Bloggers, blogging, north of sixty.
Karan
Mommy vs. The World
Typically, I do not write posts that chronicle my daily activities. The details of my day-to-day existence are really quite boring and insignificant. I do not care, really, about what I ate for breakfast or how long it takes me to get dressed in the morning and I expect that those who follow this site care even less. That said, there are exceptions to every rule and the happenings of this particular day fall squarely into one of those exceptions.
It feels like I took on the world today. It started with the dishwasher. Lately, the dishwasher seems to be omitting the occasional piece of dish ware from the required attention. It started with the occasional bit of pasta sauce left on a bowl. Then it moved to silverware, leaving bits of food and water stains on the forks and knives. At first, I accepted it. All dishwashers make mistakes. No dishwasher is perfect. Ah, but you give the dishwasher an inch . . .
On Sunday I noticed a film on some of the glasses. I added more rinse solution. Perhaps it was my fault. But alas, the next morning there were more glasses with a film. And pasta bits on the bowls. And forks and knives that looked as though there had been no dishwashing going on at all. I didn’t say anything. I just put the dirty dishes back in the dishwasher. I felt I owed it the opportunity to redeem itself. We have, after all, been together seven years.
This morning took the cake, however. I actually had to retrace my pre-bed routine from the night before to be sure I had turned the dishwasher on and added the detergent. Everything was dirty. Everything.
Before I could deal with the dishes, I became distracted with other things. I checked e-mail from work (big mistake if you’re on holidays and trying to de-stress). Then I called the kids’ school. The school secretary gave me unhappy news about class assignments. I took a breath, called a friend and got advice about what to do. I drafted an e-mail to deal with it and decided to take a shower. It would relax me.
In the shower, I worked myself into a frenzy about the school. Silently, I drafted a letter (blog post? Face Book rant?) to “whom it may concern” containing my opinion about the failings of our education system. I contemplated the options of moving the kids, home-schooling them, starting a charter school campaign, incorporating a private school. I rehearsed how I would present this to the kids, to Arnold or to anyone who would listen (She of Many would be my test-audience).
I emerged from the shower more agitated, although very much cleaner, than when I entered, and certainly, far more ready to fight off whatever else the world was going to send my way today. I was pissed, which put me in a perfect frame of mind to clear out the junk in the basement and take it to the dump. I was hopeful that it would get me focussed on something else and calm me down to the point of being rationale. Alas, it did not have the desired effect. I remained as mad as a wet hen, further infuriated by the volume of useless crap that my family members acquire and want to retain.
Ah, lunchtime arrived. I would treat myself to a wonderful gourmet sandwich. I was about to bite into it when the telephone rang. It was Arnold, calling, I surmised, to find out how my day was progressing. My heart leapt. Finally, I could pour out my frustrations without fearing judgment. I could say inappropriate things. I could use foul language and be completely irrational, secure in the knowledge that he would listen and take my side.
He wasn’t calling to see how I was doing. He was clearly busy. He was at lunch. He asked me a question. He didn’t care about the dishwasher.
I took a breath and replied.
“Sure. I’ve got all kinds of shit on my plate right now. Why not pile on some more?”
He was quiet. I suppose he was a bit stunned at my reaction. It was his fault, though. Apparently, he had shut off his Spousal-equivalent ESP before he called and had no idea of my frame of my mind. Husbands and spousal-equivalents, take note: You should always be on your toes.
“Um, okay” he said. “Have a nice day”.
Clearly, I was out of line, but I did not feel the need to apologize. I wanted to be mad a little longer. Somehow, it would help me take on whatever else the world would throw at me. In fact, it felt like a good time to paint the deck. Walking past the cans of wood stain each day was causing me stress. This would, I hoped, calm me down enough to be rational when Arnold got home. The kids were occupied and I could concentrate on staining perfectly each of the boards.
I finished it just in time to see the rain clouds forming overhead in the previously clear, blue sky. I gave up and went in the house for dinner.
After dinner, I went to the liquor store. By now I was convinced that the day was a test from God, who obviously hates me, so I figured I needed a glass of wine. I returned home and saw that the Kitchen Fairies had, once again, failed to come over. I have now officially fired the Kitchen Fairies, by the way. Then, once again, the dishwasher caught my attention. I sighed and resumed the task I started earlier this morning. I pulled everything out to wash by hand but, then, I decided that it was time for the dishwasher to step up and pull its weight and I was going to make sure that it did. So, I rinsed the still-dirty dishes, re-loaded them into the dishwasher, added the soap and turned it on. I set it to “Heavy” and programmed in an extra rinse, for good measure.
