Parenting- A tale to insanity and back again

An inaudible laugh that is small and weak escapes my lips. It is there to remind me that insanity comes in all shapes and sizes. I push it back down to the depths of wherever it came from because for now I have no time for such lunatics.

I wipe the non-existent dust off my pants, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door. Sometimes I find myself hiding in that place just for a few moments solace. I tell myself that next time I will bring in scrubbing supplies to clean the dastardly habitat, but I never do.

“Maaaaama” the word clings to me and however much I adore the title, now, right here- I simply fear what my summoning is for. I slowly, oh so slowly walk towards the call. “Sister peed her pants again.”

With each word burning into me I can feel the uprising of the insanity once more. It bubbles in a place I can’t quite reckon, yet I know it is there always with me, always ready. The smell hits me as soon as it can, with a vengeance that seems to whisper menacingly in my ear about my failure as a potty trainer.

“I TRIED DAMMIT!  I TRIED!” I want to shout to the world. To the people who have never had to deal with regression and the childless adults who look at me with sideways glances when I enter their vicinity smelling of stale urine. “I TRIED!” Obviously not hard enough… The voice says. I do not let it say another word to me before I stuff it down to the dismal abyss of the same place I hide the insanity.

I scrub the pungent smell out of a stained carpet and think about how easy it would be to allow myself to fall over that teetering edge into the grips of madness.

I no longer daydream of mojitos and sunset beaches. Instead I find myself fantasising of padded cream colored walls, the security of strait jackets and tranquilizers that deem fruity beverages child’s play by comparison.

The girl child walks up to me casually, she does not look to have ill will intentions but asks for a chocolate treat in a singing kind of way. I tell her no, because dinner will soon be served. The look of pure loathing she fires back at me provides a tingle of dread throughout my entire body and I wonder, momentarily if she has the ability to shoot fire from her eyeballs.

The small human being then moves to turn away from me, but before she does, in a voice that is trifling and unnatural says, “I hate you Mama.”

A torrent of emotion sweeps through me. Anger- that I have allowed these words to be spoken in my home. Sadness- despite my knowledge of her uneducated vocabulary. And revenge. But how does one get revenge on a three year old that they love dearly?

My eyeballs quickly fill up with liquid, but again I push them back, deep down to the area I’ve sanctioned off for the insanity and the ominous voices in my head. I cannot let them see me cry. I am stronger, I am brave and I will fight on.

I tell the tiny one, who now runs around pant-less because she has soiled herself yet again to go spend some time in her bedroom. I explain why the words she has spit towards me are unacceptable in this home. She pretends to hear me, but I see her gaze every now and again shift to shiny things around the room. Things that undoubtedly are more interesting than her crazed mother.

I want to move towards the bathroom, my asylum. I want to sit there and cry that ugly uninhibited kind of cry. I want to smuggle in the telephone and call husband who will make things better I am sure of it. But I do none of these things. I am Mother, I am strong.


So instead I think about the possibility of parenthood. Possibly at times everyone has these innate feelings of insanity. These impractical notions that everyone they meet is judging them. That palpable sensation of underachievement.

There is a knock on the bathroom door. I don’t know when I made my way back to this place, but I find myself sitting on the toilet pretending to pee. The children and husband walk in. They do not recoil when they see me sitting there and I realize that privacy has become a distant memory.

They hug me. They tell me they love me, and I know that they mean it. It is now that I cannot recall where it is that I’ve placed my troubles, and in its place I remember what the power of unrelenting love can do.

I hug them back, and I wonder why I am in the bathroom in the first place.


How I Became a Bodyguard

I am Mother. Bodyguard. Defender of children, preserver of all things innocent.

Since giving birth to my babes, I have pandered to this horrible tendency of imagining the worst. I foresee dreadful things happing to my children, like them falling out of a second story window because of their incessant need to lean on that thin screen. I visualize them getting hit by a speeding car because they did not look both ways before crossing the street. I think that every human being is a baby snatcher and on the hunt for my babies.

It is sick really. But unluckily at this time in my life it is a  norm that I have just learnt to deal with.

When one of these heinous thoughts come to mind, I quickly remedy the situation by any means necessary,  to place my spinning stressed out mind at ease.

I’ve duct taped all of the screens in my home and lectured the kids on why this habit of theirs is so dangerous.

I’ve instilled in them with a burning passion on how we MUST look both ways when crossing any street. How the big bad cars cannot see them, and how it would hurt and how they would have to go to the hospital if they ran out into the street without looking.

This last one I fear may be something that will mentally harbour away in Lars’ little mind.  As of recently when the boy crosses the street I can literally see his stress levels rising to a point in which a 4 year olds should not be at. He scurries across that street frantically looking side to side the whole way across, all the while screaming feverishly at his sister, “HURRY SOPH, HURRY UP!”

And then I must contend with all the other humans that I share this world with.

The other humans that I no longer trust. The other humans that I fear are eyeing my kids up and planning on stuffing them in a black duffle bag and taking them away from me never to be seen again. I hate these humans with a passion beyond my comprehension. Unfortunately I cannot be sure, which humans they are. So in the end, clearly I must assume that ALL humans, are these humans.

It makes for awkward small talk, believe me.

Being a parent is so hard.

HA! What a simple statement, and as I write it I think it looks lame to eye and uneducated. But I will leave it lay, as the more I stare at these few words, the more I see their truth, their depth.

