. How it wasn't a big deal to say: I'm depressed, because I was never afraid you'd stop loving me.

Time is my worst foe, and in these last dying moments I reflect upon my precious baby boy, everything he was and is to me. I mourn his loss, but in his place I celebrate the man he has become.

8:05am

The year was 1991.

Very very shortly my baby brother will be 20 years old. He will no longer be my precious baby boy, but I can be nothing but proud of this strong loving man who has taken his place.

I love you.

One Square At A Time

I can't wait to move out of the Cess-Pool-City.

I hate living here with nearly every fiber of my body. I live in a terrible neighbourhood in which my (lame) running joke with everyone who leaves my house is: "Don't get mugged on your way out."


O_o


Ha....ha......ha.

I'm moving before Shake'n'Bake goes to school because...well because I hate this area, and I don't want my precious little angel to learn the F-bomb at 4 years from a classmate. I also (on a lesser degree) don't want her to have to switch schools later on. This means that in the next year and a half I will be moving again, even though it is something I have expressed that I don't want to do. Some things are more important.

So I have been passively looking at houses and rentals in areas that I would be interested in living in/near for the next 15-20 years. It's a pretty big commitment.

The worst part is when I find something that is amazing. That's when the anxiety sets in. All sorts of doubts about leaving the familiar and taking a pretty big step forward. But I'm so darn impatient! I'm 200% ready to leave this rotting town; 200% ready to live in a long-term home; ready to pick the town; make the commitment; settle down and live. I want to get out now but I also don't want to rush into it and make a mistake.

*************************

The last course of my year one semester has demolished me. The worst part (thanks, universe) was the timing of it all. This Pathology course was the most exciting and interesting course of my entire first year! I finished the first half of the course just soaring, wrote my midterm (aced it!) and then we had our "March Break". The entire "March Break" concept is more than stupid for my program because year one ends on April 5th. We have our "March Break" and then return to 'class' for two weeks before year two begins on April 6th.

O_o

I'd rather work through the break and have the time off between years...

Anyways! I began my readings again towards the end of March Break to find out that the rest of the course is devoted to Skin Pathologies [pathology = disease state] which was neat for about two minutes, then the text started outlining the communicability of said diseases (some of which are debilitating and life changing) and how a lot of the time they present little to no symptoms. I would have no idea if I was contracting these diseases, and even more deadly, if I was BRINGING THEM HOME TO MY FAMILY, until it was too late. Diseases like Herpes, which not only does not have a cure, it attacks the immune system and increases the chances of contracting HIV/AIDS.

O_O

There was even a special subtype of Herpes that mainly affected my potential profession.

Well, after I calmed my panic attack and dried my tears I came to a horrific and depressing conclusion:

There was no way I could finish my schooling for this profession.

This sucks the biggest, hairiest sack of balls I have ever seen. Flashing before my eyes was every conversation I had ever had in which I expressed my pride at waiting to go to College, because then I had decided what I wanted to do and I wouldn't drop out halfway through. I thought of my Dad. The money I had borrowed from him for this year of school. How, the last time I had seen him, I had asked for the next chunk of tuition since the payment was coming up. All of the biology books I had purchased, that had only been used once (one of them has never been used). The year I invested into this, and the equiptment that I bought. Images of my future career, perhaps even small business, flashed...then dissolved...and I felt like an ass.

Boyfriend was amazing and helped talk me through it, after all, it was better for me to realize these truths late into first year, than after fourth; and I wouldn't have been able to attend school in person anyways this year due to the birth of Splat. We talked about other school paths for me and I've made a new decision. I will actually graduate a year earlier than before since I can do it all full time now!



Of course, this all leads to a new application process, transcript getting, daycare, transportation, a new OSAP application, and a bigger head ache for now.

I had just finished paying for all the parts of my previous OSAP application...I'm hoping that it can carry foward to my new one... if not the application itself, then perhaps all of the supporting documents.

My current college is out-of-province, so the transcript needs to be snail-mailed from them - instead of emailed/faxed like usual.... so now I'm relying on a less-than-reliable-institute for timeliness for my current applications. Argh.

********************

I was sitting on the couch last night, crocheting Splat's blanket (it's a Christmas gift, Shake'n'Bake recieved hers for the Christmas that just passed). I've been close to being finished for a while...the blanket is comprised of over 100 individual squares that are then stitched together, and I've been contemplating starting to stitch together the ones that I already have finished. I'm so excited to get the blanket done, but I knew that at some point I would run out of squares for the last colour if I didn't finish them first. It was a bummer. And then it hit me.

One square at a time.

I need to take joy in the little successes along the way to the bigger one.

One square at a time.

If I keep putting in the work, then I will find the perfect house instead of rushing into it.

One square at a time.

