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.

The Cycle

"Hey!! Why can't you just listen to me?!" I scream.

"I. Just. Can't. Get. This. Piece. Of. Crap. To. Work." I seethe through clenched teeth before hitting the computer...with my forehead...willing one of the two objects to shatter.

"Go to your room! NOWWWW!!!" the animalistic growls that escape me are hard to describe...and yet eerily similar to the ones I heard as a child.


I never learned what to do with my anger.


As a child I witnessed a lot of anger. A lot. And it always resulted in screaming, violence, belittling, and broken objects. As a child, you learn from what you see.

I often wonder how 'normal' people deal with their anger.

How other parents dealt with misbehaving children.


When I was in elementary school I would get in fistfights with other children. They would anger me and I would hit them, and then some of them would hit back.

I was so filled with rage that I used to 'black out' and not be able to remember what happened during these episodes. There was a lot of thrashing. And screaming.

As I entered my teens I began to internalize the anger. The scars up and down my arms can attest to that. There was still a lot of screaming and hitting things, anything to expel the rage that boiled within. One day I turned to alcohol. The rage wouldn't boil if it was so diluted by litres of booze. I don't think the rage could even simmer in those days.


As an adult, I have tried to teach myself more effective ways of dealing with my anger. I want to teach my children better ways of dealing with theirs. Ways of stepping back and calming down, rationalizing, using words instead of physical force...but it's difficult. It's difficult to teach them things that I haven't been practising all that long.

I have to keep trying. For them.

Morning Rage

I have written in the past about my burning rage for mornings.

Of the bear that awakens within me when I am torn from my warm sheets, soft pillows, and drool spot on my bed.

How then, an epic battle must ensue as the real me must fight the bear to win back control of my body.

Usually coffee helps.



I think the bear had a head start this morning.

Picture from here.

Isn't this picture epic?! I Googled 'woman wrestling bear' and got this picture, which is much more appropriate. Now my morning is getting better.

I was woken up this morning over an hour early by Shake'n'Bake beginning to cry in her bed. Since our rooms are seperated only by a curtain, I called out: "What's wrong?" from the warmth of my bed.

"I want you to tuck my feet in and give me a kiss!" she cried.

"No," I replied, "I only tuck you in at bed time."

Then she lost it. Screaming Crying and kicking the bed, I tried to use my calm voice and tell her to take a breath or say the alphabet. No use. She screamed louder and kicked harder and then the bear sat on the happy mom I want to be.

When her fit was... 'resolved'... we couldn't go back to bed because her screaming had woken Splat up, and she wanted to be fed. I tried to lie in bed and feed her, in hopes that she would remain drowsy and we could all go back to sleep after.

Nope.

She was wide awake then too, babbling about the various parts of the room and laughing at the desperation on my face. "Happy Mom" then tried to get the day going in an attempt to forget the heinous crimes of the morning, so I announced that it was wake up time and that we were all supposed to get dressed.


I found a dead housefly in my jeans.

Splat is almost out of pants, and we have company today.

Shake'n'Bake has decided that she wants to be a baby again (or something, this is just an assumption) and has decided that she can no longer get dressed on her own. She cried when I said I wouldn't help her put her socks on.

Splat kicked me in the vagina when I was putting her shirt on.

Then she cried because I said 'ow' and told her 'gentle'.

Shake'n'Bake exploded into tears because she has forgotten how to operate shirts over the past two weeks, and can no longer get them over her head.

Then they touched my excema medicine (after I had an itch attack last night that was so bad I was crying).

Splat cried for no reason. A lot.

Shake'n'Bake was impatient and whiny for her breakfast.

Splat cried when I did her hair. And then again when I finished doing her hair.

And again when I was getting her water.

Oh, and I have a buttload of ants that have decided to make my house their house.

And then my internet didn't want to work again this morning...because it does that sometimes.


O_o


Yeah, so that's my morning thus far.

F. 'Happy Mom', I'm going to go have a coffee now.

My Knees

Yeah, that's the whole title. I'm tired. Bear with me.