I want to be the best Mother I can be to these two people I care so unconditionally for. I want them to experience the world for what it is, but I have this unyielding anxiety in the inner most instinct part of my brain, to shelter them from all that is dark in this place.

And in the end I realize that I cannot save them from every heartache that will come their way or bad scene that they will undoubtedly come upon.

But for now, I will walk beside them instead of in front. I will hold their hand. I will go to whatever lengths possible to give them all the tools they may need for when that day comes when they no longer want me to be their bodyguard.

And when that day does finally come, because as sure as my love for them, I know it will come; I will let them think they are on their own.

Yet whether they know it or not, I will always protect them…The key is, learning how to do it discreetly.

Because the work of a Motherly Bodyguard is never through.

Black Eyed Children Hypothetical’s

Today, my Sister-in-law Ashley was over for a visit. As we sat on my smoldering hot deck and watched the children play in their paddling pool, our conversation took a turn….A turn in which we will never be able to backtrack from.  A turn, that will haunt me for days to come.

You see Ashley and I, from the time we were young, have always been terrified yet, strangely intrigued by the super natural…scary kind of stuff. And for some reason, continue into adulthood to challenge our terror with these crazy hypothetical’s towards each other in regards to anything frightening.

So my wonderful friend, decides to bring to my attention, this Urban Legend about little children that show up unannounced at your door or car window asking to be let in.

Hey they’re afraid, cold, scared of course you would let a kid in right?…


Like seriously something is going on there, if even the white’s of their eyes are black right?

And in this Legend it says that these ‘demon’ children will appear asking for solace in your home. If you let them in? Well basically, I’m assuming you’re done for.

Unfortunately I do not have a link for you, to read more about this myth, because quite frankly it creeps me out way too much to delve any deeper into researching the issue.

But in Ashley and mines morbid sense of conversation, this is the hypothetical that somehow progressed between us;

Lindsay: Okay, Throwing a hypothetical your way…The hour is Midnight.

Pitch Black.

You hear a child crying outside on your back deck. You look through the blinds and standing there is what looks like Lars and Sophie.  They even sound like Lars and Soph…

Only difference; Their eyes are completely black! Duh Duh Duh (This is my attempt at scary soundtrack music)

They are crying to you, almost in a melodic tune, ‘Auntie Ash-uh-leeee pweease let us in, we are cold and scared…We loveeee you.”

Ashley: Good question, I enjoyed your enthusiasm in the soundtrack…

My answer is simple;

I’d call you and tell you your children are standing on my back deck.

Then when you came to get them, they would be at your car window waiting for you, and asking to be let in! DUN DUN DUN (obviously a better soundtrack)

Lindsay: Great answer…Very clever thinking on your part.

Ashley: So the question now lies with you.

Imagine you have sent the kids to a sitters house for the night, to get some down time.

So…The kids could possibly be at my house, having escaped from the sitters. Or they could be at the sitters, snuggled cozily in their temporary beds.

Do you let them into your car?

You call the sitter at the late hour and no answer, possibly out looking for your children or…in bed, knowing your children are safe in bed upstairs.

Because just to let you know, I certainly wouldn’t be letting them in. I’d throw them a blanket and tell them you are on your way to get them…Bottom line, I’m not taking any chances!

Lindsay: Hmmm, this is difficult.

Honestly in the heat of the moment, I’m sure I would let them in without even noticing their eyes. I would be so distressed that they were in the street in the middle of the night.

I don’t think I could turn away my own kids, even if they were only demon images of my kids…It would just seem too much like them!

But I suppose that is just the risk you run, when you have kids…Unable to ignore scary as hell demon creatures, that happen to be your children’s look-a-like.

Ashley: You’re a better Mama than I’d ever be!!!!

So,  you just have let the demon children into your vehicle…

When you suddenly get a call from the sitter, that has finally woke up to your obsessive calling. She tells you she is looking right at your children sleeping in her home….

Lindsay: Oh I would bail, I would bail out of that moving car so fucking fast it would make their little demon heads spin!


But, that’s only if I’m not already getting the life force sucked out of me, by treacherous Satan spawns. I’m under the impression that they more than likely work fast…Little bastards!

Several moments of silence

Ashley: This rant of our is becoming a blog post isn’t it?

Lindsay: Yes, Ashley…Yes it is.

A Quickly Declining Kind of Day

Ahhh, indulging myself in a big ol’ hunk of chocolate mint fudge, whilst sipping a glass of wine and about to turn on the new season of Arrested Development on Netflix.

Today was tough.

Today, was one of those days, where you want to go and find a deep dark cavern to hide away in; smoke millions of cigarettes, drink thousands of alcoholic beverages,  cuss without thinking twice and pretend you are 21 again. Today was undeniably one of those days.

I must admit it started out fabulous, too good to be true really. I should have known, but hey I was in too much of a damn euphoric mood to notice anything out of the ordinary this day of wakening.

Why, you ask, was I in such a super duper fantabulous place in my life when I woke up this morning?

Yesterdays Blog post, ‘How Do I Tell Him’ went over very well in my modest social media networking circa, and that made me feel rather lovely, and it somehow jump started my verve for anything joyous once more.

Yay for me.

In fact I was feeling so  wonderful, that I packed up the children and we went to the beach. This too, went spectacularly well and as we drove home after our 4 hours of splishy slpashing in tepid water, and building sand castles of monstrous proportions, I thought to myself,

“I don’t think anything could ruin this day. This day, is one of the best days ever!”

