One reason for moving to Texas?

I really, really, really, really don’t like the cold.

So I wanted to live somewhere where it doesn’t snow.

Slight fail.

The snow started to fall around 10am.

Real, live snow, just like in books and movies! And then it settled. I was starting to worry we would be snowed in

Remember what I said before. No hats, no gloves, no galoshes. Not that I even have a clue what galoshes are, but I have read about them in books. I know that if you live in America, you need galoshes for going out in the snow. It is probably highly irresponsible to go out without them.

Which is why I preferred to stay indoors. Indoors was warm. Every five minutes I opened the door to take some brief video of the boys frolicking, and every ten minutes the boys would run in demanding a hot bath because they couldn’t feel their hands.

Baby Sister got out of school about 2pm. And then we built a snowman!

I didn’t grow up with snow either. By the time I encountered it I was too old and cool… so this was also my first snowman experience. I remembered how to build one from an old episode of Caillou (sometimes, I amaze even myself…)

Turns out though, there is a limit to how big you can roll a snowball with no gloves.

(The pain! The pain!)

And here’s a shot for perspective:

Awwww…. He’s small, but he’s sweet! And he’s all ours! At least… he was until he melted…

Well, it was great while it lasted. Big plus, the Daddy got to come home early before we would have had to bust out our snow chains. The kids demanded hot chocolate (where oh where did they learn so much about snow? That would be Caillou again. Honestly, does it ever not snow in Canada?) so The Daddy risked his life driving through the snowdrifts to get some.

By 3pm it was all over. And now we are left with only sweet memories.

Oh, and a garden full of dead plants.

Alert! Alert!

Zaburbs have moved to Condition Orange! Severe Weather Conditions are forecast for Friday, and school may be shortened, or even canceled.

Tell me what is better than a White Christmas? A White Christmas, early, with no school.

Yes folks, up to 1 inch of snow should be falling on us by this time tomorrow. How I wish now that I had given in to the temptation to stock up on hats and gloves from the Target $1 section.

Which brings me to something very much related. Does the whole of America give a simple hoodie the very warm and fluffy sounding monniker “Jacket” ? Or is it just Texas? My children have this type of jacket but that is all they got. Also, no hats or gloves.

One girl-scoutish thing I did do though. I got the furnace checked this fall, for the first time ever. I thought the price was a bit steep but better safe than sorry, after all these things do spew out noxious gases at will if left unchecked. Then, when the technician ascended to the attic to check the thing he announced that the furnace had multiplied. Or invited its friend to the party or something. Our furnace was now two.

And the maintenance bill also. Ouch.

I am smiling about it now though. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Serious Explanation About Crossing The Road, as Imparted Seriously to My Children, in a Very Serious Fashion :

(abridged version):

“Once, when I was a little girl, Grandpa was crossing the road and he didn’t look properly for traffic. A car ran him over and he fell on the road and had blood coming out of his head! He was very hurt and had to go to hospital. This is why you must always look carefully for cars when you cross the road. I don’t want you to get hurt and end up in hospital.Or worse.”

“Why was he crossing the road, Mommy?”

“Um… well actually we were on a road trip and he was crossing the road to go peepee behind some bushes”.

What My Children Have Retained:

Three Year Old: (Deep, gruff voice) “Hello, I am Granpa! I like to go peepee in the bushes!”

Seven Year Old: “Why Did Granpa Cross the Road? To go peepee in the bushes!”

(Cue mass hysteria)

Our Tooth Fairy has to be the worst tooth fairy ever.

A few weeks ago, I woke up at 6am with a horrible feeling that maybe she had forgotten my little boy and he would be horribly disappointed. Unfortunately as I was sliding my hand under his pillow to confirm whether or not the Tooth Fairy had, in fact, paid him a visit, he woke up. Briefly. He didn’t seem to remember this in the morning, but if it all comes out later during regressive therapy you know who I will be blaming.

Then - don’t ask me how I know this but I do - last night around midnight the Tooth Fairy was idly browsing Etsy when she clicked on Owly Shadow Puppets (one of my personal faves and obviously she likes them too) and happened to catch sight of the Tooth Fairy Puppet. It was only then that she remembered she was supposed to be at work and flitted off to collect teeth from all the boys and girls. Whew. Close call.

It’s just lucky that our Tooth Fairy is so generous or I would fire her on the spot. You see, it seems other people’s tooth fairies have not been keeping track of inflation and are still giving out 50c coins, which is approximately what I used to get in 1978. If I had known this from the beginning I would probably have hired a cheaper winged wonder but it’s a little late now.

So. A math quiz for you.  Each of my three children presumably has 20 deciduous teeth. Each of those teeth is worth $5.00. How much money will the tooth fairy have to fork out altogether?

*Thunk*  *Crash*

(That’s the sound of the Tooth Fairy fainting).