The dishes, this time, came out very, very clean.
I cannot control the weather, who sits on the school board and what decisions they make, and I cannot control whether or not my husband calls to listen to me whine. I can, however, push buttons and control the dishwasher and it calms me to know that no matter what, I need not stand for bullshit from an appliance.
Stops on the Road to Hell – More Gerbil Funerals
The call came through at 4:04 p.m. today.
“Mom, you need to come home. Now”. It was Daniel. He was out of breath and teary. I could hear Janet wailing in the background. A lump formed in my throat immediately. Was someone injured? Sick?
True to form, I hesitated in asking at first and selfishly savored the last few moments of “serenity” before the storm. The answer was sure to be bad, possibility leading to an evening spent in the emergency room. I took a breath and then I asked what was wrong.
“It’s Gerbil-y”, Daniel said. “He’s dying”.
I promised to come home right away. My kids were clearly upset. I, on the other hand, had a number of emotions at play, none of which could be described as “grief”. As many readers know, Gerbil-y lived in our bathtub. It gave him room to run around instead of being caged all day. I grew to hate the arrangement, however. I hated having to explain to guests that there was a rodent in the tub. I hated the way it made the bathroom smell. Indeed, a mere few hours before the telephone call I had been our bathroom, looking at the gerbil’s cage in the tub and thinking that he really should be . . . dead.
In the end, I could barely contain my joy. I am from the Prairies. Gerbils are rodents. Rodents are cat food.
On the ride home I pulled together my somber face. I couldn’t show the kids my joy. They wouldn’t understand. As I entered the house, I took a breath and rubbed my eyes to make them teary. The kids were administering palliative care to the gerbil on the kitchen counter. I resisted the urge to sweep the whole damned thing into a box and bleach the hell out of the kitchen. They had made him a little bed out of wood shavings and tissues (the “Heaven bed” is what Janet called it). At the foot of the bed, Janet had spelled out “L-O-V-E” in gerbil food pellets. Gerbil-y was still alive, although having seizures. Janet and Daniel were speaking gently to him, warning him against going to the “light” and telling him he would be all right.
I managed to convince them to move him to a box and take him out of the kitchen. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate their grief, it’s just that I don’t like the idea of dead – or near dead – rodents on my kitchen countertop. Call me uptight.
Daniel and Janet carefully transfered the “Heaven Bed” and the gerbil into a box. They put some of Gerbil-y’s favourite toys into the box with him. I listened carefully to the conversation. Daniel told Janet that he thought it too bad that “it takes death for us to realize how much we love someone”. I thought that was so wise.
Gerbil-y finally passed on. He timed it well – Arnold was just leaving the house for the golf course, which left me to assist with funeral arrangements. I overheard the kids talking about what to do with the remains. Daniel was trying to sell Janet on cremation. He told her that they could burn up the corpse and then split up the ashes, and I was paralyzed by visions of sizzling rodent. Fortunately, their father overheard this conversation before he drove away and convinced them that we just did not have the right equipment (ie. a crematorium)to effect a cremation. Consequently, they settled on a traditional burial in the back yard.
Janet, Daniel and I took turns digging a grave in the back yard. By this time Janet had donned rubber gloves, which is best when handling rodent corpses, and so she took responsibility for placing the World’s Oldest Rodent in his grave. We made a headstone. We buried him. We said a prayer. The kids asked about when we will be getting a replacement.
I waited for the kids to go to bed and then I poured myself a glass of wine and did a little “Happy Dance” in my (bleached) kitchen.
I hope the gerbil is in Heaven for a couple of reasons. First, other than living beyond the “best before” date, he was a good gerbil. Second, I think that I am going to Hell (the Fairmont Hades, presumably) and I deserve to have the tub to myself in the afterlife.
Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman UnParked
Few things make me angry enough to seek revenge. I expect that this is largely because as I get older, things just bother me that much less. I am just too busy and, perhaps, a little too lazy, to take the time to exact a price for someone else’s wrong. Still, there are some things that make me fantasize about making someone else’s life difficult because of some wrong – or, more likely, inconvenience – inflicted upon me. Among these is when someone takes my parking spot.