Maybe it was the heat that had gotten to me, maybe it was the endorphin rush I had been playing off all morning, but as soon as I reflected the statement I regretted it.

It was almost as if the wee ones, that were strapped into their car seats feet behind me, read my mind, and BOOM!

Goodbye marvellous, GLORIOUS day….Hello torment and tribulation.

The male child was now fervently kicking the back of my seat. Spitting out the mantra, ‘I wanna Freezie, I wanna Freezie…’

Sophie joins in.


This statement threw the two of them for a loop, but only for a moment, they are very resilient for their age category I feel.

“Um Mama, there’s a store right there, maybe you go get us something from there…” This was not a question that came from the four years old, but more of a statement, and a unabashed one at that.

“No.” It was the kind of ‘no’ that a mother can be proud of. The kind that only the one word, due to its tone, is sufficient.

And it was, and I prided myself inwardly.

Upon arriving home, the children finally got their freezie since hey, at least they were quiet for the last part of the trip. I then set to the task of cleaning up.

They were weary, so I popped in a movie and let them be.

Well that was, until I spotted the little princess potty, that a wonderful neighbor of mine gave to Sophie to assist us in our potty training adventure rollercoaster.

“Sophieeee,” I conjure up one of my chirpiest  Mommy voices, “How about we try out the potty that Brooklyn gave you? Do you want to be a big girl like your friends?” The tone of my voice sickens even me.


This too was a ‘no’ one could be proud of. But not for its cool and collected manner as mine was earlier, but for its loud, shrieking, undeniably desolate, ear piercing nature.

Clearly the girl did not want to sit on this princess potty.

I pressed.

“Come on baby, if you pee on the potty, you will get a treat.” Bribery, enough said.

‘Well I do love treats, and you know, all my friends are doing this potty thing. Maybe I will give it a shot. Yes…I will sit on that potty, and I SHALL BE VICTORIOUS!’ My imaginings of what my two year old is thinking at this moment.

Three hours my friends…Three whole hours go by, without a single drop of piddle in that princess potty. Although, it held Barbie heads at some point along with the hidden crust of a PBJ and Lars decided to take a spin on the thing. Yet sadly no Sophie pee ever rested within its pink plastic bowl.

I began making dinner, as I had had enough with the potty training for one day, but with a whim of hope decided not to put the girls diaper back on, thinking she just might surprise me and take the initiative and go on her own.

Oh she took the initiative, she took the initiative by removing all of my books off the bookshelf, heaping them into an astonishing pile of; Auel, Brown, Tolkien, Frost and so many more  and relieved her three hour dry stint upon my favorite authors work, all within a matter of minutes.

I wince to think back upon it.

The rest of the evening was much the same as the previous, with the exception of Television sounds and anything joy filled in regards to my darling daughters activity list.

Her and I sat on the floor and wiped up her pee puddles off the many books I have collected over the years and I cried silent tears of contrition, for not visualizing this calamity in the making.

I fear the urine smell will linger.

I hope that soon she will be victorious (her words not mine) in her potty training endeavour, but only time and patients will tell…And hopefully no more literature will become her victim in the process.

But I will tide myself over for now, with Fudge, Wine, Arrested Development and the knowledge that never again, will I jinx myself by even thinking the phrase;

‘I don’t think anything could ruin this day.’

Because in the end,  peed upon hardbacks, are most definitely a downer to a quickly declining kind of day.

Thank God I’m Not The Only One!

There has been many a time, when I look upon my children and eagerly wonder what goes on in those tiny brains. What kind of thought process do they use, and where in the depths of their mind do they come up with some of the insane acts they display.

Sometimes it seems they do these crazy things, simply to assist me in growing a thicker skin. They are forever deciding to engage their disgustingness in the utmost of public places, leaving me to stumble and stutter my way out of these rickety situations.

I have become quite versed in my way of dealing with their communal oddness, and for that I am quite proud.

Unfortunately at times, disciplinary words will fail me. Whether this be out of panic because the situation crept up on me too quickly or I am at a loss for words because this new faucet of weirdness is just a little too far over the edge.

Yesterday, was one of these times.

The three of us are gliding through the produce passageway. Lars is walking beside the cart because he has all too soon realized that he is much too big to ride in a cart like a ‘Baby’.  (And there goes the days of easy grocery shopping)

Sophie thankfully hasn’t followed suit with her brother and is still happy to ride, but goes the complete opposite direction and insists on riding in one of the carts that have the infant car-seat type holder attached to it. I try to explain that this is for babies, and she should sit in the normal type of cart that big kids sit in…After some struggle I digress, because in the end it just isn’t worth it.

I do however give a fleeting thought to the woman who will come in 20 minutes later with thoughts of grandeur and groceries only to find there is no appropriate cart  to put her 2 month old in, because my 2 year old was adamant and unruly.

Oh well, not much I can do about it now I think with sanguinity.

So as we walk/run/slither along, I notice some of the Wal-Mart patrons looking at us with a funny sort of stare. I am about to pipe up and ask them if their mothers ever taught them any kind of manners, when I realize what these strangers are in fact, staring at.

It happens almost in slow-mo. I look at Sophie who is laughing her hearty belly laugh and looking down towards her brother. I follow her gaze and see Lars…My Lars, the child I am raising, the child I have taught and  trained, fervently licking the thick metal mesh of the Wal-Mart shopping cart.

