Blood, Sweat and Yogurt

Last night, we hit hit yet another "developmental milestone." (And yes, that's still code for crap Brynn does or learns that makes my hair go gray) My child is a daredevil. She climbs like a monkey (like a drunk, slightly suicidal monkey) and loves to throw herself down stairs, ladders and slides, hang off of safety gates (ironically, NOT very safe), cribs, and shelves, and throws herself head first off of couches, laps, car seats, and change tables.

In other words, my child has no fear.
None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Squat. Bupkis. Squadouche.
She stares fear in the face, rips off its nose and eats it as a snack while humming a happy tune.
That's just how badass she is.

Last night, I'm in the kitchen cleaning up from supper. There was yogurt EVERYWHERE. Brynn was feeding herself and by the end we both looked like some kind of epicurean experiment gone horribly wrong. Imagine some food scientist asking, "What do you mean the yogurt exploded?" and you get the idea.

Then, I hear her titter. hee hee And in my head I'm thinking: eh, no big deal.
I hear her giggle. tee heeheehee But then I begin to wonder: hmmm.
I hear her laugh. hahaha Then I get that sinking feeling in my stomach: uh oh.
I hear her bust a gut at the top of her lungs. Bwahahahahahahaha And BAM! I know, whatever is going on is going to age me at least 10 years.
I look up from the sink to see what is so funny and my 15 month old is standing - no, RUNNING - like that drunk, slightly suicidal monkey from one end of our sectional couch to the other laughing so hard she can't breathe, let alone keep her balance.
When did you learn to climb our couch??????? Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen?
The next few seconds played out like a slow motion "nooooo" from just about any cheesy movie you've ever seen.
Happily, she didn't fall...or rather I broke her fall...with my face...which bled while she laughed and poked at the blood. Yup. It was awesome.

Jazz Hands for Fitness?

Ok. I know I already posted today but I gotta share this RIGHT NOW.

I went to the gym after I finished my post earlier today because it was quite literally the only way I could avoid actually ordering a pizza for delivery right here at work. Of course, the fact that I followed up my workout with Corn Nuts was probably counterproductive, but that is beside the point.

So...I'm at the gym. Jogging away on my treadmill dreaming about melty cheesy and pepperoni goodness while waiting for some random chica to get off MY machine. (My gym has this machine called The Wave that is kind of like a cross between an elliptical, a stair climber and speed skating and it is AWESOME. I lovelovelove that machine but they only have one and I can't tell you how bitter I am when I arrive and someone else has dared to profane it with their presence.) So back on topic...I'm on the treadmill, trying not to give this dumb broad the stink eye for being on MY machine when she busts into this slowmo jazz hands/mreow kind of movement like she's a refugee from Cats who can't quite remember how to act like a cat or a woman trying out for the part of a senile cat doing a rain impersonation.

She did it for 10 minutes straight.

I deserve a prize for not falling off my treadmill 'cause there just isn't comedy anywhere as good as that, my friends, nosiree.

Gym? Who The Hell is He?

I'm trying to lose weight.
Try-ing. sigh
I weigh less now than when I got pregnant buuuuut I set a goal for myself and I'm stalled about 10 pounds above that magic number. Sadly, every time I get myself motivated - eating right, going to the gym, feeling good - I get sick. I get the flu, I get food poisoning, I catch a cold, I get lazy. I know that "lazy" doesn't technically count as sick but it is rather addictive and given our society's tendency to label addictions as illnesses, I think it might slide in as an illness one of these days.

Maybe one of these days, we'll all be watching Dr. Drew's "Sluggishness Rehab" or "Celebrity Goof-Off Club." I know I'd tune in. Sitting on my couch. Wearing my fat pants, eating a bag of chips with a diet coke in hand and calling over Brynn to pick the crumbs off my shirt because I'M TOO LAZY TO DO IT MYSELF.

I went to the gym on Monday. I went to the gym yesterday. I'm sitting here right now trying to talk myself into going again today but it is soooo hard. I just keep coming up with excuses.
1. I'm tired.
2. I'm tired.
3. I'm tired.
Then, I enter my workout results into my online fitness diary and it tells me I should take today off. Is this a conspiracy? I'm doing my best to look good and the universe keeps throwing Mars Bars and Licorice Goodies at me. I'm trying to dodge pizza slices and chocolate Rosebuds and my workout program says "take it easy today." Oh and guess what? I just got a damn email from Dominos Pizza. "Dear Leigha: we know you're overdue for some grease. Here's something to make it just that much harder to say no when you get that craving for pizza tonight." AAAAAUGH

I can't take it anymore. I'm heading to the gym to work off some of my pizza-induced stress.

Road Trip 2011: Highway to Hell

Needless to say, things didn't quite go according to plan on this trip.

Because we waited until the last minute, getting ready was an exercise in chaos. I couldn't find half of what I was looking for and (horror of horrors!) I didn't have the time or energy to scrub/tidy/dust/organize everything we own! Since I'm no June Cleaver, I don't quite understand where that impulse came from but thankfully it has passed and we're happily ankle deep in dust bunnies again.
Brynn was congested and her persistent, hacking cough kept her awake and - to be honest - kinda cranky.
By the time we hit Squamish, I was feeling like hell and by bedtime, I wanted to die. Helloooo, food poisoning!
For the entire weekend, Brynn would not sleep (or even stop screaming) unless her arms were wrapped around my throat or her foot was jammed up my nose. There's nothing like laying yourself down at night suffering from food poisoning and trying to breathe through it while your toddler pins you to the bed with a perfect Kimura submission hold.
It rained the entire bloody weekend *except on Sunday when we left* and Brynn and I sat around our hotel room getting cabin fever until there was a break in the clouds. By the time I got her bundled up and out the door, it was pissing rain again.
Oh and did I mention our stupid dishwasher leaked all over the place?