I have a rented parking spot. All of the spots in the lot where it is rented are clearly marked “Reserved Parking 24 Hours. Violators will be ticketed and towed”. That’s pretty clear to me. As a result, when I see those signs, or ones like them, I pay heed and I do not park there. This is not just a matter of common sense, it is a matter of good manners. It’s simple: one should not take that which is not theirs. Common sense and manners are both, apparently, lacking.
One of the great attractions of private parking is the apparent enforceability. The signs clearly say that “Violators will be ticketed and towed”. It is reassuring, even for lawyers. Yet, as I have discovered, it is largely an empty threat. Experience shows that when someone parks in your spot without permission, there is a great deal of “red tape” involved, making the unauthorized parking a lucrative venture.
First, you have to call the company that owns the lot. They then ask you to get the license plate number and make and model of the car. It is not enough for them that you are the person entitled to park in the spot and that you have told them there is a vehicle that is not authorized to park there, parked there.
So, you walk across the street and write down the license plate number and the make, model and colour of the car.
You call back to the property management company.
They have gone for coffee or whatever and so, you leave a voice mail.
They call back 15 minutes later and tell you that there is spot where you can temporarily park your car. It is four blocks from your office, rather than across the street, which is what you paid for, and you’ll have to stop by their office and pick up a temporary permit so that you will not be ticketed and towed. For some reason, you say “thank you” and look out the window to see that the bad car is still in your spot. You ask when you might get your spot back.
“We’ll call you”, they promise. Foolishly, you believe them.
You move your car to the other spot. You go back to your office and your try to concentrate but you just cannot. You look out the window at the bad car again. And again. And again. You want to see it being towed. You want to see the owner come out and realize that the care has been impounded and that he/she will be “cabbing it” for the next few hours. You want to see his pain.
But, you’re denied.
Instead, you see that it is still sitting there, basking in the sun whilst its owner lunches/shops/visits/works and all the while parks for free.
Again, you try to concentrate. You peek out the window and finally, you see a bylaw officer ticketing and marking the car. You are on your way to feeling satisfied that all is just and good in the world. You feel confident that Karma is at work and that she’s a bitch – in a good way, that is. The tow truck arrives. It is going to happen. The parking violator will bear the consequences of his actions. The universe will correct itself. And then . . .
You see the driver come out. He runs to the car. He pleads with the bylaw officer. You imagine his excuses – he would only be there for a moment. He didn’t see the sign. You imagine – you hope – that the bylaw officer is cruel – the same cruel (and unusual) one that wrote you a parking ticket when you meter had expired and you were stuck at the doctor’s office with a baby and a toddler.
“Rules is rules, Ma’am”, he said. And you had to agree.
What you see unfold so many stories below, however, is nothing like you hoped. The ticket appears to be issued, but the bylaw officer motions to the tow truck driver and you see it drive away. You’re pissed. There is no inconvenience. The driver gets a ticket, but hey, anyone can pay one of those. It’s easy. You pay them from your home PC. There is no inconvenience. There is no shame. There is no lesson except, possibly, that parking in another’s spot is worth the risk.
As you watch the driver enter his car and drive away, you hope and pray that a tank will come along and crush it (sparing the driver, of course, because you are a decent person). You hope the driver gets a flat on some remote road when it is -40. You hope it’s an uneven grade, covered with gravel. You hope that he is traveling without mittens that day. After all, revenge is a dish best served cold.
Excuses, Excuses
Most parents teach their children that excuses are not an acceptable explanation for why something is not done. My parents drilled it into me, their parents drilled it into them and I preach it to my children (who, of course, look at me and roll their eyes).
So, why am I the Queen of Excuses?
I have them for everything.
There are piles of laundry in the house: Well, I ran out of bleach and I just have to wash the whites first. I need bleach to make sure the whites are really, really clean (because that really, really matters in my household). The whites include all of the underwear, which are the crappiest to fold and which, accordingly, result in the least amount of gratification. Washing towels, jeans, light colours and other “big” items before the underwear is tantamount to eating dessert before dinner. It’s just not right.
I haven’t swept up the Kool-Aid crystals from the living room floor since June 1: It’s summer. The kids are going to be mixing and drinking Kool-Aid all summer. As soon as I clean them up, more will be spilled. Besides, if we run out, they can sweep them up and make a multi-flavoured drink. It’s good for their immune systems.
We have eaten pizza/McDonalds/Chinese for the last four nights: First, I want the kids to experience a broad range of cultures through food. It will make them better citizens. Second, I do not have any vegetables in the house, which means I cannot put a balanced meal on the table. Why should I even try?