My first reaction is an over exaggerated gagging motion. I then, in a loud hissing whisper say, “That is so disgusting…Stop it!”

The children both start laughing. Their cries of glee are currently drilling holes into my psyche, and I am at a loss. Maybe it is my imagination, I truly hope it is, but I can feel the other humans in the store staring at me. And I dare not look towards any of them, in fear I will have to indulge these strangers with some sort of explanation. So I say nothing more, I continue on with our shopping.

We have made it to the dairy section and I am checking  a pack of eggs, with my back turned to the babes when I hear an unfamiliar voice speaking towards my children’s general direction.

“Oh little boy…That cart has a lot of germs on it. You shouldn’t be putting your mouth on it.”

God please give me strength to deal with this situation in a polite and acceptable manner.

“Lars I told you not to do that, it is really icky poo!” I turn my attention to the older woman who has took it upon herself to discipline my child, “I don’t know why he keeps doing this…” My tone is pathetic and I am hoping she will just give me a sympathetic smile and go on her way.

No such luck.

“Well maybe he’s hungry.”

Maybe he is Hungry? What the hell kind of kid do you think I have lady? What? He realizes that is tummy rumbles and thinks it will suffice to suck out any kind of sustenance this cart will provide?!

I am appalled at this quick comeback from the 70 something year old woman and cannot hold back my next response.

“No ma’am I am sure it’s just that he is a 4 year old boy and doesn’t understand the repercussions of what he is doing. I so appreciate your concern, but I will be able to take it from here.” I peel off with Sophie squirming in her infant seat and Lars still drooling all over the fucking cart.

Now I suppose to you confrontational people this may seem like a very passive statement to say to the ol’ hag, but to me, I am reeling inside. Indignity takes me over and I have to force myself ahead, so not to run back towards the woman and apologize for my hasty response.

By the time we finish our expedition, I have told Lars to remove his mouth from the cart several more times, and Sophie to stop copying him.

I am at the end of my rope and am wondering why the concept of germs is so difficult for my son to catch on to. We wait in line at the till, and I keep a vigil on the children assuring that they do not begin their quest for nourishment via cart eating while we are in this abundant area.

This is when I look to the line beside me and see a young mother with three children. I shudder inwardly because if I thought two were difficult, I can’t even imagine three.  The one that looks as though he would be the age between the other two, is perched much the same way as Lars was on our grocery trip; holding on to the side of the cart.

The mother looks down at him and in much the same kind of hissing way as I, says; “Don’t not do it Jacob!”

That is when the kid looks up at her with a mischievous grin, and licks the cold metal of the cart with a vengeance.

And all I could do was give the woman a knowing smile and think, ‘Thank God I’m not the only one!’

Happy belated six-month anniversary to The Blogging Mama!

It has been well over 6 months since the debut of ‘The Blogging Mama’. It all started out as a few text messages I would send to my good friend Janelle at random times, reciting odd and amusing things that would happen to me throughout the day.

‘So I am brushing my teeth (and the damn sink is plugged again) and I emit into a sink full of water, then a big ol’ ball of spitty toothpaste recoils back up at me and lands directly in my left eye…It is currently still burning.’

Now whether she just got tired of receiving long random texts every so often she finally offered the idea, for me to start a blog.

I didn’t really even know what a blog was.

But I went and did my research, found a little blog site named ‘WordPress’ and started writing.

And boy oh boy an I ever glad I did. Over this half year span I have wrote 52 posts for my lovely readers to read…And they do read, which is pure awesomeness! Since sometimes, I even wonder what the point to my ramblings are.

I feel like I have made some friends through WordPress, which is also pretty awesome. It is simply amazing to me that you can become close to complete strangers, who simply have the love of writing and verve for telling stories, in common with you.

What a wonderful thing!

The best thing about blogging is that I can exercise my love of the written word daily, not that I post daily, but I read others blogs at least once a day and have learned much in doing so!

So to commemorate the beginning, here is the first post from The Blogging Mama!

(notice how I simply copy and pasted for you viewing convenience)  




A Morning to Remember

Posted on November 20, 2012 by lyndzeerae27

I have engaged in many avenues of employment in my life, from cashier, to housekeeper to telephone operator…The list could simply go on and on. Yet, not until the moment I found out there was an embryo implanted in my uterus did I know the meaning of laborious work.

There comes a point in life when one must STOP, sit back, and glance at the situation you have been given, then chose the wisest road to drag your tired body down.

I would love to start the story with “It was a wonderful October morning, the air was crisp and I was feeling buoyant…” Instead; It was a bitter, god awful morning. I woke up to a massive sodden spot smelling of urine on one side of me and my husband sleeping soundly on the other side. What the hell happened here, was my first reaction in my sleep deprived state. That’s when I noticed the Scooby doo blanket resting ever so gently across my left foot. My 4 year old son must have woke up at some point in the night to simply make his way into my bed, lay 2 inches away from me, pee, and then wander back to his superbly dry urine free sanctuary.


I glance at the clock, making my best effort not to grace the cold wet spot with my bare thigh, unsuccessful. 5:30 A.M. Alright let’s do this. I will not let this ruin my day, I say to myself in an desperately optimistic voice.

After 3 cups of smoldering coffee, I am beginning to feel a bit more like myself so I decide to shower and get ready for the day. After all my husband, Jamie will be awake soon and god knows those sheets are going to need to get off the bed soon.