I have a disease in my knees. A disease in which my knees destroy the cartilidge within them, and then, without the protective cushioning that said cartilidge provides, grind (bone on bone) inappropriate grooves into themselves that can cause mislocation (like dislocation), pain, and popping.

Image from here.

I'd put a check mark beside ALL of those pain spots and more.



When I was 9 years old, I went to the doctor's office to get the results and find out why my knees had been hurting so much when I ran. I used to be on the Track and Field team for running, long jump, and high jump; and they began to throb and burn all the time. I sat in the room all by myself, as my mother was in a different room with Brother. Plus, I was a big girl, I could be alone with no problem.

My little 9 year old self was in for quite the shock when a strange doctor entered the room. He read from the chart and told me that I had a disease in my knees.


"There's no cure, it will only get worse. You'll be in a wheel chair by the time you're thirty."


Then he turned and left the room.


I said nothing to my parents. In my shock, I internalized every piece of this horror, it would be another nine years before I told them. I cried myself to sleep that night, and decided that he was wrong. There was clearly nothing wrong with me, I would just need to let up on running.

The following year I tried to run the 100metre dash instead of the 400metre, and I ended up twisting my knee (in its weakened condition) and sitting out the rest of the events.

The next year, long jump was cut from the list because landing in the sand pit jarred my knees too much, and it hurt to stand after.

I managed to high jump for a few more years, and after acquiring knees braces I even attempted the hurdling team. As long as I was careful, I had convinced myself that I would be able to manage it.

When highschool began, I started biking to school. It would cause me a great deal of pain, but I tried to ignore it. It was only a fifteen or twenty minute bike ride, after all.

In Grade 10 I joined the wrestling team. I loved it, but I noticed how weak my knees were getting. I couldn't participate in warm-up with the rest of the team. I stretched, but that was all. Walking up and down stairs became challenging. I would tell friends to go on ahead without me, I was late for classes.

I kneeled down in a store to look at an item on the bottom shelf and I couldn't get back up.

The next year, I could no longer bike to school. I resigned myself to the fourty-five minute walk instead. I got a medical exemption from the stairs at school and recieved a key to operate the elevator. If I had to kneel down anywhere, I needed someone to pull me back to standing - and then hold me up while the circulation returned to my knees.

In a wheelchair by the time you're thirty.

It haunted me. I was only 17 and I couldn't walk up stairs or kneel down.

The following year my Scouting group went on a canoe trip. One of my greatest passions.

My knees were so bad that I couldn't sit in the canoe. Angered, stupid, and rash; I left the camp.

The following year Shake'n'Bake was born, and I went to see another knee specialist. This one scheduled me for surgery for the following January.

Waiting for the OR to take me, I lay on a stretcher in my nuddy pants being told by nurses and other doctors how brave I was to have surgery on both knees at once. Brave? Why? Is it a bad idea? Someone? Anyone?!

It was June before I had good use of my legs again.

That was 2009.

It's been two years now, and do you know what I did yesterday? Yesterday we piled Shake'n'Bake and Splat into the new bike trailer that Splat recieved from my parents for her birthday, and Boyfriend and I biked all the way to the pool for our swim. Then we biked home after.

With Boyfriend starting shift work again, I asked to have the trailer hooked up to my bike. That way I can take the girls out when he's at work.


O_o


No dice. A few hills and a gentle incline, and my knees SCREAMED bloody murder. I pushed through it and I nearly made it all the way there and back. I gave the last hill to Boyfriend, we switched bikes.

We're going to move the trailer to his bike for future trips, but I'm rather proud of myself for accomplishing what I did.

I'm also worried that, in time, I may have biking stripped from me again. This time... well, this time I know enough to enjoy what I have. I know enough to push myself while it's still possible, and what to fight for while it's still available to me.

More surgery? Almost definitely.

A wheelchair by the time I'm thirty? Not if I can help it.

Feeling Squirrely

Every time a child disturbs their mother's poop,

a squirrel gets hit by a car and dies.

