A Worthy Life

funny, naturally

I'm funny.

And the sooner he admits it the better.

Every single book I've ever read on marriage has always explicitly informed me: You will need your sense of humor in marriage. Coincidence? I think not.

Yesterday, we had a bit of a skirmish. (And, yes, I take literary license with the word bit. In reality, nothing in our life comes in bits but bursts; never diminutive, always dramatic. Which is mostly always hardly ever never his fault.) It threatened the calm between that we had treasured of late. Because we  both had opposite opinions about a looming decision, we were stuck at a stalemate, both aggrieved by the other's choice and secretly hoping he/she would acquiesce.

He/she would not.

We parted ways, him to football, me to sleep on our day of rest, meeting over dinner where furrowed brow still met determined gaze. Even so, I got his scowl upturned over silly banter and goofy faces with the kids.

Point, me.

Later as we cleaned up together, I smothered him in my best bear hug, whispering, "I still love you, I'm sorry, I want to be united with you on this..." I felt him begin to melt a little in my arms, nodding his agreement, resolving to make this right. Until I finished my humble and effusive proclamation with, "...so this is how it's gonna be...!"

He pushed me away then, aware now of the tomfoolery tucked between sincerity, but not before I caught a glimpse of the smile crevicing the same face where too told his unbelief in eyes rolling in exasperation. All the while I pulled him back, laughing in self-congratulatory praise, relieved that the ice had thawed, grateful for the breaking of light over our moments of threatening gray.

That night I teased him with my daily inquiry, wondering aloud if I was getting too strong, what with my recent acquisition of a gym membership and thrice weekly visits there. He answered per his usual, pinning me to my back, challenging me to break free in an impressive show of strength.

As per my usual, I succumbed to him, letting him think I really couldn't release myself from beneath almost 200 pounds of muscle and masculine pride.

That's right, I humored him. Which if I'm not mistaken is almost kind of surely sometimes maybe perhaps like being funny, no?

you say permanent, I say pregnant

When Emmanuelle was little, her and I used to duke it out over whose husband my husband really was: mine or hers. I would, innocently, come up to him while he held her in his arms and smile sweetly, "This is my husband." (Technically, the bible warns about fathers provoking their children so I hope I'm safe inside this little loophole!)

She in turn would get all bothered and possessively grasp her papa's neck while declaring, "NO! my hummet!" We would bicker back and forth until her arms pushed mine right off of him and the victory was always hers.

To this day, we still sometimes refer to my husband as hummet, which for some reason gives me a visual of him with a shaggy mullet with short bangs in front. Not a good look, babe!

The days of mispronounced words are yet with us, even with an almost 5 year old, a 6 and 7 year old, and a just 9 year old. When my husband tries to correct them with proper English, I'm quick to interrupt, begging him to allow me a just a few precious years more when their words bring so much humor to our lives. "Mom, I just wrecked the car" just doesn't elicit the same sense of whimsy.

Today's post is brought to you by Pregnant Marker, previously known as a permanent marker. Though really, whose to quibble with four kids that arrived on this planet in quick succession within four years. We always seemed to have an abundance of Sharpies around the house those years so maybe that's why... :}

holidays, they're a coming

I used to be a devout Thanksgiving devotee. I know, that might be redundant but I promise you, in this case it's not. It was our holiday, sandwiched between the sinister and commercial holidays of Halloween and Christmas, and this, this was a holiday you couldn't be commercial about if you tried. Unless of course you ordered your turkey from the fancier meat stores, which I assure you we did not. We baked ours up proper in a brown paper bag, thank you very much. And sinister? Not possible, even with costumes.

Wait, what?? Your family didn't dress up for Thanksgiving? If you're Canadian, you get a free pass but please, please don't dare to call yourself American if you didn't honor our forefathers by donning customary blue and white accessorizing with a fine white bonnet. We were pilgrims, all decked out in homespun garments, while our cousins were the Indians. Even though we had evangelized to them and probably saved their souls, I was still jealous of all the intricate bead work my Aunt Linda did for her girls' brown skirts. Plus, they got to show more skin.