I've requested that my transcript be sent as soon as I complete my final exam, they've agreed.

One square at a time.

And the blanket/house/career will be built on a strong foundation and finished in a complete and competent way.

I finished all of the squares late last night... guess who's started to stitch the blanket together!

Wish me luck.

My Maternal Pledge

I have written this in response to my last post. If there is anything my mother gave me, it is the desire to be the best parent I can possibly be for my children. If for nothing else, then so they do not feel the same pain that I have felt.

The 10 promises that I make as a mother.

1. Affection will not be hidden in my home. My children will know that they are loved because I will tell them that they are loved. I will hug and kiss my children at least once a day, most days more. My children will know that they are loved because I will show them that they are loved.

2. I will not say “Because!” as an answer. I will always answer my children’s questions because they deserve to know. Without answers they will not learn, without answers from me they will not learn to trust me.

3. I will not humiliate or belittle my children when they make mistakes. Accidents happen and mistakes are made to learn from. Gently.

4. I will read with my children and do everything possible to encourage their love of reading. Reading will open many doors for my children and spending the time to read to them will assure them of my love and presence.

5. I will do my best to instil good eating habits in my children. It is easier to be raised with good eating habits than to try and change poor ones later.

6. I will raise my children with tolerance and acceptance. They will not be blind to differences in people, as that is not a reasonable expectation, but the differences that they see will not influence their opinions of people. Someone may be different from me because they have black skin in the same way that someone would be different from me if they had blond hair. Or a penis. They are only differences in appearance and not worth.

7. I will try to do the ‘little extra’.

8. I will become involved in school and other activities because my children will excel if I am invested.

9. I will try my hardest to become a person that my children can talk to about anything, and come to anytime they need help.

10. Above all else, I will love my children with forgiveness and understanding for the rest of their lives.

A Taste of Delusion

de·lu·sion

[dih-loo-zhuh-n]
-noun

1. a mistaken or misleading opinion, idea, belief, etc: he has delusions of grandeur

2. psychiatry: illusion {see also: hallucination} a belief held in the face of evidence to the contrary, that is resistant to all reason

3. the act of deluding or state of being deluded 

-vb
13. to give birth to or produce
14. to nurture,  protect, etc.

1. a mistaken or misleading opinion, idea, belief, etc

We would arrange “Girls’ Days” when we could go out shopping, have lunch, and just talk. She would tell me about work and her marital problems, I would tell her about school and various gossip. We were friends. Friends. Looking back now I realize that she was living teenage years that were ‘stripped’ from her, or whichever way she chose to look at her poor decisions. We would go to movies together, shop for clothes, drink (underage for me) together, even curse at one another. She used to tell me that she would ‘never in a million years curse in front of her mother’, but she encouraged the behaviour from me. She started borrowing my clothes without asking (much too small for her anyways), and buying me revealing outfits that I wasn’t comfortable wearing. One Christmas she got us matching hot pink Playboy Bunny pants. I wore them as pyjama bottoms. I have a memory of being invited to a friend’s birthday party in high school. It fell on the same Saturday that we had our ‘Girls’ Day’ planned. I told her about it and asked her to reschedule. She pouted for weeks on end about how my ‘friends’ were more important than her. She would ask me advice about her marriage...or parenting her son...as if I were a close friend or coworker of hers. In her mind we were friends...I had enough friends...

-n
1. a female who has given birth to offspring
6. a female or thing that creates, nurtures, protects, etc, something

2. psychiatry: illusion {see also: hallucination} a belief held in the face of evidence to the contrary, that is resistant to all reason

I had decided to become pregnant. It was my only chance at having children. She decided that this made her old. She looked desperately for ‘cool’ names that seemed younger. She would text message me suggestions from cultures all over the globe. None of them seemed appropriate. Why Yaya if we weren’t Greek? Why Momi if we weren’t Inuit? Despite her only seeing me twice during my pregnancy (once was when we helped Dad move out of their house, once was when she brought her new boyfriend and my replacement – his granddaughter – to meet me) I asked her about her plans for my labour. She wanted me to text her after it was all over. Let me know how it went. I was disappointed, but I honoured her request. She called me after she got the message, asked the required questions, and then expressed her disappointment that I had an epidural when she had done it au naturelle both times. She came down to my house two days later to see my daughter. She stayed about an hour and then left. It would be the only time she has seen either of my children. In emails later, I would be blamed for the relationship dissolving. “Too preoccupied” with my new life to make time for her, it became more and more obvious that after the spotlight was no longer on her, she no longer wanted to be in the play.

moth·er 
mə{thuline}-ər

3. the act of deluding or state of being deluded 

She dramaticized our relationship’s death by playing the victim to her friends. She would make special efforts to hurt me, texting to ask if I was married because she ‘didn’t know’, spreading lies and rumours about Brother and I, plotting with her friends to put us on the spot, and then she would send polite emails – inquiring about the state of my life. Awkwardly she would continue to send Christmas gifts, mostly for the children. Labelled with nicknames she had never called them, signed by a person they’ve never known. She would have to pass them through a string of people, as if we were all children and this was a game of broken telephone, because she has no idea where I live... as I have no idea where she lives. Cutting herself off from us all, she began a new life. Nothing to tie her down or hold her back from her wildest dreams, she is finally free from the all the burdens having a family gave her, the age group it placed her in, and the adulthood she never wanted.

