Eventually I did learn to read (obviously) and I did pick up my books and experience the stories and I never stopped.  Reading (and now writing too) is one of the most important aspects of life for me.

Those books followed our family around packed in boxes for years. Long after my sister and I were ‘done’ with picture books and moved to reading novels those books sat in basements and crawlspaces.  Each time we moved house those books moved with us and that was quite often considering my father was in the military.

I moved out of my parents’ home.  I moved in with my boyfriend.  I married that boy who is now a man and a father.  When my daughter was very small my parents drove over the mountains from Vancouver Island to visit. They did so with a couple of boxes in their trunk.  I filled up the little book case in her room and began to read to her every night.  She loves many of the same stories that I loved when I was her age.  This week her favorite is ‘In A People House.‘

I taught her the alphabet and what sounds the letters make.  She has memorized many of the stories and recites them back to me because she wants nothing more than to read to me.  She wants to read those books all by herself just like I wanted to.  She points out the words and asks me what each one says.

“What are the letters?” I ask her.

“H. A. T.” She says with her little finger poised over each one as she speaks.

“That’s right! And what does each letter sound like?”

“hhhhhh  aaaaaa ttttttt” she responds correctly and with hesitation.  She wants to make sure she gets it right.

“Very good.  Now, what word are the sounds making?”

“Hat!” She smiles.  She knows she read it all on her own and she’s pleased.

But she’s not as pleased as I am.  I’m over the moon that my little girl of not quite five years old is beginning to read.  She’s reading all on her own and she’s learning off the very same books that I so adored as a girl.  A girl who was once very much like my daughter.

this is about half of her library...

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yeah, that's about right

Today I realized that when I became a mom, I also went completely insane.  I came upon this realization when Hannah told me she had a sore neck today.  She’d been a little sick the last few days.  She had a touch of a tickle in her throat (no cough) and a bit of a sniffle (not a full on run).  She wasn’t sick enough for me to keep her home from her school’s out door play day.  She wasn’t sick enough to stop running around like a nut or to stop begging for food every 20 minutes.

But when she told me her neck hurt I immediately FREAK OUT and think ‘oh my god she has meningitis’.

I hit the google and find that most often meningitis comes with a fever which she does not have.  And I also read that the only way to know for sure is to do a spinal tap.

SPINAL TAP

Then I start thinking ‘ok, I’ll watch for a fever and if she gets one I’ll take her in.’

Like it’s no big deal.  Hey doctor, yeah sure, tap that spine.  Really?  Have I lost my freakin marbles?

I won’t take myself to the doctor unless something is falling off – or out -  but when it comes to my kid catching the sniffles I’m in there like stink on a diaper pail.  It got me thinking about some of the other things I’ve thought or googled about my kids and in the interest of maybe helping other moms feel less insane, here’s my list:

Mom = Insane

Sniffles+stiff neck = Meningitis

Long nap= SIDS

Bonk on the head=  Concussion

High Energy = ADD

Low Energy = Malnutrition

Thirsty = Diabetes

I’m sure there are more – add yours in comments and help a frazzled mom take a moment to laugh!

**NOTE** Obviously, this is meant to be humorous.  If your child has actual symptoms do go see a doctor!

This is my Monday Mojo post for this week…I figured if a laugh can’t get the mojo going then nothing will!  P.S.  You might wanna turn your speakers down a touch

tick tock

I often lie in bed at night, waiting to fall asleep with my husband snoring in my ear and think about things that didn’t get done during the day.  ‘I wanted to clear the clutter from the dining room, I wanted to cook that dish just a 1/2 hour longer, I wanted to write that blog post and have a shower. And the floor didn’t get washed again.’

I wish I had the ability to control time, to slow down the day and give me more hours to complete the things I want to do.  I want to be the best mom.  I want to be the best spouse. I want to be the best ME.  So many things fall by the wayside because others take prority and that’s ok.  But wouldn’t it be awesome if it were possible to change that?

I’d stop the clock and freeze the world and sit down for a nice cup of coffee.

I’d read a book.

I’d let the kids play 5 min longer in the tub.

I’d SLEEP, oh my gawd how I’d sleep!

Everything would be in it’s place and the house would sparkle and this blog would be full of craft ideas and recipes and stunning photographs to boot.  Hey, maybe I’d even get that book written!