Let me poop in peace.

Happy Freeze-ster!

Guess what the Easter Bunny brought me this year.

A broken heater!

Well, he would have, if the poor bugger hadn't frozen outside.



Picture from here.

 It was Wednesday I believe... when we first noticed it was starting to get chilly in here.

I naively chalked it up to a drop in the outside temperature. As if things could actually happen naturally around here.

Thursday was just plain cold. When it came time for bed I was shivering, and as such, I turned the thermostat all the way up.

I just wanted to hear the heater go on.

But it was too late.

She was dead.


o_o


We shivered all night. I double-blanketed the girls, checking in on them periodically, and first thing in the morning I contacted Landlord. He was over later that day (Friday...GOOD Friday) to let me know that although he knew what was wrong with the heater, all the stores were closed due to this blasted holiday.  Also, the piece he needed may have to be ordered.

So he brought us two space heaters.

This was a lovely gesture, and most of the time these two little buggers are adequate to heat the apartment....like noonish, when the outside temperature has risen....but I can not wait to have the heater working again.

If there's one thing that should rise from the dead today...blasphemic joke, I know. I apologize if it offends anyone.

Cold.



Happy Easter!

Rage-Splosion

I am becoming angrier and angrier.

Perhaps it is what my depression is turning into as the winter subsides and the warm weather is coming out...but it doesn't seem likely. Spring makes me calm.

Perhaps it is a hormone change from my birth control...but I've been on the same birth control for over five years now, and this has never happened before.

Perhaps it is due to lack of sleep. Splat has been waking up four or five times a night to feed again.


O_o


I've even been dreaming about waking up to feed her, and then actually waking up and having a moment of panick because she's not in bed with me.



No matter what the cause is, I am filled with rage. It's almost a constant state now.

I'm mad that I live in this dump, in the Ghetto. I'm mad that I don't have a yard to play in. I'm mad that I can't afford buttloads of food, and since I've been so exhausted - have put grocery shopping off (again) until tomorrow. I'm mad that I have nothing planned for dinner. I'm mad that I can't afford to put my car back on the road (and just now, I'm mad that I forgot to call my cousin back this weekend like I was supposed to. Crap). And I'm mad that my stupid ex is trying to get another reduction in child support.

I'm mad that I'm changing programs. I'm mad at the program and the field for sucking so much, and I'm mad that I didn't look farther into it, or consider the possibility of these risks earlier on. I'm mad that I have to apply to new schools, while hounding my old one for marks, and having to book assessments anyways because apparently nobody really cares what your marks are.

I'm mad that I haven't gotten around to doing the dishes yet today. I'm mad that we had salty Mr. Noodles for lunch because I haven't bought real groceries yet (see: tomorrow), and I'm mad that Shake'n'Bake loves them anyways. What happened to good eating habits?


I'm furious that the couch beetles are back.


Like: flaming-murderous-rampage, want-to-move-before-we-have-another-place-to-live furious.

It's only the 11th of April, and yet I have found and killed six already. SIX. Five of which were in the last three days.

It's f%&#ing ridiculous!!!

Stupid, nasty, little bastards. There were none for the entire winter. They sat outside in some soil, in a frozen hibernation-like state of cryogenesis, waiting for the spring to thaw the ground so that they could resume their attack on my life.

At their current rate of attack, I'm likely to see well into the hundreds for casualties this year. I just don't know if my stretched little mind can handle it.

ARGH!

F(ish)ridge

Ridiculous.

First, the tortellini was soft in the freezer.

Boyfriend and I berated ourselves for leaving the freezer door ajar. We promised to be more diligent, after all there was meat in the freezer and we didn't want it to spoil.

Next came the bread. Nearly defrosted when I pulled it out.

I turned up the cold on the dial for the freezer...perhaps the milk had knocked it down to warmer or something.

Then came the day when the ice was melted. All of the small meats were defrosted, any and everything bread based was thawed, it was awful. Even the inside walls of the freezer weren't cold.

