Bedroom Stories

Once when I was a kid, I used the en suite bathroom in the master bedroom at the home of a friend.  My friend had explained that kids were not permitted to enter the master bedroom, but she and her parents were out in the backyard and the other bathroom was occupied.  And, I really, really had to go. 

The en suite was enormous and decorated with fluffy blue mats, matching towels and poodles crocheted out of Phentex.  There were bowls of little blue and white balls filled with bath oil, the scent of which mixed with the slightly mouldy odor that came from the mats and (eek!) carpet on the floor and permeated the room.  It was awesome.  

Then I saw it:  the thing that just didn't belong.  

In the corner directly across from the toilet, possibly within arm's reach, sat a disheveled stack of Penthouse magazines.  The horror was unspeakable.  My friend's dad, the pot-bellied, jovial, balding guy who sometimes shared driving duties with other parents on field trips, read Penthouse, on the toilet.  

I never did tell anyone about what happened.  How could I? I had ventured into the inner sanctum of my friend's home, so I suppose I got what I deserved.  Instead, I remained silently freaked out about it throughout the rest of junior high and high school.  Indeed, it floats into my memory from time-to-time even now, in middle-age, which leads to me the point of this entry:  what kinds of things lurk in my bedroom that could inadvertently freak out my kids or worse, their friends?

Upon a scan of my bedroom, I found a few things that could lead to questions.

Duct Tape:  There is role in the en suite bathroom, and on the nightstand, but I am not having kinky bondage sex at night.  I would be too tired anyway.  Rather, the duct tape is in the bedroom so that I can find it each morning and Arnold can use it to seal my arm, which is currently in a cast, into a plastic bag so that I can shower.  I used to keep the duct tape in the kitchen, but I moved it because our children consider it part of their toy collection and I am just not capable of sleuthing through toy boxes before noon.

Birthday Candles:  These are strewn about the room, and I don't know why.  They are an odd thing to find in the bedroom and even my own kids wonder why they are there. Unlike the duct tape, I have no explanation for how these got there.

Personal Massager:  I bought a number of these for friends and family for stocking stuffers. I also bought one for myself because I get bursitis from time to time and it helps with the pain. I got them at a pharmacy, and they do not bear any resemblance, whatsoever, to sex toys.   It is something that should be kept near the first aid kit, with the A-535 and the slings, under the bathroom sink.  I freely admit that seeing one sitting at such close to proximity to the bed is a bit disconcerting.  I thought of hiding it in the nightstand, but that could be even more misunderstood.  It now sits atop a very high shelf, waiting for the next garbage collection day.

Laundry:  There are mountains of both dirty and clean laundry throughout the bedroom.  The latter includes both folded and unfolded, but does not include various pairs of (men's) socks all over the room.  There is a real risk that my kids' friends might think I am a slob.  On the other hand, this state of things might well serve to quell any concerns anyone might have about the duct tape or a personal massager.  A mess like that is not typically associated with a "love nest".

Dora and Bart Simpson on the Pillows:  On those rare days when the stars align and the laundry is folded and put away, the beds made and bedroom neat and tidy, the linens actually match.  Unfortunately, those days are, as I said, rare.  The kids think of the bed in the master bedroom as, well, their own, and when they arrive and kick their dad, or me, or both of us, out, they sometimes bring their own pillows.  There are days when I return all the pillows to their rightful beds, more more days, I just do not.  I don't have the energy and by the time I get to bed most nights, having Bart Simpson or Scooby Doo on my pillow is just not a deal-breaker.  

"Prevention" and "Shape" Magazines:  I'm not too worried about these.  I read them because I have not really accepted that I am not going to a hard-bodied 25-year-old every again and I am prepared to pay for transparent propaganda to reinforce this.

I don't think there is really that much in my bedroom that could be misunderstood, but I suppose it never hurts to go through and take stock every now and then.  

 

Guest Post

I recently attended a parent-teacher conference and found out that Daniel is a prolific writer. I asked him if he was interested in doing some "guest post" spots on my blog and surprisingly, he said yes. That was a few weeks ago, though, and I thought perhaps he had lost interest. To my great delight, Daniel was inspired by the drama of his sister losing her first tooth to write his own "mini-memoir" of his own first loose tooth.

Be prepared.  It's not a very sweet story . . .

The Dangers of the Loose Tooth

By:  Daniel  

The loose tooth was the worst.   You know how they say an apple is a day keeps the doctor away? Well, I COULDN’T HAVE ONE! And if I had an apple I would bleed to death.

   
The killer apple! (apples aren’t really killers).  There are 573,786,462.972,978,640,004,556,77,342,768 killer apples in the world -

I didn’t guess I went to Google and found it - so watch out if you have a loose tooth.

Another Meme

I received this notice today from Miss Colombina: 

I’m going to link to a couple of other mom bloggers here in Canada The US, and to a couple of mom bloggers from other countries around the world, and they’ll write their posts, sharing 5 things that they love (or maybe what they don’t so much love - this playground doesn’t force conformity) about being a mom, and then they’ll tag a few more bloggers from their own country and from other countries, and so on. And you’re more than welcome to join: just write a post of your own (5 things that you love about being a mom) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country (Google is a good resource if you don’t know any; google any country name and ‘mom’ in their blog search function) (be sure to let them know that you’ve tagged them!) - and link back here and leave a comment and we’ll add you to the ‘itinerary,’ which David will compile and post and update as the tour proceeds.