The panic of whether I had remembered to put the mattress protector on last time I changed the sheets crept in, but I managed to ward it off with the thought of a nice warm shower and maybe even some make-up today to conceal the treacherous bags that were beginning to encompass the entirety of my cheekbones. The shower did feel nice, I daydreamed of a time when I wouldn’t have to daydream in the shower.

“Mamaaaa, I awake, you get me cereal please.” And it begins.

“Yes baby, let me just get out of the shower and I will get you some cereal.” Of course this would not be the end of the conversation,

“Mama, I hungry now!” As I jump out of the shower throw my robe on and exit out of our on-suite bathroom, I see my husband, still sound asleep. In the dry part of the bed no less. I feel as if I could take that beside lamp and just…

”MAMA I HUNGRY!” OK, OK no daydreaming out of the shower, I know the drill.

Both kids awake, husband awake. Sheets in the wash. Things are going smooth. Jamie does the usual dad thing and plays with the babies before he leaves for work. Regardless of how frustrated I get, he is a wonderful father.

This gives me the opportunity to make myself look like a human being by caking on the foundation and mascara until I literally look like a different woman. And for this small reward I am thankful.

Jamie gives us all hugs and kisses and wishes us a good day, the kids are occupied at the moment, so I decide to take the opening to make a call to my best friend for our long-established daily coffee chat.

5 minutes I had been on the phone, when I felt a familiar tingling in my nostrils. When I say tingling I mean burning sensation that would offend anyone who is not well versed in the parental condition. I knew it must be bad, it never stinks this much when it is confined in the diaper. I tell my friend I need to let her go.

I don’t know how long this will take.

I take it slow, there is no use rushing into these things, I know what I am up against here. At first I see nothing, then my son rushes me, yelling in a tongue that I can’t quite make out. He’s pointing and screaming and all I can recognize is him yelling my daughter’s name ‘Sophie’ while the Thomas The Train theme song plays joyfully in the background.

He motions toward the computer chair, and I spot a pudgy little leg sticking out. Except, it does not wear the pink leggings I had dressed it in this morning, but instead a thick brown that somewhat resembles sludge.

“NO, NO, NO.” It is all I can bring myself to say as I frantically begin to search for the diaper in question.

Where could it be?

The computer chair will need a complete overhaul after I get her cleaned up, I think for a brief moment.

That’s when I saw it, violently shoved under the desk, hidden away from disciplinary eyes. Its contents destroying the one piece of clean carpet I could still speak of.

Keep it together Lindsay, keep it together.

I pick up Sophie clean her off, calmly make my way to the cupboard with the cleaning supplies, pick out the tools for the job and make my way back to the computer desk.

I clean up that poop with grace and dignity, because that’s what Mothers do, we do what we have to do…Because that’s what our Mothers did, and when we became Mothers, that’s what they taught us.

I was doing okay, until the door rang. A little girl selling Chocolates. YES! I could use some chocolate right now!

I run to my change jar to retrieve the needed 3 dollars when I glance down at my brand new, albeit from Wal-Mart but new none the less, shit covered shirt. A streak that felt as though it could have filled the depths of hell, it was that streak of shit on my new Wal-Mart shirt that started the breakdown.

The tears were welling up in my eyes, and that poor little girl selling her Chocolate, she saw the shit streak, she knew it was there, I knew it was there, and she knew I knew it was there.

We still exchanged our trade though, because at this point what else could I do? I could care less about the damn chocolate covered almonds, I literally am wearing a shirt full of poop right now.

I will always remember that little girl and how kind she was, not to mention the rank smell of toddler feces that was now emanating from my new Wal-Mart Shirt.

It was when the door closed that the tears began to flow. Streams of Lash Blast Mascara flooded my face, the foundation I had caked on earlier streaked in a manner that held a Van Gogh-ish appeal, but the beauty of the situation was lost on me as I dwelled in a puddle of self pity… and poo.

In the back of my mind I began to wonder how I would ever pick myself up from this guilt ridden moment of self involvement.

My daughter, Sophie came to me.

She saw me with my face in my hands sobbing out tears of frustration and anguish. She raised her pudgy little hand, touched my face while I looked up at her, she then backed up a step and started laughing hysterically at me. Just Laughing and pointing, my 2 year old baby, this of course invoked my son to come over and yes, he too began to find humor in my misery.

And this my friends is life, I very well could have lost it, thought it was unfair to be put in such a situation. Instead I felt the laughter rise up within me and in-between sobs and the gagging smell of poop that was securely fastened to me, I grabbed the two most important little people in my life and we all laughed together…For about 30 Seconds then I couldn’t take the smell anymore.




Shit Weasel

There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing the hell out of my entry-way floor. I have piled the shoes on the carpet, a step up from where I kneel. I’m getting frustrated with myself that I’ve left it this long and now the dirt and grime have become unbearably difficult to scour off. Of course the female child is quickly approaching me from the back, as she is always curious as to what I am doing. She begins to grab the shoes that have been piled up, and dangle them precariously above the area in which I have already cleaned.  “Don’t do it Sophie” I say, but not in a stern enough voice because a second later a hand full of shoes get pushed onto the previously cleansed area. She continues to thrust the dirty footwear over the ledge.  Finally I stop, look at the child, and without thinking of the words; I say, “Stop it you little shit weasel.”