I have decided that the only way I can get this blogging show back on the road is to be short and to the point.

I know you are all hanging out for some serious, in-depth news so I will give you this:

The mosquito which I squashed this morning as it was making a meal of my arm.

To clarify: those are inches.

Yes, apparently time does fly, I blinked twice (or maybe twitched my nose, just a little) and it seems two weeks have passed…

We have been occupying ourselves with the usual things. Playdates, pool, a little TV, the occasional outing, ( plus a fair amount of “Mommy is working, why don’t you kids go and play” ) …

And then, one day there was this:

I bow my head in shame. I allowed all three of my children to watch Coraline.

(Although I blame The Daddy - he paid good money for it and I just wasn’t about to let it go to waste. Was I ?)

I wouldn’t recommend you try this at home. I think something is wrong with my kids. Instead of being traumatized (as I was) all they did was clamor to make dolls with button eyes. I was feeling soft, and also as if - on a scale of 1 to 10 of mothers who keep their kids home all 2.5 months of summer vacation and singlehandedly entertain them -  I probably, at that moment, deserved a 0.

So I gave up a (don’t laugh) whole day of my life (well, I have never made a doll before) in an effort to redeem myself. I truly believe that with this project I did just that. And also, I will be reminding them of it until I am 102.

So. Dolls. Of course, the kids weren’t the ones doing the making. I got out my old sewing machine, which I don’t think has had an outing in a couple of years or so, and got down to it. I gave them old pillowcases to draw on:

and then I just sewed vaguely around the shapes:

stuffed them:

and did my childrens’ bidding as they chose eyes, facial features and hair.

I have been surprised. They made these dolls in their own image (except - I hope - The Wictor) and unlike the hundreds of Barbies and action figures littering the place, they seem to be loving these to bits.

Me? I am still exhausted. Somebody send reinforcements!

Ahh yes, that would be Aunty Natty, who arrives Saturday. I think I will leave her to it, and sleep for two weeks

So I have been called out by a surprising number of people for my long blogging absence. Actually, I have been posting, over at Century Finds. And running a non-stop personal blog commentary in my head, not that it does much good swirling around in there. Oh, and also DIY. I wish I could stop doing DIY but it is kind of an obsession. Right now I want to coat everything in brightly colored Rustoleum, and fix the leaky faucets (not difficult, unless you need to turn the water off at the mains and are just not strong enough).

Also, The Wictor turned three and started channeling Johnathan Adler. He demanded I paint his room orange. And yes, echoes of the dining room, after three weeks I am about halfway through.

But mostly, it takes a lot to try and expand a fledgling retail business in the current environment, while maneuvering to keep three young children from killing each other from boredom or frying their brains with a TV screen. I have to admit I just can’t keep up with the all the demands and something has to give.

I am sure it will all straighten out sometime, like oh when that yellow bus restarts its regular runs through the neighborhood… In the meantime, for your amusement and entertainment, here is a list of all the things which have broken around here in the last few weeks.

The downstairs air conditioning unit (compressor)

My car (battery harness which sounds very impressive but is actually two skinny $300 cables which in turn fried the battery.)

Big toe on my left foot (via a full gallon of apple juice)

Washers on five faucets

The sprinkler system (Just add horses)

The DVD player

My relations with my web hosting company

The freezer is making a whining noise too, and when I googled “my freezer is making a whining noise” the general opinion seemed to be “get a new freezer”. So goodbye, holiday on the French Riviera.

Looking at that list, I should be depressed. But how can I be sad when I spend my days with such fascinating individuals?

For the last few days Baby Sister and I have been discussing Death. As you may know I am fairly superstitious so I am not at all comfortable with this. I am probably also breaking every parenting rule in the book.  I did try to cheat by playing the reincarnation card, which worked for a short while (she decided she would come back as a unicorn) but she is way too clever for me.

At least now we have established that Baby Sister would not enjoy being cremated. And:

“Mommy, when there is no more room in the cemetery, do they dig the dead people out?”

My answer: “Dig them out? Oh, where did you hear that sweetheart? Do you want nutella on your toast?” .

Yes, I lie to my children sometimes. By default. If it buys me an extra hours peace…

And now, The Wictor. He is really coming into his own. Apart from managing his bedroom interior design project, The Wictor appears to enjoy fashion.

And he has perfected this seasons Maison Wictor look:

Or would this be his new signature style?

And just to prove I didn’t decorate him while he was asleep, here is another:

Forget Johnathan Adler, he may be the next Grayson Perry.

(Why so many photos of The Wictor? Because he turns out to also be a real media wh*re. He wants his photo taken … like … all the time. )

Meanwhile, The T-Bot has been conducting psychological experiments on the cat. It turns out Fiji either has ADHD or is terribly indecisive, because he refused to point his nose in the right direction twice. Yes, no, yes, no, and he wouldn’t cooperate even for treats. Or maybe he is in control here and is just messing with the T-Bot’s mind.