The bathrooms in my house are disgusting: Fifty percent of my household population is male and they have flexible standards with respect to bathroom cleanliness.
It’s May 15th and I have no flowers in my flower pots: This is an excuse bonanza! First, there are only 3 more months until winter. Second, in the age of ecological responsibility, it seems decidedly irresponsible to plant flowers to just look at. Third, the water that might collect underneath the flower boxes might attract mosquitos and, with global warming and all, it might contribute to the spread of West Nile virus. Who wants to be responsible for that? Fourth, the flowers are transported here by truck. Making one’s yard look nice seems like an awfully vain reason to contribute to the ever-increasing problem of fossil fuel emissions.
The playroom downstairs hasn’t been cleaned in two years: I am planning to renovate.
The tub in my guest bathroom is blue and doesn’t match any fixtures: Ah, for this, I get to use the mother of all excuses. The excuse that leaves colleagues, friends and relatives speechless. If I was a criminal, I could probably use this excuse in court – for any crime – and win the sympathy of a judge: There is a gerbil living in my bathtub.
Top that.
Another Meme
My friend who lives in the Snow-Covered Hills tagged me in a “meme” and has posed some questions. I do not have to answer them. I am a lawyer and I know she cannot make me answer the questions. That said, if I do not answer them, she will make puppy eyes at me at work and make me feel guilty. She might also come to my house and make me feel guilty. It’s just easier to comply. Besides, it’s kind of an ego trip for me.
1. What do your love interests have in common?
I need to qualify this, since it is going on the internet. Currently, I have only one love interest, but, of course, I have had more than one serious romantic relationship. What do they have in common? That’s easy. They can all eat with chop sticks. That was/is my litmus test for going beyond a first date.
2. What is your guilty pleasure?
I put saucepans and knives in the dishwasher when no one is looking. The pleasure I get from this is matched only by cleaning my house with bleach. I am so lame.
3. What makes you angry?
Now that I have hit peri-menopause, I get pissed off at pretty well anything.
4. Who do you dislike?
I am not particularly fond of Dora the Explorer. Her friend, Boots, is kind of an idiot, too.
5. What was your first job?
My first job was waiting tables. I think everyone should do that. It improves memory and, if you are working in a busy place and don’t get too attached to the food, it is a great way to get in shape. When I was on my feet for 8-hours a day, I had a pretty hard body. You also learn how to organize your thoughts, adapt to different situations and handle difficult people. The latter is a skill that has helped me many, many times over the years.
If I look at a job application and see that a person has waited tables for any reasonable period of time, I immediately think that they have good organizational skills and can think on their feet.
1. What do you love about where you live?
2. What could entice you to leave it?
3. If you could go anywhere on a trip, without regard to resources, where would you go, and why?
4. What inspires you?
5. What makes you laugh the hardest?
Stay tuned. I expect the answers to be very interesting.
The Pampered Life
It’s true. I spend a lot of time sitting around eating bonbons and being pampered, and one of my favourite ways to be pampered is through spa treatments. It’s fair to say that I know my spa stuff. I’ve had spa treatments at various locations around North America: Puerto Vallarta, Nevada, Arizona, Banff, Toronto, Montreal and Whistler, to name a few, so who more qualified than I to write a review of Name-of-Town-Withheld’s newest oasis of indulgence, Chez Moi?
I experienced Chez Moi for the first time last week. At first, I didn’t even know I was at the spa. I honestly thought that I was still in my living room, in my messy house, trying to decide if I should order pizza or sushi. Despite the initial confusion, however, I was soon experiencing the Chez Moi signature pedicure, something that is both refreshingly unique and easy on the wallet.
The spa staff at Chez Moi are a bit young (ie. seven to nine years of age), but don’t be fooled: these gals know what the spa experience is about and they deliver. All treatments at Chez Moi begin with a refreshing cucumber eye treatment. You are free to leave the cucumber slices on your eyes for as long as you want. You can also eat the cucumbers and/or share them with one of the many aestheticians administering your treatment. If someone eats your slices, or if you eat them, the staff will cut new pieces for you to place on your eyes. Dip is available for a small fee.