So here it is.  Five Things I Love About Being a Mom:

1. I love being the benevolent boss of two people who give me their undying love and loyalty, but never having to pay them anything more than a weekly allowance.
2. Having children gives me a reason to shamelessly watch cartoons (with the kids) for hours on end, or to read books that thrilled me in my childhood, like Where the Wild Things Are and The Velveteen Rabbit.
3. I love the way that their dad makes them laugh.  If only all dads could be so cool.
4. YouTube
5. What I love most is the way they remind me that life really doesn't need to be as complicated or stressful as we make it.  If we all stop to smell the roses once in awhile, we gain perspective.

I'm tagging Megan, Amy and Cindy.

Fashionista Mommy

As a teenager I promised myself that I would never trade style for comfort.  In other words, I wasn't going to turn into one of those blue-haired ladies sporting peach polyester pants with an elastic waist, a matching jacket and sensible shoes.  Similarly, I would not sacrifice the sexiness of long tresses for short, care-free hair.  Not me.  No way.

True to my promise, and well into my thirties, I regularly walked by the "practical" shoe store in my favourite mall with my nose in the air, although I sometimes stole a contemptuous glance at the middle-aged women swarming around what I considered dowdy pairs of Clarks and Hush Puppies.  There was a Tan-Jay store just down from there and I think I only ever entered it once, when I took my grandmother shopping.  Neither the ease of wash and wear, no-iron pant suits, nor the endless possibilities of an expandable elastic waist could entice me into what my grandmother and her contemporaries must have considered some sort of polyester paradise.

After the kids came along, I thought of myself as a fairly stylish mommy.  Despite a baby and toddler, I still pulled out my curling iron and styled my hair, and I wore what I thought were fairly hip clothes.  I even joined in on the whole "low-rise" jean thing, walking around feeling like I should be wearing a tool belt and fixing a toilet, for the sake of fashion.  Janet, a fashion Nazi in her own right, reinforced my commitment with compliments of "pretty mommy" and I secretly took pride in finding myself dressed as stylishly as some of the twenty-something moms when I attended school functions.

Then one day I went to the store where I buy many of my clothes, in search of a pair of new jeans.  It seemed that most of my other ones had, mysteriously, gotten smaller.  I chose several pairs and headed to the change room, readying myself for the disappointment that inevitably follows when middle-aged women try and fit into clothes designed for twenty-five-year-olds.  Then I passed the sale rack and I spotted a pair of jeans for $25.99.  They bore a tag that said they were my size, so I snapped them up, figuring I might as well try them on.

The change room experience was as painful as I had anticipated.  I squeezed myself into a pair of  the new "skinny" jeans and looked into the mirror, only to be met by an image of camel toes and thunder thighs.  I then tried on the wide-legged ones, but the low-rise waist was uncomfortable and I kept thinking about how embarrassing it would be to have to keep pulling them up.  At last, I tried on the sale jeans, mostly because I was there and I had dragged them into the change room.

It was heaven.

They sat at my waist.  I could bend over and not have my pants fall off.

The thighs and butt had lots of room. 

It was like wearing a hug.

I wondered briefly why they were so comfortable - and so cheap.  Then I realised that they were "old-lady" jeans.  For a moment, I was crestfallen.  Having finally discovered the best fitting pants of the decade, I was hesitant to give them up and I felt compelled to be true to my fashion commitment.  On the other hand, wearing them was like some guilty pleasure. They just felt so damned good!  

Almost without effort, I re-dressed and wandered to the cashier with my new find.  The pierced and trendy young clerk was almost successful in containing her contempt, but I could see it bubbling up from within her. I wanted to tell her that I had been in her shoes, which I assumed were too high and terribly uncomfortable, yet wildly attractive. But I held my tongue.  Like me, she would wander through her years of young adulthood in ill-fitting, scanty, yet trendy, clothing, only to discover around 40 that loose jeans feel fantastic.  I had to let her do that on her own, and give her the freedom to sneer at the new generation of polyester princesses like me.

As for my future, I see many more pairs of wide-size, practical shoes and maybe even blue hair and polyester pant suits one day.  I've earned it!

Recipe for Disaster

A dear friend of mine pointed out recently that Kraft now makes whole wheat KD.  I already knew that, though.  In fact, I am reminded of this interesting new product, as well as the "white cheddar" KD, each day when I look at the top of the fridge and see a KD Variety Pack sitting there, as it has sat since last November.

I remember well the day that I made this purchase.  While out to buy milk, I noticed a "sale" sign at the Co-op in the KD section.  Without looking too closely, I snapped up what I thought could be the deal of the week - an eight-pack flat of Kraft Dinner.   The price worked out to a mere $.70 a box.  My gaze wandered wistfully to the grocery store ceiling and I eagerly imagined what I could do with all of the grocery money I would save just by purchasing this little flat of KD.  We were actually out of KD at the time, so I knew as well that I would get a "hero's welcome" from the kids when I showed up at home with this little gem.