We cooked all of the sausages that we had, ate them on thawed buns. Other meat was moved to the fridge for timely consumption, and the remaining breads, vegetables, and whole chicken were moved to the chest freezer upstairs.

I sent Landlord a message saying that the freezer was broken. He called me back and asked if we could make it to the weekend at which time he would replace the fridge. I naively said yes.

The next morning Boyfriend picked up a less-than-cold container of ham soup from the fridge and brought it with him for lunch. It didn't taste or smell right so he disposed of it.

The next morning we enjoyed bowls of cereal with sour milk.

The fridge had gone too.

Landlord came over (while we had company...sigh) with a 'new' fridge for us. Where he got this thing from is beyond me, my best guesses are: the side of the road, or an old sushi restaurant.

Inside the freezer there was black and grey mold, inside the fridge: half an eggshell pasted to an egg holder, and a variety of greenery crumbs.

The entire thing reeked of fish.

I busted out my new Lysol Multi-Spray-Cleaner-TakeITBEYOTCH! and spritzed every possible surface of the fridge. Boyfriend began scrubbing drawers and shelves in the sink.

It still smells. And it's awful. It makes everything it comes into contact with reek.

Now it smells like a giant fish was poisoned with Lysol, died, and then rotted in my fridge.


O_o


Yay....





P.S. Dear Shadow Lurkers,
It would be super awesome if you could follow me publicly. My fragile little ego would love some inflation... or even justification... a high five?
Thanks.

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.

Fear of the Unknown

It has quite suddenly become a very real possibility that I will be attending classes in person soon.

This has led to some awesome amounts of insomnia. On top of my already existing funk/depression-remnants.

Going to school in person is scary to me because I don't know if I can do it. Logically, I should be able to succeed at it; maintain interest in my classes; complete my homework; etc., but because it is unknown, because it is something that I have never done before... I'm scared out of my mind.

I am afraid that I will fail at being a College Student. Perhaps my marks will drop, or I won't be able to keep up with the demanding schedule of school + family, I just don't know. I don't want my children to suffer for it. One of the biggest transitions I had as a child was when my mother went back to school and stopped caring about us. I have no desire to follow in these ghostly footprints, but it is a fear that resonates deep within me.

What is it like to attend class in person? I haven't been to an actual class since highschool...and back then I couldn't have cared less about my marks or the material. I'm surprised I remembered which classes to go to most days. And now what? And now I have to care. I have to show up for class and try to learn. I have to absorb and memorize information. I have to succeed in school. I have to do all of these things because I need to be a good adult, rolemodel, and mother...for my family and for me.

I am afraid to let someone down. Anyone who I care about. Down. It's such a gripping fear.

Where is the sign that is supposed to let me know I've made the right decisions? Chosen the right career? I don't care if there isn't one, there should be!

Two years ago I decided to go to school for something because I needed a stable career with a stable source of income to support my little girl. 'Girl' became 'girls' and I find myself changing. At which point does a decision become the 'best' one to make... are they all a little bit selfish?


O_o


I don't know if I follow my last paragraph...it's late...lack of sleep.



I just hate wondering. I hate not knowing. When this is all over, I'll be able to look back and think: "Well, that was easy."/"What an awful, awful choice."/"I love College, I'm going to learn more!"/"I'm glad that's over, I'm taking my degree and running."

And then I'll know.

And no matter what, it will be better than now.

A Taste of Disgrace

Warning!

This post is not happy-fun-giddy, laugh-out-loud funny, or insightful by any means.

This is a true story.

It was almost midnight. Most likely a Tuesday because recycling pick-up was on a Wednesday in my area. Of course, it could have been another night... we were out almost every night.

We had stood in the kitchen minutes before, preparing. Shake'n'Bake was bundled tightly against my chest in her snowsuit and baby backpack, zipped all the way under my winter coat. She was sleeping.