The T-Bot gave up on the animal in the end. He has been keeping himself busy this summer with Legos, science experiments, and jewelry design.

Also, his already overactive imagination has gone into overdrive. I made a little montage of all the friends he has invited to stay, all at the same time. They are all sleeping in the T-Bot’s room and eating me out of house and home. They come down in the morning, pushing and squabbling and expect me to make space around the breakfast table. Chowder especially does not get on with Chomper (possibly not pictured, because I can’t tell those dinosaurs apart)  and the T-Bot is worried that having Bumblebee around might attract stray Decepticons, which quite frankly makes me worry too

I asked the T-Bot to make them go away, but he says they like it here.

So now do you see why I haven’t had time to post?

As my children grow up I am finding myself having to deal with some tough situations. Do children grow old before their time these days? When I was 10 years old my mother was still dressing me in frilly dresses and wouldn’t let me chew bubble gum. Last summer we were at the pool and there was a baby in the pool, chewing gum. A baby, too young to walk! I am not making this up.

So, we were driving along the other week when suddenly Baby Sister announced that I was going to be a grandmother. Luckily I had eaten that morning and had my wits about me so it did not take me long to remember that she is 5. Turned out she was talking about the future, when I am really old (because I am already old), and she will be living in San Francisco, but she will still love me and will send me postcards. And she will have a baby girl.

Phew. That’s OK then.

But the next thing out of her mouth? She wanted to be go to cheer camp and learn to be a cheerleader.

No harm in that, surely? I can indulge my little angel and sign her up for cheer camp right now! But … it’s just … I didn’t grow up with cheerleaders except as the ditzy sidekicks on American sitcoms, and in my mind cheerleading is on somewhere on a par with pageants. Harmless, but … OMG will they make her wear pancake makeup?

Then we were at the park and mysteriously all my friends had to leave for one fancy engagement or another (or because their toddlers had pooped their pants). And that’s when it all kicked off. First Baby Sister came running up to me, all breathless, to tell me she had a boyfriend, although she didn’t know his name because she couldn’t understand when he said it, she thought it was a funny name! I asked him and his name was Billy. So off she went to play on the big tire with Billy, and Billy’s Mom, complicit in the whole thing, pushing them while they twirled and laughed.

Next the T-Bot came running up chased by two girls who he insisted were called Annie and Oakley and I thought how sophisticated for 7 year olds to give false names. Except that later, as we were leaving, one of them came running up to us and thrust a piece of paper into his hand with her name and phone number and it did indeed say Oakley. Although come to think of it, it may also have been a false number. Sigh. Girls are so worldly wise these days.

So the next morning the T-Bot came to me with his little scrap of paper and asked to put it on the fridge for safe keeping. With an extra strong magnet. I obliged, probing casually, “do you think you might call her?”.

(Not wanting to be an interfering parent here but is seven too young to date?)

Well, Mommy” he said ” It’s just in case I do need to talk to her”. He thought a little more. “Maybe I could call her another day”.

“Yeah T-Bot” piped up Baby Sister “When you get a cellphone!”

The Future. Maybe more than I can handle.

Happy 4th! Have a Great Weekend!

I tried to distract the kids from all the amazing and not-to-be-missed programs on Saturday morning TV by taking them to a garage sale around the corner. The T-Bot got a snorkel. The Wictor got a plastic killer whale. But Baby Sister hit the jackpot. For $3 she came away with a whole box of 1980s and 90s Barbie clothes and furniture. One original owner.

Baby Sister is always asking me to tell the True Story of how when I was little I only had one (1) Barbie, which wasn’t even a Barbie, it was a Daisy doll. But since there was only one Barbie model available and my sister also had to have one… Yes, I was that seriously deprived growing up, so it is no surprise that the moment Baby Sister’s back was turned, I couldn’t help myself:

First I spied a Baywatch outfit and I just had to see what it looked like on.

Oh. Nasty flashbacks to every single time I try on swimwear. Although she looks fairly resigned to having ELEPHANTINE THIGHS.

I am all for the campaign for real bodies for Barbie, but it does raise the problem of what do we do with all those tiny 1970s/80s clothes.

In the end I had to turn to circa 1981 Barbie and her spendiferous figure to model for me. She actually managed to pull it on pull it off.

Wow. Doesn’t she look natural?

And then I spent a blissful 15 minutes picking outfits for these girls. Many are Designer Clothing,  by Ken himself, who was obviously a Fashion Ace for a while before he went back to being a Beach Bum.  Mostly dresses because although some of the pantsuits were rad! and hip! they wouldn’t fit over any of the new Barbies knees.

Ken, you have a lot to answer for.

Now, smile for the camera ladies!

Don’t they look lovely?

The worst part is there is still half a box of clothes left.

And the lime green fluro mini skirts and acid-washed denim jackets are calling to me.