Whilst your eyes relax, your feet soak in a special concoction of water, baby shampoo, baby oil, body lotion, hair conditioner and, oddly, toothpaste. I was advised that the ingredients may vary, depending on what is available from the en suite bathroom at any given time. As well, you may have to share soaking water with other clients. Don’t be alarmed: this is part of Chez Moi’s overall “green” strategy and besides, you are likely going to be related or will have slept with the other spa clients who have had or will have their feet in the water.
The soak lasts for as long as the spa staff decide that it will and is followed by a foot massage and finally, nail polish. You needn’t worry about how to choose from oh so many pretty colours of nail polish – the Chez Moi staff will choose it for you, so you can just relax. It’s one less thing to worry about after a stressful day. While your polish dries, you may choose from a number of refreshments, including red and white wine, lemonade and beer. One of the things that sets Chez Moi apart from other spas is that herbal tea is not on the menu. When I inquired about this, I was advised by the staff that “playing with boiling water is against the rules”. Thus, I ordered red wine, which was served to me in a (very safe) plastic cup.
Chez Moi offers customized services for both men and women. Men will enjoy the same attention to detail and pampering as women. It should be noted, however, that for men with hair on their toes, the foot massage will be performed using wooden spoons. This is due to the strict “hairy toes and feet are really gross” policy to which all spa staff must adhere.
Finally, if you go to Chez Moi spa, bring cash. Credit and debit cards are not accepted and frankly, they are not really understood. All treatments cost 50 cents per half hour. Exact change is preferred.
First Trip to Prelude Lake
It’s hard not to be in love with the Ingraham Trail. I finally had a chance to take my kids and couple of their friends out for a picnic last weekend. I wasn
‘t brave enough to camp – it was below freezing every night this weekend and we do not have a camp
er. The picnic was fun, though.
One of the things I like best about a day out on the Trail is that the kids turn into scientists. They want to know what burns and how. What makes smoke? How much kindling do you need? What happens when you put pine cones on the fire? Will they
really explode, like all the kids in grade 4 say they will? While do leaves give off smoke that looks like pasta water?
Sometimes, I have to pinch myself and make sure I am not dreaming that this place, and others like it, is just over thirty minutes from my door. I am pretty darned lucky. Ah, what a day!
***********************************
Nothing like the first hot dogs of the year. Mmmmmmmmmmm!
Campfire-roasted cherries were a treat invented by the kids:
Apparently, a great recipe:
Blog Share Post
As promised, here “Condundrum”, the blog share post that was sent to me for publication. It is written by another blogger, who will remain anonymous. I think it’s wonderful. Enjoy.
And remember, check out the other blogs participating in the blog share, here.
Conundrum
I worry. All the time. Sometimes that I married the wrong person.
Sometimes that I took the wrong job. Or chose the wrong career. Or
won’t be able to have my 2.5 kids easily because I have demotivated
ovaries. I guess you could say that I’m a masochist, er,
perfectionist. A self-admitted over-achiever. Which, arguably, is
about the worst thing a person can be. On the one hand you’re totally
driven and therefore set out to save the world. On the other hand,
you are left with a perpetual dissatisfaction. I saw a bumper sticker
today that sort of summed it all up perfectly, “What if the hockey
pockey is what it’s all about?” Scary, isn’t it?
I suppose I want what every woman wants. The perfect marriage. The
perfect dog. The perfect children. The perfect career. And I get
crazy pissed off when it doesn’t work out. And I wonder if I’m the
only person out there (god, I hope not) that literally has to pry
myself away from my own dissatisfaction. A few years ago I was in a
car accident (not my fault) and was left with a pretty serious scar
that, even though not visible when clothed, eats away at me. Ever
since that happened, I have never felt the same. And I know it’s
vain. And petty. But I just want to remember what it’s like to be
comfortable naked. And I wonder if maybe that’s what caused all of
this. The sex life that leaves my husband wanting. The obsession
that never goes away. And maybe those insecurities are affecting me
now, in my career. Oh, the career. I worry all the time that I’ll
fall flat on my face. Part of me wants to work my butt off just to
scream, “I told you so!” to all the people who doubted me. The other
part just wants to sob because, holy shit, what if they were right?
What if I never was cut out for this? What if I ventured down this
road and it really is a path I am unprepared for? And then I laugh
because ohmigod I have been through so much worse in my life – that I
can’t imagine stressing over the things I worry about now. But I
just. can’t. stop.