He had a camping backpack on his back. So did I. It gave us lots of storage. I looked around and picked up the grocery bag full of bags. I had gotten these the previous Saturday, standing in line at the foodbank for hours. Alone. Making excuses to the church volunteers as to why our welfare money was gone already, trying to get the most food that they would give us.



There was never enough food.



I stuffed the plastic bags in my pockets. This way our backpacks wouldn't smell like beer from the leaking bottles and cans. My hands would though. My hands always smelled like the old beer from other people's castoffs.


How did I get here?


I took a deep breath and we were out the door. He pulled the wagon since I was carrying Shake'n'Bake. My poor baby. Those nights were so cold. I zipped my winter coat all the way up and over her head to keep her warm. It was so difficult to bend down and sort through recycling boxes with her strapped to my chest, but I had to do it.

We had to eat.

I hope she never remembers those nights.

When the welfare check came every month, it just barely covered rent. I would magically scrape together enough money (from selling off my possessions) to pay the bills, and then there would be nothing left for food. Since Shake'n'Bake was still breastfed, we didn't have to worry about buying baby food...it was just the two of us who were starving.


I was losing weight.


I wasn't working because I was on maternity leave. That, and he wouldn't let me. I should have been stronger. I always told myself I would be stronger than that, but it snuck up on me. Suddenly I wasn't a person anymore, I wasn't allowed to make my own decisions, have my own friends, go anywhere on my own.

It was all so sudden.



He wasn't working because he didn't want to... I mean, "because of the recession". What a pile of bull. I never want to hear those words again.



The beer bottles stunk.


I would pour out anything left in the bottom, and then fill my grocery bags one by one. Once a bag was filled then it would go into my backpack and I would open a new grocery bag.


It was so cold and dark.


We were out at night because it was stealing.

Once a box is on the curb, it becomes property of the city. So we would steal the bottles and cans. Take them in the night like raccoons rifling through garage cans. Foraging to get by.



I knew that at the end of the week, we would strap all of the bottles and cans we had collected into the wagon and make the one hour walk to the Beer Store to return them.

How much money would I have for groceries this week?             
                                            Twenty five,        
                                                              thirty five dollars?

It was never enough.


I was so hungry.


I watched him sprint excitedly across the street to another recycling box. "Wine bottles! And lots of them!" he exclaimed excitedly, his eyes open wide and eager - like a child on Christmas. He loved this.



And I hated him.




And I began planning to leave.

Cabin Fever

Hoo Boy!

Winter is getting to me already.

It has been particularily cold lately (there's a good chance I'm just a wimp) so I have been keeping the girls inside a lot.

This is a pretty big contrast to this fall's routine of going on the 20 minute walk to the park every day, then walking from the park to the grocery store/movie store complex, then walking home.


Every. Day.


We stopped going when the girls started getting windburn and/or frostbite on their chubby little cheeks.


Since then we've only been outside a handful of times. We've made a few snowmen, tossed a few snowballs, and flopped around a couple of times to attempt snow angels; but overall, the majority of our days are spent indoors.

Enter 'Cabin Fever'.

Thank God for Christmas (literally, ha!), without all of these new toys and shows Shake'n'Bake would have lost her mind long ago. Now don't get me wrong, potty training has kept me busy, and I have been pretty good with creating new games and activities, but at the end of the day everything looks the same.

I've rearranged furniture, cleaned, organized, stood up, lied down, and sat backwards but my scenery never changes.

I am starting to lose my mind.



Waking up in the morning takes a massive amount of effort due to Splat's inability to sleep through the night. I place an IV that drips coffee into my veins, and when nap time rolls around I am then incapable of settling down.


It's a vicious cycle really.


So I sit in front of my computer and I blog, and I think about blogging, and I read other blogs, and I plan blogs, and I fiddle with my blog design, and I check my stats, and I check my comments, and I read more blogs, and then I wish I followed more blogs so I could read more, and then I get bummed that no one has posted anything new for me to read, and then I get bummed that I don't get that many comments on my posts.



O_o



Still with me?

It's just all so repetitive.