Yes, Thanksgiving was our holiday. Made extra special every so many years by also being the day of my birth. I guess that might just be the closest I'll ever get to being like Jesus, what with a national holiday on my birthday and all. Plus, everyone knows Jesus was probably not even born in December so maybe that earns me extra points. Though to be fair, each of us do get a day of discounted shopping the day after, mine being Black Friday, His being Boxing Day. On the other hand, I do get a four day weekend every year out of mine so...

The point being that Thanksgiving was a day to be honored and remembered, and rightfully so. I remember my mom getting so flustered that the stores would have their Christmas displays up the day after Halloween without so much as a turkey or a Mayflower anywhere to be seen. If you wanted napkins with cornucopias, you had to go digging through the discounted brown and orange candy and peruse aisle after aisle stuffed with green and red. It's October, people! We don't even have snow on the ground and we're already being forced to listen to Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer?!

Well, those days I liked to evoke my mother's righteous indignation as I strove to uphold the family tradition of Thanksgiving. After all, our great-great-great...great-grandfather was a Puritan who came over one year after the Mayflower which, if you think about it, is something pretty momentous. I sure wouldn't have wanted to be born in England, would you?

These days? I fear I may have lost all the fight within me. I used to argue passionately that Canadian Thanksgiving was so pointless and without historical tradition. I mean, people here actually eat ham on Thanksgiving! I'm pretty sure the Pilgrims weren't Jewish but substituting a pig for a turkey seems so wrong to me. There are no halved pecans shells with toothpick masts for the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. There are no Pilgrim children being chased by rebel (and yet to be converted) Indians.

Every year I say that I'm going to do right by my American Indian children. C'mon being American and Indian is the genetic lottery for first dibs on costume choices between cousins! Sure, one half of their genes might hail from the country of India but I would totally use that excuse if challenged. (You have no idea how those white collars chafed.)

And every year, come Thanksgiving, the leaves are gone, our first snowfall came in October, and frankly, I'm just not feeling it.

This year I even committed the ultimate betrayal: I listened to carols and made my first wreath of the Christmas season! I know, I know...if mom gets wind of this,...(gulp!). Actually, just between the two of us, I've already made two wreaths and am working on the third and am getting more and more pumped up for Christmas everyday that goes by!

After all, remembering Jesus' birthday is so much more important than celebrating mine, right??

Wait, you'll still remember me on mine, won't you? It'd be almost sacrilege if you didn't.

For those of you more zealous, here's where you can find the above poster, available for printing and framing. And this is a brilliant Mayflower you could make for your centerpiece. It's no cornucopia, but it's at least it's not green and red.

rockin' and rollin'

She thinks I don't see her there, perched on the edge of her lounger, poised to catch any memorable pose. But she's been my mother for thirty years now...I always know when she's around and what's she's up to.

From the moment I became a mother, my mother became our paparazzi.

Capturing newborn gaseous smiles or me tucked in bed with them (the newborn, not the gases. On second thought, the gaseous tendencies do seem to stem from someone I do share my bed with nightly. ;), she's managed to somehow encapsulate some of our family's sweetest memories into still frames hung proudly on our walls. Even before I was a mother, my sisters and I used to roll our eyes when forced to pose for yet another picture, dreading the photographic proof of adolescence marking a trail across our faces, wondering if the camera would add two pounds or ten.

Now? Now we just roll with her. 

Like when I was rocking out to music blaring from our ipod hooked up to our portable speakers, poolside. My feet started to twitch, my head began to sway, and in a snapshot, I sprang from the lounger where I too was poised to paparazzi my own kiddos.

Sometimes to the laughs and cheers of an audience, always to the humiliation of my husband who I'm sure spends plenty of time wondering where the sweet, little girl he married has gone to.

Babe, I love you. But this, me dancing? That's just how I roll.

to the green people of the world...

I love you.

I think that the research you do and the science you use to make our food, our products, our environment, our world a better place is awesome. Really, I totally do.

So, rock on, green people of the world!

I also think you're more than a little crazy.

I mean, I'm grateful to have been educated about the dangers of anti-antiperspirants because of the aluminum they contain. I no longer want that poison leeching into my bloodstream, no siree!