Shit. Weasel. Shit Weasel! Why?  WHY in all of the names I could summon up within my mind, would I call my 2 year old daughter a Shit Weasel? Granted I said the slur with a joking undertone, but I still feel that this could possibly scar the girl. What if she subconsciously buries this account and years later in some random conversation she is having in high school or college, somehow those two words -Shit & Weasel- are placed in the same sentence and BAM nervous breakdown….’My mom called me a Shit Weasel once…It was terrible!’

I carry on, trying not to let on to the kids, my disgraceful blunder. I make my way to the bathrooms and begin my cleaning regime there. The products I use to disinfect the place are pretty strong so I steer the kids away from the area when I clean it. But little Miss Sophie Anne continues to push her way towards me. I calmly ask her to go in the living room…No go. I get her some Play-dough to distract her…Not happening. I again am getting exasperated with the situation…I THEN SAY IT AGAIN!

“Get out of here you little shit weasel!” What is wrong with me? Why do I keep calling my sweet little girl a shit weasel? What does it even mean? A weasel like creature that’s covered in shit? I don’t know, I’m just the one saying it to my kid. Dishonour fills me, and I immediately say I’m sorry to the girl who looks straight through me because she has no idea what I am apologizing for.  So this is what it’s come to, expressing regret to my toddler for calling her a completely peculiar and ridiculous name.

Needless to say it is noon and I am pouring myself a glass of wine to drown away my faux pas. I will indeed be more mindful in the future as to what comes out of my mouth in a fit of aggravation, because the last thing I want is my children churning out the phrase ‘Shit Weasel’ around town and crediting the origin of the term to me.

The Grocery Run Debacle

My kids are grocery shopping superstars! I’m not trying to brag…but really I am, because it is a rare day when I have to scold them for being disruptive or unruly in the store. They sit in the cart, look around in a mesmerized fashion at all of the wonderfulness that is the shop. And I appreciate every moment of it. But now, before you readers start to think I am becoming too brazen in the words that I write; my shameless account has quickly become a bold-faced memory.

Not 20 minutes ago did the kidlets and I get back from a grocery run, and as we made our way out of the van we all had tear stricken faces, Sophie was covered in poop and Lars was yelling insistently about how mean of a Mama I was. Here begins the story of the grocery run debacle.

Throughout Easter weekend the kids had come down with the flu bug to end all bugs. They had been housebound basically until today, when I decided that it was finally time to venture out to get some food to fill our barren fridge. I hadn’t thought much about it, because like I said, they are absolute superstars when it comes to shopping.

My first hint that this outing was going to be a disaster should have been when Sophie lost it when I attempted to put her in the car seat. She stiffens her body to an unbelievable account, then begins to scream, “I do it Mama, I do it.” Well it’s just her independent phase I think, so after 5 minutes of standing in the frigid air watching her try to click in the strap that would have taken me five seconds, I complete the process for her. And she is not happy about it. Her screaming persists until we arrive at the store, Lars is being unusually quiet though, so I feel that we may still have a chance at civility on this journey.

“Do you guys want to ride in the cart?” I scream as we pull into the parking lot, I scream because otherwise I would not be heard over my daughter.

Sophie’s screaming halts immediately because riding in the cart is one of her favorite activities. In unison they both yell, “Yaaaaa!” back towards me.

After some struggle to fit both of them into the riding harness of the cart, we are in the store and rolling along happily.  There are only a few staples I need to get so I beeline strait for the dairy section. Did I mention time is of the essence? Lars has school  and I only have 3 hours to get him there…My obsessive compulsive prematurity urges are kicking in again.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING MAMA!” The boy child is screaming directly in my face, and I have no idea why. “YOU PASSED THE CHEESE STRINGS!” because apparently this is a detrimental asset on this trip.

“OK you need to stop yelling!” I hiss at the kid in that kind of yell that you don’t want anyone else to hear but want to make it perfectly clear to your child that you mean business.

He apparently does not catch this nuance because he continues to bawl at the top of his lungs, which invites Sophie to begin too. They are now both projecting perplexing words in my direction aside from the random ‘cheesstring’ thrown in between syllabic sounds.

I, still feeling a little queasy from my own bout of sickness, is in no mood to argue with them so I whip the cart around grab a pack of the artificially mutilated cheese,  thrust it towards the bellowing babes and again in my hissing tones say, “There, enough you two!”

My attempt does allow for a moment of quiet, but in this moment I smell the thing I fear most when taking them out into public. Sophie has soiled herself, and by the tang of it, in the most undesirable way. Of course I did not think of the scenario when packing them up to leave, so now I am faced with the question; do I ditch the groceries and head back to the house? Or let her sit in the stuff for a bit longer and finish up the shopping? I opt to finish this shop because I can’t stand the thought of having to come back here today.

I enter into a rather busy area of the store, and am in constant fear that another human will smell the stench that now wafts off my child. I try to move quickly, darting between, in and out of other carts but realize that her stink is getting much worse. Has she continued shitting this whole time? The other people encompassing this part of the No Frills Grocery store have obviously caught on to my problem as I have started getting dirty looks and hear the sting of whispering behind my back. I have got to get out of here.

We need juice, but I don’t care at this point. Lars is yelling that Sophie ‘smells poopy’  (Thank you for that Lars, I think we have already deciphered this). So between the stench, the yelling and me closely on the verge of puking and crying I decide that a lack of juice is the least of my problems.