What's that? You want to know where my school work fits in to all of this? Simple. I'll let you in on a little studying secret.


Put your textbook next to your toilet.



Genius isn't it? Every time I'm in the bathroom - most likely pooping but sometimes Shake'n'Bake is bathing or something - I read for school. Then it's just a matter of finding a suitable nap time to do my tests when needed, and asking Boyfriend to mind the children while I do midterms or finals.


But I digress! Cabin Fever.


Have you ever wondered what Cabin Fever feels like?

Picture from here

In my case, cabin fever feels like you're in your twenties...trying to play with the same dollhouse...for weeks on end.

I can see all of the rooms in my house.

Pretty much at one time.

I'm either in the living room/kitchen area with the girls, the bathroom, or the big open space that is all of our bedrooms combined... and we tend not to play in the bathroom.


O_o


Hey! We played in the livkitchenroom all day yesterday. Let's play in the bedrooms today. And then the livkitchen tomorrow... and then the bedrooms the day after...

ARGH!

I'm going insane.


Coupled with an incredible ability to get tasks done quickly, most of my day is slow and painful.



This post is the first one that has taken me more than a day once I've started writing in Blogger.



Oh well, I guess this makes grocery shopping seem that much more epic!

Embrace The Penis

It's time for a rant.

WARNING!

This post talks about the penis.

I was just surfing the net, reading blogs, when I came across a blog in which one of the top ten posts that this person has written is a rant in which they tell all men that uncircumsized penises are disgusting and that they need to get snipped.

Are you f***ing serious?!?!

With all of the equality and respect that we demand from men, this person (and many people who commented) believes that all of the men in the world need to have their foreskins removed.



Now! It is one thing to have a personal preference...maybe even in some more risque blogs to share that preference with your followers (something that I find too intimate and uncomfortable to be discussing with my readers... in my opinion a penis is a penis is a penis is a penis) but IN NO WAY does anyone have the right to tell EVERY MAN in the world that having a foreskin is 'disgusting' or 'revolting' and that they need to have them 'snipped'.


As if men don't have it hard enough?


It is obvious (most of the time) the size of a woman's breasts. They hang out right in front of our chests, and although we cover them with clothing, they make their presence known.

A man hides his penis inside underwear and pants, and zipper bulges aren't any real indication of size. Especially not any indication of pro-non circumsized.

This blogger (I'm not going to name this person because I'm not interested in a blog-war, I just need to rant) writes that these 'types' of men should "come with an indicator", as if every uncircumsized man should wear a sign or a t-shirt that says 'comes with foreskin'.



This is disgusting.


I am so pissed off right now, you have no idea.





Image from here


People propagate certain stereotypes for the pros and cons of circumcision, but at the end of the day you need to do your own research.

Cosmetically, there should be NO DIFFERENCE. We shouldn't even discuss our men's penises (as if we are discussing the features on our cars). It is a private matter. I wouldn't want anyone to be talking about the size or shape of my vagina. My labia. Clitoris. Even my pubic hair-styling-preferences.

For the love of GOD! How can we expect men to be proud of their bodies if we propagate a stereotype that men are broken when they are born and need to be fixed.

There is a crapload of research for the medical sides of both arguments, but at the end of the day, when you remove a man's underwear, he obviously finds you attractive enough to be intimate.



Unless it has two heads, you should be excited that he wants to share it with you - period.

Happy New Year Filler!

Happy 2011!



I was so super busy over the holidays, and yet I still tried to write the "Festive Egg Nog" series to give everyone something to read, and then I took a few days off.

"dys·func·tion, what have you been doing?"

Great question!


Answer: Great Big Buttloads of NOTHING!



And it's been fantastic.




The day after we went to my Dad's house, Shake'n'Bake went to her dad's for an extended-holiday-weekend-visit and I proceeded to sit on my butt and try to flatten it.

Boyfriend and I have watched movies; finished a whole TV series (a gift from Brother); rearranged the girls' toys from Christmas and the addition of a new toybox; and we have gamed our faces off.