The people in my professional life let me down. They don’t care about
me the way I thought they would. And I moved across the country and
created huge financial strain on myself – all the while trying to
smile through it – because, after all, I chose this. But my smile
cracks when I can’t pull off perfection. Because, without perfection,
I can’t help but wonder if this all was really “worth it.” I have a
friend who got promoted within the restaurant industry and will be
pulling in a nice salary. And I want to be happy for her. But I look
at her filled with envy and, I’ll admit, slight bitterness. It just
seems like the payoff sacrifice ratio is off. She gets the life I’ve
“worked so hard for” without the high ticket education, without a
horrible car accident – without the bags under her eyes and gray hair.
And then I realize how ridiculous I’m being – because I know I
wouldn’t feel this way if I could just be happy too.
So how do you ever learn to be satisfied with the right now. To truly
accept that there will, in fact, always be someone who is better off
and always someone worse off. That living a life only to be the
“best” at everything will never lead to anything more than stress?
When can I just look around and recognize that I have everything I
need and everyone I want?
Blog Share, Part Deux!
It is once again time for the Blog Share. This is an event where bloggers post anonymously on different sites, providing an opportunity to try different styles or themes, or even just to let it all hang out with impunity. This one was organised by Abbersnail, the author of Bright Yellow World.
Unfortunately, Blogger is not letting me post a list of the bloggers. This is a technical issue. If you click here, you will find a list of the participating bloggers. These are all really great sites so please, please, please, check them out!
And stay tuned for the blog share post that will be posted on my site on Monday.
Happy Mothers’ Day
For ten years, I have been recieving extraordinary, hand-crafted gifts the second Sunday of every May: hand prints in plaster of Paris, paper flowers and this year, a portrait in plastecine. The gifts are often presented during a breakfast in bed ceremony, typically consisting of fruit at different stages of ripeness, yoghurt and cereal, served up on a pizza pan. It starts quite early in the morning and lasts about an hour. After that, life returns to normal and I go about the business of laundry, shopping, cleaning and and nagging the kids. Depending on the weather any given year, Arnold heads out for a Sunday of golf. There is no jewellery and there is no sports car in the driveway. Mothers’ Day is mostly just another day.
It has often crossed my mind that I should do – or demand – something more substantive to celebrate my maternal status, but I do not really feel the need. I am quite happy with the gifts that I get and the hugs and kisses from Janet and Daniel. Besides, I never seem to be quick enough to think of something that would really mark the occasion until closer to Fathers’ Day.
This year was no exception, or so it seemed. As it happens, I am meeting my sister in Saskatoon where we will spend time visiting with our grandfather, who is celebrating his 95th birthday, and helping him to settle into a nursing home. It’s not a gals’ extravaganza weekend of partying/shopping/eating/pedicuring/more shopping in Canada’s jewel of the prairies, but it is something. There will be no cooking, no laundry, no housework ,no meal planning and no grocery shopping. I will not be thinking about play dates or ways to entertain Janet without television or how to coordinate pick ups of the kids amid grocery shopping, errands and recreation in a one-car family. I will not be reminding the kids to lock up their bikes or nagging them about going outside. I will not have to play the heavy when the creepy and annoying ice-cream truck comes driving by in the evening. I will not have to bite my tongue when I am asked what is for dinner or whether a certain someone can – or should – go golfing. I will not have to drop what I am doing an try to find shoes, coats, bike helmets, keys, mittens or iPods. My brain will be in “standby” mode and I will only need to think about me.
It’s called a braincation.
Regardless of the evolution of the role of the father in the family unit and no matter how hard a dad might try, the reality is that moms do the lion’s share of the thinking for the family. Sure, dads actively participate. My husband is an amazing father and most of my kids’ friends have great fathers, too. I have a great father. That said, they are not planners and so it falls to moms to think of everything for everyone in the family. Without us, there would be no family dinners, no Christmas, no Easter, no birthday parties, no play dates, no haircuts. Children would never go to the doctor and or dentist just for check ups. Girls would learn to pee standing up, because the toilet seat would never be cleaned or even down. Husbands would have to figure out for themselves if it is okay to spend the entire weekend golfing/fishing/watching the Space channel. The local stores would run out of socks as husbands and dads raced frantically to replace the ones that they left all over the house and that never made it into the laundry basket.
Ultimately, I think that the braincation is a bit of gift for everyone in the family. Mom gets a break and the kids and dad get two days to think about meals, socks, play dates, bicycle locks and laundry, and about how much they love and appreciate us.
Happy Mothers’ Day, all.
© 2010 NWT Blogs. 