But seriously, this all-natural, all-organic substitution just ain't cutting it. Sure, it smells like world peace the moment I put it on but after mere minutes I smell like I've just climbed out of a foxhole, and that's just after going down the stairs. And after being clogged up with toxic little pluggers for all these years, my sweat glands are getting their revenge big time and leaking their vengeance out on the armpits of all my favorite shirts.

If you think that's a good long-term solution to the growing epidemic of body pollution and embarrassing sweat circles, you're crazy.

Crazy.

Which, in this case, is fortunate for me.

See, I had this idea...

Noticing some unused feminine pads lying around, I got to thinking. What if, now call me a mad scientist, but what if you put a thin line of adhesive (totally natural, of course) around the soft, absorbent side of the pad and stuck it to your underarm.

Eh, EH?!

Now, stay with me. Do you think it's coincidence that they already come in such a variety of absorption? Lite for those moments of little exertion, t.v. watching perhaps. Medium for the heavier moments. Super for gym workouts or as emergency back up on a first date just in case you break out in a cold sweat?

Crazy, you say?

Perhaps, but that's precisely why I came to you. You've made crazy into a goldmine of profits. That tiny tube of deodorant was 7 buckaroos!

At least the pad idea is a cheaper one.

Think about it. And then have your green people call my people.

6 degrees of seperation: the butt issue

We skipped along the icy sidewalks hand in hand. Well, mostly I did. He walked with his usual long and fast gait while I clung to his hand with my feet occasionally touching ground. It was date day which had followed date night, a precious and rare opportunity that comes once in a blue moon. The night had been filled with thai food and hours of conversation followed by a bleary 'good morning' and errands to run.

Returns, gift shopping, and, my favorite, window fantasizing filled our morning. We popped into North Face to check on a coat and that's when the fun started...

1° North Face had some rad coats but way cooler sleeping bags. No, wait, way warmer sleeper bags. The kind I could right now sleep outside in, maybe even inside out. Only the price tag said $699. I'll sleep inside, thanks!

2° Being in North Face reminded me that I had just read about South Butt, a company based in St. Louis, MO that creates clothes for the rest of us, those not prepping for a trek up a mountain or a kayak ride down a waterfall. They're being sued by North Face, which I found funny and so of course had to share with my hubs.

3° We laughed some more when we envisioned news headlines about the trial. The Case of Face vs. Butt. North vs. South, my the mayhem that might ensue if people thought our country was at war again! (Wait...) My personal favorite, The Butt/Face Case.

4° Later on in the day, my husband hiked up his pants for what must have been the 100th time that day. His obvious frustration was soon to be channeled into a brilliant entrepreneurial enterprise. Sensing he was not alone in his misery, he made plans to launch Jeans for People with No Butts. Presuming I was laughing with him and not at him (I wasn't. I was.), he offered up another, Buttless. Admitting my own deficiencies in this arena, I suggested this, Butts Gone South.

5° That really got me thinking. I'd heard about cosmetic surgery that could implant more mass in the behinds of those less than bootylicious. Maybe, just maybe, I could get a butt lift. Which, for all intents and purposes, was really like taking your butt north.

6° In a matter of minutes, I pictured myself unrecognizable. Because anybody with any sense could tell you that a improved butt only looks good if accompanied by a liposuctioned waist (or, is it waste?), a nose job, and an "elevated" chest. Oh, and who could forget the face lift?! Or, for all intents and purposes is just like taking your face north. Yes, I'd could definitely use me some North Face.

Suddenly that $699 pricetag is looking like a real steal...;)

a preview of tomorrow's post

why i deserve "mother of the year" award

There I was. Upstairs chatting with our recent houseguest while finishing up some never ending housework. (Wait...that'd be an oxymoron, right?!) Thinking the kiddos were playing together so sweetly downstairs (hence the silence) and thinking myself such a Grade A mama for raising such amicable siblings. Not to mention ridiculously talented, as our art projects had revealed just moments earlier. Yep, I was that mom. The one who has it all together, the meticulously kept house, darling children, and a killer bod.

Well, ok. Minus the killer bod. But as soon as I was done with these dishes and could pry myself away from the continual conversation provided by my guest I was headed downstairs for my work out. So my killer bod was practically well on it's way.