So, here I sit with no face (hahaha) and I figure it's high time for an update. To be honest, I am also waiting for a new game to finish downloading and Shake'n'Bake gets home in an hour or so, so this isn't going to be super long.




Boyfriend and I ordered Chinese food and had a couple of beers for New Year's. We watched the entire season of The Colony 2, and then gamed into the wee hours of the morning.

Yesterday was a Game Day, and we cycled between the computers and the PS3 playing various game-age alllllll day.

It was nice to be super lazy and relaxing because it's rare that Shake'n'Bake isn't home (and she is high energy) and I went back to school today, Boyfriend goes back next week.




I've just finished making the newest potty calendar for Shake'n'Bake to put stickers on every time she pees, and I've scanned a little something else to share with you.



Shake'n'Bake and I were colouring the other day, and I was just about to finish my epically-better-than-hers picture when I was robbed.



Robbed of having the best picture.

Look carefully at the bottom of this picture.

Underneath the closest car, the "Rainbow Highway" suddenly gains an extra lane! WTF?!

I had coloured red, then orange, then purple, then yellow, then blue, and as I was colouring green I noticed that there was a disturbance in the force.

Somehow, when the rainbow disappears from sight under the cloud car, the light beams split into another stripe of colour.

I was so mad, I quit.

Ragequit.



And for those of you who think I screwed up...you're wrong.

Here's a close up of the edge of the cloud car to prove that there was a black line indicating the outer edge of the purple, and that I didn't just move all the colours over one by mistake.

Yeah! You see that?!

Stupid CareBears.





Happy New Year!

Some Place Safe

I was recently searching for the box for my birth control pill.

It has all of the prescription information stickered to it, which includes the code thingy to have it refilled.

Over a month ago, I had taken my pill packet out of the box, put the packet in my purse (so I know where it is to take it every day) and then said to Boyfriend:

"I am going to put this here so I don't lose it."

And then I put the box there...some place safe...so I wouldn't lose it.




WELL, guess what happened.


That's right, I lost it!


I am Queen of putting things "Some Place Safe" and then having no idea where the hell I put them.


I am so mad and frustrated at this, particularily this incident because Splat was concieved when I was using 'back-up' birth control, that I have decided that I should create "Some Place Safe".


I am considering buying a rubbermaid container of sorts, and printing, then affixing this picture to it:

This is the inside of a piece of my furniture that Shake'n'Bake likes to fill with her toys.
Apparently my two year old mastered "Some Place Safe" before I did.

Then, I can put EVERYTHING that is important into the rubbermaid container, and when I go to retrieve said object in the future, I will know exactly where it is.

It will be "Some Place Safe".



And then I will stop losing things.

Is there "Some Place Safe" that you have to put all of your important things?

My Winter Anxiety

Back in early 2008 I got in a pretty devastating car accident caused by the awful weather conditions.

Everyone survived, and amazingly we were all basically unharmed.

I was pregnant with Shake'n'Bake.



It was well over a year until I drove again, and since that time I have had pretty bad anxiety about winter driving.

This sucks balls because I live in Canada.



Canada = Snow.



Well, I decided to pile the kids in the car and venture to the Walmart today to print my Christmas card photos because everyone wants pictures of my children, and I was almost hit by a truck!

This jerk turned left from a driveway into traffic, skipped the merging lane, and almost ran directly into me.

I had to brake and swerve to avoid being hit by this looney, and then I laid on my horn to tell him that he had done wrong.


But the damage was done.


Shaking, I turned the car around and drove home.



Christmas card photos are not worth dying for.

#1 Dad

I have tried and tried to make this post sound exactly the way I want it to. I have worried that the message will not be conveyed, or that someone will be offended unintentionally by it. I have debated taking the first section out so that no one attacks me for some poor story telling, but in the end, I have decided to post it as is and I just hope that you can understand the message that I am trying to get across, and not look too deeply into the fictitious stories I have written in the beginning.