I wish, I wish, I wish.

What would you wish for?

This post was inspired by Monday Mojo – the Monday Blog Meme that gets your Mojo moving!  This week they’re asking:

If you came upon a magic genie who could grant you ONE wish for YOURSELF…what would you wish for? What would make the biggest difference in your life? No ‘world peace’ wishes here people. We want you to be selfish for once and think of yourself and what you want for you and nobody else. So? What’s your wish?

I resisted the urge to rage at her.  I hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.  I wanted to yell.

‘WHAT THE FUCK HANNAH!’

Instead I said, “go get me a towel right now.”

“I’m sorry mom,” she said, face turned down, eyes averted.

When she came back I wiped the milk from my skin and told her to sit on the couch and not say a word. 10 minutes later, after I felt the anger subside, I called her to sit on my lap.

“What happened before?  Why did you spit your milk on me?”

“I was trying to give you a fish kiss,” she said.

Breakfast was eaten, but we didn’t watch her favorite show.  Punishment.  She understood. The baby’s nap time rolled around and he was angry.  He resisted.  He yelled.  He cried.  30 minutes and a glass of milk later and he finally slumbered.

I emerge from the bedroom feeling as though I’d won one battle for the day to find Hannah eating peanut butter out of the jar.  She’s supposed to ask before she eats anything. It’s a rule and, I feel, a reasonable one.

I grab a snack and a coloring book and a new pack of crayons for her.  Coffee for me.  I bring this all downstairs to our family room – away from where the baby was napping.  “Here,” I say, “take this and sit down and color. Please show me some good behaviour because you haven’t done this yet today.”  She colors half a page then starts playing with the dog.  Then starts chasing the dog. Then starts yelling and throwing toys for the dog.

I lose it.  I order her to lie on the couch and not move or say a word.

I feel the anger bubbling over and I feel myself retreat inside to find some strength only there’s nothing there.  I feel sick, still having not recovered from an earlier illness.  I feel tired.  I feel emotionally exhausted. I want to get away – to run somewhere where I can be still in quiet.

It gets me thinking about how everytime I’m away from my kids I long to be right back at their side.  If I get away for a haircut..I wonder what they are doing.  If I run to the store for milk, I want to be home tucking them in.  If I’m out at an event I look forward to seeing them again.  I realize that I don’t want to get away from my kids, not really.  I’m not running from them.

Instead I’m running back towards myself.   There isn’t a version of me that exists without them any longer. There is no village here.  There’s me. Day in and day out and day in and day out I’m afloat in the ocean with these kids.  These kids who I adore.  Every waking moment is for them, about them, because of them.

I suppose that’s why I write.  The act of writing is a selfish thing.  It’s MY thing.

When the kids are grown and I come out of this day to day cloud of sing-songs and lunches and cartoons and routines I’m hoping that writing will be the thing that keeps my individual self alive.   Because I’m starting to wonder what will be left of me…it’s all happening so fast. When she moves out and he gets married where does that leave me?  I hope it’s not knitting sweaters for cats and pining for grand kids and feeling lost.  Because I’m already lost. I’ve lost myself in them.

Now, look at this picture.  This is an EXACT representation of the differences between my husband and I.  It’s a creepy voyeristic look inside our marriage. It explains pretty much everything. I am an organizer.  I like things to be ‘just so.’  And he does stuff like this that makes me go a little ‘twitchy’ pretty much every day.

really?

#1 – Everyone knows that when you nest bowls you need to do so with the large ones on the bottom and the smaller ones inside.  It provides stability so the stack doesn’t topple over.

#2 – The little plates love each other…why keep them apart?

#3 – Just like the little plates, the bowls are in love too. Forcing them to spend time apart might make their hearts grow fonder for each other if, you know, they actually had hearts.

#4 – When you make a sandwich you put it on a plate.  You do not make a plate sandwich with bowls as the meat.  It’s just weird.

#5 – I am not mentioning the grocery bags that are resting on the floor of our broom closet instead of being neatly tucked inside the bag holder thingy in the same closet.  Right there.  Above where you dropped them all.  Oooops, I totally mentioned it.

#6 – I realize this entire post makes me seem insane.  I figured, that’s what you come here for.