Now, she paints her nails pink.

Attack of the Nachos

When Brother and I were little little little we would share the double bed in the basement at the cottage.

The basement was just one room at the bottom of the stairs. It included the second fridge, 'pop-fridge', the access door for under the cottage (see: scary as hell), and a door to the back/bottom porch thing outside.

When my parents would decide it was bedtime for us, they would usher Brother and I down to the basement to go to sleep. I would check the locks on both the doors (creepy creepy creepy doors) before crawling under the 'McDonald's characters comforter' that my grandmother had acquired God-knows-how-long-ago from God-knows-where.

We would then explode into fits of laughter over the stupidest things our small minds could create.

One night Ronald McDonald and Grimace sparked a conversation about food that isn't really food, and Brother and I ended up talking about the toxicity of Lunchables.



Image from here

I don't remember the exact thought process that led up to the Nachos being able to fly, but they could, and they were vicious. They would aim for your face and eyes, smashing their fake-corn-chip-y goodness off your precious skin, drawing blood and bruising.


It was a brutal event.


One that stayed with Brother and I long after the black mould grew on the ceiling in the basement and we moved upstairs to the shaky bunk bed.


Long after we stopped going to the cottage every other weekend.


I was at the cottage last year and I walked down into the basement.

Our old bed is covered in garbage: pieces of the ceiling, black mould, mouse nesting; the pop-fridge barely runs anymore; and the access door is locked by a giant nail.

I stood in the wreckage wondering how we were ever allowed to sleep down here, when I heard them.

tick        ticktick          tick            tick          tickticktick                  tick

I looked at the windows, and sure enough: a pack of Nachos, flying up against the window, looking for the way in.



They remembered me.

Christmas Album 2010

I mentioned a while back that if I could get some pictures from Christmas that weren't too "un-anonymous" that I would share them with you.

It's taken this long because, let's be honest, I'm very very lazy. It's not like I specifically take pictures of not-my-family's-face and I just recently got around to moving all of the pictures from Christmas off of my camera and on to my computer.

So! More than a month after Christmas, may I present to you:

 A dys·func·tion Family Christmas

These are the sugar cookies and Rice Krispie Squares that Boyfriend and Shake'n'Bake baked together.
I put them in Ziploc bags because I don't like stale cookies.

Santa came!!!
We decided to hang our stocking on the cupboards because we don't have a fireplace.

Tim the Tree at his finest.



Shake'n'Bake's stocking.



Boyfriend's stocking.





Splat's stocking.





Shake'n'Bake is helping Boyfriend unwrap his present.



I was super clever and hid a present for Boyfriend inside, but Shake'n'Bake found it first.



More clever gift-wrapping ideas.



From all of us: Hope your holidays were GREAT!

 

 

To read about our Christmas revelry, please check out the "Festive Egg Nog" series:

Festive Egg Nog - Part 1
Festive Egg Nog - Part 2
Festive Egg Nog - Part 3
Festive Egg Nog - Part 4

Dream House

Some people want big.

Massive mansions with endless corridors, tapestries, winding staircases and crystal chandeliers.

Not me.

Being poor for so long has allowed me to truly appreciate the smaller things in life.

I've never had aspirations for a big house. I don't see the point in having something that you need to fill, rooms that never get used, and all that extra square footage to clean.


O_o


Yuck, cleaning.


Dream with me for a minute...


It's okay to be jealous of my awesome artistry.
Laughter is also acceptable.



Welcome to my house! As you can see from the outside, my house is not too big, and not too small. It fits my family just fine. There's a vegetable garden out back, and I have a fenced in backyard!!!

A fenced in backyard allows my children to play safely without the fear of wandering away, or getting hit by a car. A fenced in backyard means that we can have a dog, or maybe two! Privacy, safety, this fence makes me very happy.




Come on inside! Please take off your shoes, I'll hang up your coat in this closet. Then I'll close the closet door and hide from sight all of our outerwear. Doesn't my front hall look uncluttered? The secret is the closet door. Without it, all of the coats look jumbled and messy.