From my heart,
dys·func·tion

Every day after work Tim would come home exhausted. He would pick up extra hours just to put food on the table; his desk was piled high with unpaid bills and red bank statements. Often he would take his dinner and collapse in his easy chair in the den where he would then doze off, crumbs plastered to his shirt. Carrie was only 14 years old, but she had gotten used to her father’s distance. She would walk home every day from school, scrape together a dinner, and try to do some homework. Her father had no idea she was failing English, or that last month she was suspended for smoking on school property. Any notes the school needed from her father were forged, any phone calls erased, any meetings never attended...

Chris sat on the couch with his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Nothing he could do could block out the screaming. He had to look; he had to make sure he wasn’t noticed. He watched him hit his mother. Later they would all sit down to dinner together and pretend that nothing had happened. Just like every other time. Chris was so angry at his mother. Why would she let this happen unless she deserved it? She always said she deserved it. Maybe his father was right...maybe women were nothing but trouble...

Do either of these stories sound like a good father to you?

Let’s try another one.

She was so nervous. It was her school’s first talent show and she had decided to sing a harmony with her friend, Jessie. She peeked through the curtains and saw him sitting there saving three seats. He saw her and waved back.

“Mom will be a little late,” he had said to her and Jessie before they went backstage, “she got held up at the dentist’s office with your sister but I know you and Jessie will do great! I brought the video recorder, so even if she misses the whole thing we’ll watch it over dinner tonight.”

“Okay, thanks Pete! Pizza for dinner right?” she asked.

“Of course! I’ve ordered your favourite and we picked up some popcorn for your sleepover tonight. See you girls after the show, break a leg!” He had returned to the gym to save seats for her Mom and sister when Jessie looked at her funny.

“You call him by his first name?!” she asked, obviously shocked.

“Well, I think it would sound funny to say ‘Thanks Stepdad’ all the time.”

OBVIOUSLY these three small snippets of writing cannot cover every type of father out there, or even come close, but the point that I’m trying to make lies in the last one.

In the past I have illustrated my kids’ family tree and I have shown how they each have different dads, and you may have noticed that neither one of them is Boyfriend.

This is what I see when I look at my family tree.

You may notice that there are just the four of us.

Boyfriend is my heart and soul and he does everything for my girls.

Boyfriend handles poopy diapers, reads stories, plays horsey/pillow fight/tickle/sing and dance/tea party. He pushes the stroller, carries the car seat, rents kid’s movies, and watches the girls while I do my school work. He says darn instead of damn, oh-my-goodness instead of holy crap, and has censored every other aspect of his speech and behaviour.

And why?

Did he have unprotected sex? Did he have birth control fail? Did he have a relationship that fell apart after there were children involved?

No.

He chose to become a father of two.

When Boyfriend and I started dating, we had a serious discussion about what a relationship between the two of us would entail, and I made it quite clear that I was not interested in the short term, or in being with someone who didn’t love children as much as I do because I had one daughter and I was pregnant with the next.

And he stayed.

He chose to become a father of two. He chose to become the “other man” in my exes’ eyes. Knowing that at least one of my girls will call him by his first name instead of Daddy, he chose to be a father to her anyways.

And what does he get for all of this? What lovely prize awaits him?

“They’re not your kids.”

For choosing to become a father, instead of donating some sperm and having the title thrust upon him, he gets to be constantly reminded for the rest of time that these two little girls are not his.

Here is what I have to say, and I hope that this makes a difference to somebody out there.

They ARE his children.

Maybe their genetic code is not part his, but their personalities are.

Their morals will be.

Their memories.

Boyfriend has put in more hours of fatherhood than most biological dads ever will.

By choice.

Please, if there is anyone in your life who has taken on a parent-role to children that are not biologically theirs, be considerate.

Boyfriend is the best man I have ever met in my life, and it hurts me every time someone says that they are not his.

As I know it hurts him.

If you know a story about someone who is in a similar situation and is doing a fantastic job, please let me know! I would love to do more posts about #1 Dads.