As anticipated, both Janet and Daniel were thrilled to see not only milk, but KD, in the bag when I arrived home.  We were fresh out and it seems that their father was hell-bent on making them eat some type of poisonous vegetables and protein for dinner (also known as a well-rounded, nutritious meal).   Not wanting to see the kids suffer, I undertook to make them KD. How could I refuse?

It was not until the water was boiling, the kids were past the point of hunger and the box was opened that I noticed that the noodles were brown.  Whole-wheat brown, that is.  I picked up the box and stared at it in disbelief.  My gaze passed from the box to the noodles in the pot of boiling water and back again.  I was faced with a choice:  admit to the kids that this was not the regular KD or just keep going and hope that they would be so hungry that they didn't care.  I opted for the latter.  That was a mistake.

"Why is this brown?" Janet demanded.  Despite the fact that it was covered in that trade-mark Kraft neon-orange cheese product, the noodles were very obviously brown.  "This isn't Kraft Dinner!"  She started to cry.

I cajoled her.  "Just try it, honey.  It tastes the same as regular, but it's better for you."  I mentioned that whole wheat KD would help her poop better, but she did not view this as helpful.

She tried it, as did Daniel.  He was the first to speak.

"This is gross."

They were not going to eat it.  Now, I know that a good parent would teach their children that they need to be a little more adventurous in their eating, but frankly, I don't have the energy to fight on a Wednesday at 7:00 p.m.  I looked over at the remaining seven boxes in the flat.  There was a white cheddar one.  It would only take another fifteen minutes or so and surely, it would taste the same. . .

Fifteen minutes later, I handed Janet and Daniel new bowls of KD, having secretly added equal parts of yellow and red food colouring to the pot.   I followed the instructions on the "Nutty Club" food colouring box to the "T", I thought, but unfortunately, my measurements were off and what was supposed to be "cheddar orange" was a sad shade of pink.  Now Janet was beyond hungry, and almost beyond angry.  

"This is NOT Kraft Dinner!" she seethed.  

Daniel, on the other hand, was laughing at me.  He pointed to the food colouring bottles on the counter.  "I'm not two years old, you know."  

In the end, I gave up and let the kids have an apple, followed by banana splits, for dinner that night.  As for the remaining six boxes of white cheddar/whole wheat KD, I have fleeting thoughts of donating them to the food bank bin at the local Co-op, but I cannot bring myself to do that to some unsuspecting cook who, like me, will pay dearly for inattention to detail.    

The Failed Mommy Challenge: Appeasing the Princess and Assuaging the Guilt

Over the past year, I thought I was coming to terms with the fact that meaningful participation in school activities was not something that I could - or needed to - do.  Daniel, my little knight in shining armor, seems to be quite embarrassed by me these days anyway, and, having had him go through 3-1/2 years of school with me working full time, I know that kids survive even if their parents cannot go on field trips.  Daniel seems to appreciate that his father and I l do what we can, but we can't volunteer for many things during the day.  I try to make up for it with baking and for Daniel, this seems to work.

Janet, of course, is another story.  It's not so much that she doesn't understand, but more, I think, that she finds our - or more particularly, my - lack of classroom participation simply unacceptable.  

Before the spring break, the kids came home with forms for "Camp de Neige".  This is where they all go out to the ski club and do winter stuff.  They both asked me what I would be doing for volunteer work.  I said I would bake a snack one day.  Daniel was appeased, but Janet, of course, pointed out that baking snacks was not really helping out at the camp.  I had to be there.   And, despite years of university education and legal training, I was unable to argue with her.  It was, frankly, easier to deal with the stress of trying to figure out how I could (1) do my job; (2) act for my boss and do her job; (3) keep up with chores at home; (4) fit in an afternoon shift of kitchen duty, skiing helper or first aid attendant than to try and appease her.

Fortunately, I broke the bones in one of my wrists and used this to get out of Camp de Neige duty.  It worked, although I remain somewhat surprised that Janet did not demand a note from my physician.

Ah, but the broken wrist will only carry me so far.  This evening Janet reminded her father and I of the Kindergarten Open House that is happening tomorrow at her school.  It is from 1:00 to 2:30 and when she reminded me of it, I confirmed my attendance, but told her that I would not be able to stay for the full ninety minutes.  

The tears started.

Then the wailing commenced.

This was followed by the accusations.  

I would be the only parent who left (ie. abandoned) her child early. Every other parent would be there the whole time and, of course, she is always the only one in the class whose mother misses events (she still hasn't forgiven me for the Terry Fox incident in September, when I thought I was only supposed to show up for the donuts).  You would think that the parents of her classmates were actually employees of the school!  

Of course, this is completely ridiculous.  Janet's peers have parents with pressures and limitations just like the rest of us.  Daniel tells me frequently that tears are often a form of manipulation and I know that he is right.  And I remind Janet every once in awhile that without two incomes, we would be doing a lot less traveling to warmer places.  

Yet, I still feel guilty.  Sigh . . .