Here, come in to my kitchen. Did you notice, it's a seperate room from the living room? And look, here is my oven. I can bake things evenly in my oven, it also allows for me to cook things in a reasonable amount of time! I have lots of cupboards too. They allow me to store all of my food and cookware without having to use the top of the refridgerator. And if you look inside them, you'll see everything matches. No more bits and pieces of tupperware, scrounged from various apartments. I've purchased sets.

Sets.





Over here is my dining room. The fact that this room exists seperate from the kitchen is super exciting in itself, but look! There's a table in here, and it has matching chairs. Can you believe that?! None of them have collapsed, and there are enough for my entire family AND GUESTS!





Now we're in my living room. I have a couch set. A whole set! A three seater, a loveseat, and an armchair! And none of them have stains or rips. There's a coffee table too, it matches the end tables.





We all have our own bedrooms. There is no sharing, no disturbing, it's fantastic! I've painted the rooms whichever colours I desired, because it's my house and I can.





And look here. There's a playroom. It's filled with all of the kids' toys which means there are no toys around the rest of the house. The room is colourful, and childproof, and my children love to play in there.





I have bathroomS. More than one! And they each have a toilet that flushes properly, sinks that drain normally, and there is at least one that has a bath/shower in which the head has great pressure and a more than adequate supply of hot water.





Oh ho! Here is one of my favourite rooms: the laundry room. No more trips to the Ghettomat. No more piles of dirty laundry. I don't need a ride there, I don't need to presoak clothes that would otherwise stain waiting for laundry day. I can wash anything and everything that I need, when I need it.

This room also houses all my cleaning supplies, no longer will they be stored in a corner upstairs or on top of the medicine cabinet. No more vacuums in the coat closet, or extra paper towels stored on top of the fridge.




Did I mention that my house has no bugs?




Yes, my dream house is a magical place where all of my little desires can come true.


I truly believe I will own this house one day, after I pay off my thousands of dollars of consumer debt and finish my schooling. And when that day happens, you can believe that I won't be left wanting. I will wake up every morning in my warm and comfortable bed and be grateful for every little thing that I have.

The Trip To Disney Land

It was a Sunday.

Dad and Mom were rushing us around to get in the car, and (as children often do) Brother and I were dawdling and taking our sweet time.



I wanted to watch TV or something.



Stupid family.





Every time our parents would be rushing us out the door, either Brother or I would ask:
"Where are we going?"

To which one of them would reply: "Out."



O_o



So on this fine Sunday morning, either Brother or I asked: "Where are we going?" and Mom replied:


"Disney Land."







O_O







I don't think words can describe the excitement that swept over Brother and I...

So I drew a picture!

We were so poor!


We had never been to Disney Land before! I had classmates who had been (as I'm sure Brother did as well) but I could only imagine the spectacular-ness of it all.


They must have saved for years to afford this trip.






Needless to say, Brother and I flew around the house in a flurry of get-ready-ness and we were in the car and buckled in before my parents had time to lock the front door.

Excitedly we jabbered away in the backseat together.

What would Disney Land be like?

Were there rides? Food? Shows?

I was going to touch everything! I think Brother was planning on learning to fly.


It was so super-exciting-awesome-fantastical-face-yeah!





And then the unthinkable happened.




"Oh will you two calm down," Mom said, turning from her passenger seat to look at us,

"I was just kidding. We're not actually going to Disney Land, we're going to the flea market."

And that's why I hate flea markets.

The Boomerang Bullet

Just prior to Christmas  I wrote a blog called "Dodged Another Bullet" that was entirely about how I have a fear of repeat gifts but how, at that time, even if a gift was repeated that I would have given it first, making the other person the repeater.

What I didn't consider ladies and gentlemen, was the one-upper-repeater.



The deadliest of all gift givers.






Santa had brought Shake'n'Bake a colouring desk so she could get up off the floor with her crayons and books.


It was the biggest present under the tree and she was excited to open it.

(These pictures are for emphasis only...these aren't the real ones.)



Picture from here.


Santa brought her a nice little desk - table and stool, nothing too fancy, but she's only two years old.

I was pretty happy.





Later....






Shake'n'Bake opened an even bigger present under a different tree.


This desk exploded into bright colours and happy-funness.

Once again...not the real item.
Desk picture from here. Starburst from here.

Imagination-stimulating brightness, kid-friendly storage, and an overall appearance that screams "PLAY WITH ME!"


This desk had Santa's beat.



I hid it upstairs in the loft.



"Oh, she can play with it when she gets a little bigger."

"She doesn't need two desks right away..."

"When Splat starts to colour she can have the Santa desk
and Shake'n'Bake can use the new one."

And other various excuses spewed from my mouth.



*shame*



I was so happy with Santa's choice of desk, and now it looks like poo.

Poo with sprinkles...

Poo picture from here.

o_o



*sigh*



I'm gonna have to sell it.




Spring garage sale, here we come!