I move with diligence towards the tills, my escape from this current hell that I exist in.  I am avoiding closeness with others and attempting to steer clear of any familiar faces, this is no time to engage in friendly chatter.  The line to the only open cashier is long…well maybe not too long in reality, but figuratively it goes on for miles.  This sinking in my stomach is becoming more flagrant. I push on though, I’ve come too far to give up now.

So there we are, snuggled closely between an elderly lady with only a basket full of items to ring through and a solitary man behind us whom I’m sure has picked up on our aroma.

“OH MY GOD MAMA, we forgot the juice!!!” The boy is mad, and upset and nearing hysterics over juice. It is at this point my face bleeds red with mortification. Is he really getting this up in arms about juice?

“Yes Lars I know,” I have to spill the beans about it all because it is now my only choice, “Soph pooped so we have to get home, you don’t need juice, we will get some tomorrow.” He continues to cry and carry on. I urgently take a look at my surroundings, what I am looking for I don’t know. The people enveloping me give pitiable placid looks in my direction. I’m sure they are thinking, ‘oh what spoiled children’ or ‘can’t she control her kids?’ Usually I am pretty good at turning a blind eye to this type of judgment, but today it burns me up inside.

I frantically start telling the cashier and the other persons who look at me with such disdain that, “the kids have been sick all weekend, a little bit stir crazy from being housebound…” I trail off because I know that my attempt at explaining my children’s behaviour is just coming off pathetic, judging from the unsympathetic looks I am continuing to get thrown at me.

After a little more nervous laughter on my part and screaming on the kids’ I get out of the place with a little bit of my sanity still intact. It isn’t until I go to strap them into their seats that I lose it completely. When lifting Sophie out of her hold atop the grocery cart, I find a trickle of shit that has oozed its way out of her overflowing diaper and streaked onto the plastic beneath her.

I am now crying and it seems that this flu bug has not quite left me because the flagrant need to barf all over my child is now palpable. I move more swiftly than I have in a long time, get them both secured and hurl the groceries in the trunk and hop into the driver’s seat. I end up ditching the cart without retrieving my loonie from its grasp, because at this point the loonie is not worth my very precious time. This devastation could get a lot worse in the few seconds it would take to put the thing away properly.

Thank God my home is only a few minutes away from the store because I drive with the windows rolled down and the vents wide open to rid the vehicle of the fetidness that is my 2-year-old.

Which brings me back to the beginning; me, my babes and a box full of groceries, all of us a little worse for the ware from our trip. I can tell you one thing, next time I decide to venture out for a little grocery shop, I will definitely call up the babysitter beforehand.


It is ten o’clock at night and I do if fact know where my children are; in their rooms sniggering, laughing, crying, and slinking around looking for various toys and books to occupy their sleepless minds. It has finally happened, the bedtime blues have arrived.

Lars went through it when we took him out of his crib, but like all the phases the boy has went through he passed it quickly. With Sophie, it took a little longer for her to catch on that after leaving the security of her caged bed she was able to actually move about her room freely. Now that she has figured out this ingenious concept, I have become one stressed out Mama.

It has been over a week now that the child has refused sleep at bedtime, and in this erratic rebuttal she is keeping her brother awake, a boy who if doesn’t get his sleep is the most unpleasant child I have personally ever come in contact with.

So now I present this question of desperation to my fellow bloggers and Facebook friends; Have any of you as parents, went through this terrible phase with your kids? If so how did you pass it with your sanity still intact?!

I have tried several things so far; taking away TV before bed, yelling, not yelling, bribing, taking away the reward that I previously bribed. Of course I’ve attempted the whole positive reinforcement thing, but I am quickly beginning to think this theory is not relevant to my daughter, who simply does not seem to care.  We have went as far as allowing her four year old brother to enter the front lines, and try to talk reason into the girl. This only resulted in them playing together, so that tactic was quickly dismissed.

We do engage in the usual bedtime routines of bath, brush teeth, stories and then bed. Sometimes straying from the course a bit, if we are at someone’s house or have company over, but for the most part  we try and stick to it attentively.

Several months ago I took Sophie off her bottle, which she was very attached to, but after a few days of changing the routine she seemed to be fine. Could it be some sort of relapse? Although she isn’t asking for the device, so I am not convinced this is what’s causing the upheaval.

When I ask her why she does not want to sleep, she comes back at me with a scornful, “I No like my room! It stupid!” Wow, lovely language from a two year old. I ask her what we could do to make it more awesome, and she replies bluntly with, “Nothing.”

I feel like any kind of renovation of her bedroom would be a very drastic measure, as we had it painted fresh for her arrival into the world only two years ago.  I am closely approaching the point of offering Lars a roommate, but just as our ‘Lars the negotiator’ scheme went I am sure they would just end up playing all night. Resulting once again in no conclusion to the matter. ARGH!

Well in the time it has taken me to write out this rant, the Soph has finally drifted off to dreamland.

I would love to hear some suggestions any of you may have or similar stories. After all, as parents it’s nice to know we aren’t alone out there!

Moms Cry Too

There is such a stigma to be the perfect mother. Then, when you put everything you have into achieving this goal, it slowly eats away at any ounce of soul you have left. Believe me, I am not a stranger to this illusion. I too, once looked down at the mother whose daughter’s hair was not brushed and face was dirty. I found joy in rolling my eyes at the woman in Wal-Mart with the screaming cart of 4 children, and when I walked into a home that was not manicured to perfection I talked incessantly of it for days to come. It is only now that I am beginning to see what it is that I was truly judging.