I finally made it. Downstairs. Where this sight greeted me. Two cherubs blasting up unknown enemies while the other two watched and waited their turn.

Until the patiently waiting turned into the soundly sleeping. Emmanuelle, exhausted from a packed day of activities that only super mothers can possibly undertake, had finally had enough. But instead of finding a cozy corner to dream in, she passed right out in the best seat in the house for watching ensuing computer wars.

And I got all warm and fuzzy inside, seeing my kiddos playing together so amicably in the one activity where they didn't actually have to play together at all. In front of their surrogate mother who always has a moment to spare when my hands are full and sudsy.

Many mothers do noble deeds. Only a precious few know how to sub out the toughest jobs. ;o)

star warriors and transformers

On Sunday night, this was his prayer: "God. Please help the bad guys with laser beams to not hurt me. And help me to have a laser beam too. Amen."

Apparently the boy thinks his favorite Star War(rior)s are real. And out there. Somewhere. Ready to pounce. Er, strike with laser beam deadliness.

Last night we were snuggled in bed for our goodnights and prayers. We started talking about two new posters freshly hung in his room. Bumblebee and Octomus Prime, from Transformers, are now in position, one guarding the head of the bed and the other the foot. I could not locate any laser beams but robotic security I can provide.

Just to be sure, I asked him, "Jakes. You do know that Transformers aren't real?"

His eyes grew HUGE.

"Uh, huh! They are!"

Hmm. How to explain this one?? "No. No, son. They're only in movies. They're robots. That people make move for the video camera."

That seemed logical enough for both of us. "Right, mom. So, they only live really far away from us? Not in Canada? Only where they make movies?"

Humpf. This wasn't going well and I didn't want to completely dissolve his entire land of fantasy in one night. I mumbled in agreement and thought we'd might as well move onto bedtime prayers while his delusions about Batman, Superman, and Bob the Tomato were still intact.

I prayed the usual: thanksgiving, protection, good health, wisdom, and that my little handsome dreamer would one day grow up to be as wise as Solomon (without the thousands of wives attribute) and like David, who was man after God's own heart.

He too prayed the usual, this time with a little spin: thanksgiving, good health, that he would be a good boy and obey his mama, and that God would please bring Transformers to Canada. Amen.

"Now they'll be here! God will bring them so I can see them!!"

Well, at least he knows that nothing is too impossible for his God.

Impossible, no. Improbable? Me thinks so.

0 for 167

I have one special request. Just one. Please, honey, could you please try to take some pictures of me on our campout? You know something that would prove that I was indeed present on the trip? Some tangible evidence that you did not take the kids by yourself to every fun thing we ever did as a family? Yes, I know the only photos in the house show you alone with the kids, leading every visitor to our home to assume that this is a beautifully decorated and meticulously kept home of a single dad and his four adorable orphans. But don't you think it's time to put that rumor to rest once and for all? Fine, if you want to stick to that story at least allow me to be the kind, charming, and witty aunt who visits occassionally. Just please, oh please, may I have just one photo of me with my kids?

His response:

Look, what a precious moment of pure joy for mama and Manu! But the photographer seems only to have eyes trained for focus on the man bathing himself in the background.

A gymnastical feat worth a standing ovation! Um, seems the photog saves his applause only for those dazzling trees in the far, far distance.

A moment of pure gold if captured on film: the rambunctious adolescent ready to smack mama's behind for attempting to hide that amazing wannabe surfer in the photog's scope. No, not even a solemn moment of comfort between mama and Manu can catch this photographer's eye.

Surely, surely Bo Derek Jr. is worth a perfectly focused snapshot! Who knows, that could have been blown up to poster size and sold by the millions and paid for her university education had our photographer not been so engrossed by the bellied man's super soaker.

A photo finish if I ever saw one! Too bad the subjects are so out of focus we had a hard time determining if we even knew the person who had won!

For future vacations/trips/campouts/family portraits/candid moments in which I desire to have some presence in the photos, please remind me to hire my own paparazzi instead of their papa. Or bring my own tripod instead of relying on the man with only two legs upon which to stablize himself. Or, at the very least, clear all special camera settings and lock all modes into Auto, Auto Focus being the most important.