Oh how I miss the existence of one infant child who looks lovingly into your eyes and puts their complete and unreserved trust into, you; their wonderful, neat as a new pin, mother. Then at some point there is a shift, and rebellion starts. The tot that once could do no wrong, grows into a child that will challenge you at any chance they get.

My patience and tolerance has diminish considerably over the last four years. I used to be laid back and easy going, I really did. I loved spontaneity and ‘fly by night’ ideas. Now, if something comes up suddenly or my plans get slightly skewed; stress, anxiety and frustration flood me like the overpowering waves of a tempest, destroying anything in its midst.  I deal with stress much differently than in my younger days too. I used to get mad, and voice my frustration, like any normal individual. I now simply cry. I cry and cry and cry and cry. I can’t control it, I will cry in the solitude of my home, in public stores, I will even cry while driving. Why this horrific outbreak of emotions has taken me over is beyond me, it is embarrassing as my ‘cry face’ is not becoming in the slightest. I will feel that characteristic lump in my throat, followed quickly by a salty  fluid overflowing my eyeballs, hyperventilation then sets in and my face crumples into a muddle of nervous tension while bawls of sorrow burst out of me in a timely fashion. Believe me when I tell you, this spectacle is not an appealing one.

Along with my new found crying feature, I have also became a stickler for punctuality. I think it may border  obsessive compulsive as I have an unattainable urge to be 10 minutes early to everything. Lars’ schools drop off time is 1:05pm, and every day we leave the house at 12:45pm, only to have to wait outside the school for 10 minutes until the doors are unlocked and we are allowed to gain entrance. Why would I not wait until 12:55pm to leave the house? As it only takes 5 minutes to get there. But no, every day I make the same neurotic blunder.

And it doesn’t stop there, I get stressed when we might be late for our 10 minute early arrival.

This morning, was an especially stressful one. Our new roommate who is currently residing in the basement dwelling had just moved in and the kids are being loud. They are screaming, just to hear themselves and the walls and floors in my house are as thin as cheap diapers. ‘He knows what he was moving in with, don’t worry about it.’ My friend Janelle advises me as I explain my qualms about the kids waking him up with their excessive clamour. It doesn’t help. I look at the clock and see, good god it is already 12:30pm, I don’t even have Lars’ bag packed for school. The tension is rising.  I quickly attempt to get my shit together and by the time I am attempting to get the kids in their winter gear to leave it is 12:54pm. This is bad, really bad. Sophie then makes my state of affairs worse by refusing to let me put her left boot on, she chucks the boot into the living room and I feel a familiar lump begin to form. I hold back, and take a breath. Staying calm is my best approach and finally wrestle the boot onto her foot. Our front steps are icy and I try to get the kids down them without slipping but that is a colossal fail as I trip and bring the babies down with me. Physically were okay, but they are both crying and I am quickly on the verge of joining them. We get to the van door, again Sophie is causing me problems as she wants to try to get into her seat without assistance. She is in that phase now, ‘I do it, Mama, I do it.’ I want to let her accomplish it, and gain that self satisfaction, but that proverbial clock is ticking and my stress levels rising. Lars gets into his seat and awaits me to strap him in, all the while my sweet two year old struggles to get into the damn vehicle. She slips, she cries. I  strap her into the car seat. She is not happy about it. They are both screaming bloody murder at this point, I can’t decipher when Lars joined in on the cries for attention. But it is now that I break.

“STOP! Enough you two, I HAVE HAD ENOUGH!!!” I roar to make myself heard over the two, and also to get out a bit of my own frustration. I catch something out of the corner of my eye and look to my left. A neighbour is watching the fiasco, looking at me with a pitiful, pathetic sort of stare and I want to go over there and punch them square in the nose. I don’t. I pretend not to see the golly gawker and proceed into the driver’s seat after securing in the kids. I only drive for a few seconds before I feel it happening. The tears start flowing and I wonder if I should pull over. I’m not sure if crying while driving is considered a ‘Distracted Driving’ offense. I take my chances, I can’t risk being any more late, than we already are. As we pull up to the school I look at the digital clock on the van’s dashboard and see it is 1:04pm. I provide a moan of relief  and look at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My make-up is everywhere, why do I even apply the stuff, I wonder as I try to clean myself up before entering the building. Lars addresses me,

“Mama, sorry we not listening. I love you. Don’t cry.”

If it wasn’t for the fact, that I know I have to make an appearance in only mere seconds to other human beings I would have started a whole new regime of crying, this time out of love and redemption though.

I always considered that this torrent of sentiment stemmed from an overtired,  under-appreciated and overall frazzled  lifestyle. But today, as I am writing this script I realize it is none of these things that make me so poignant.  I have stress, hopefully most mothers do. We have stress because of the little people we love so deeply. All we want is the best for them, and sometimes that notion overcomes rational thinking.

Although I will try to keep the blubbering to a minimal, I won’t feel ashamed about it anymore. There will always be something to stress about, and I will never stop worrying about the welfare of my kids. As they grow older, and more than likely I become more emotional, they will almost certainly become mortified and exasperated with me, but I have faith that one day they will understand and appreciate the fact that, sometimes moms cry too.

I may not ever get a ‘Mother of the Year’ award; I yell and don’t always think to use ‘positive reinforcements’ and clearly, I often let my emotions get the best of me. But I know that I will never love something more, than I do my children.