Yup. NOT a good road trip, to say the least.

FYI: I'm invoking the famous Worth "Let us never speak of it again" clause because I'll lose my shit if I've got to talk about this weekend EVER again.

Ahahahaha

Since the last two books I've read were Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and World War Z, this picture really made me laugh my butt off.

Wish I had managed to get a picture of Brynn doing this to one of our cats...now THAT would a picture to treasure forever.

File This Under: "What Are You On?"

We're heading out on another road trip tomorrow - to Whistler this time. This is how I envision the weekend going...cue the squiggly lines and beebley music to show this is all taking place in my imagination:

As we ready ourselves for our trip, we are a virtual ballet of graceful organization. It is as beautiful to watch as it is to experience.
We find everything we need exactly where it should be, clean and ready to go.
Brynn is a bundle of excited (yet quiet and cooperative) energy until we get on the road, when she drifts into a nap of epic proportions.
I catch up on sleep while we drive up and feel like a million dollars when we arrive.
The weather is mild and sunny so Brynn and I spend time happily wandering the town while her father snowboards with friends.
At night, Scott and I spend romantic evenings snuggling on the couch while our baby snoozes away peacefully in the next room.

In summary, the plan is that we're going to spend an idyllic weekend away, leaving on Sunday with smiles on our faces and happy memories all around.

Yeah, I'd be searching my pockets for a bit o' whatever Raffi was on too 'cause I just don't see this happening either. Wish me luck!

Stick This Under Your Bus, Raffi!

The Wheels on the Bus go round and round,
round and round,
round and round,
the wheels on the bus go round and round
all around the...

Oh to hell with this, y'all!

Did you know that Raffi was high on coke when he wrote and/or sang most of his most popular songs? Yup. According to the Great and Powerful Google, he was amped up, chasing the dragon, neck deep in da gutter glitter.

This certainly explains a lot. Look at him, I mean REALLY look at him. The man is using a banana as a phone and I seriously doubt he's being ironic. No, he's probably hiiiiiiiiiiiigh after munching on some California cornflakes and calling the mother ship to report that his effort to subvert Earth's children is proceeding apace.

Well here's my answer to you, Raffi:















"Raffi, I know you're out there. I can feel you now. I know that you're afraid... you're afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell you how it's going to begin. I'm going to hang up this banana, and then I'm going to show these people what you don't want them to see. I'm going to show them a world without you. A world without your brainwashing music and intelligence suppressing lyrics, without wheels on buses or baby belugas. A world where anything is possible. Where we go from there is a choice I leave to you."

The Devil's Boon 2 - The Devil's Kitty

I can't even tell you how freaked out I am right now...well, actually I am going to tell you how freaked out I am so brace yourselves.

As I mentioned before, the other day we bought Brynn another balloon (see exhibit A to the right).

Obviously, this wasn't my idea after my last experience but since this balloon seemed free of demonic influences I thought I would just go with the flow. As the days passed I even began to believe it was just an offensively pink piece of Mylar filled with helium. I still didn't exactly relax around it...it is, after all, still a balloon...but at least I didn't think it was planning my imminent demise the way the last one obviously was.

Yesterday, when Scott left for hockey and Brynn went down for her afternoon nap, I went up to our bedroom to do some cleaning. Something got into my eye and I stumbled down the hall to our master bath.

Aaaaand there it was.

Brynn's Hello Kitty balloon was floating in our shower stall and I can guarantee that no one moved it after it was left downstairs for Brynn to kick/punch/squash/love. WTBFH OMFG!?!

Oh...it gets worse. Then, this damn (or should I say damned) balloon lifted itself back over the glass shower enclosure, floated across the room and lowered itself down until I was eye to eye with Lucifer's feline...and then it just stopped.
Yup. I just threw up a little in my mouth thinking about it.
And no, I'm not even remotely kidding about this.

After realizing my tweezers were nowhere to be found, I threw the balloon over the pony wall where it should have floated downstairs. Should have, but didn't. Noooo, Brynn's balloon - AKA the Devil's Kitty - floated back up to the ceiling, across the pony wall, pulled its string out from a tight spot that should have kept it anchored, down low enough to pass under the lintel and back into the bathroom.

For the love of God, send pointy things c/o ME right now.

And no, I'm not kidding.

Want Ads

Wanted: Supernanny willing to work full time for what really isn't nearly enough money taking loving care of delightful young toddler. Must have previous experience, the patience of Job, a doctorate in early childhood education, be willing to scrub toilets and able to leap small buildings in a single bound. Candidates with magic flying umbrellas and connections to musically inclined chimney sweeps will be given priority.

Hmmm...perhaps the beer should have waited until AFTER drafting the want ad...especially since we can't afford a nanny anyway.

Noooooooo!

I'm stressed out.

Yesterday, I learned that our amazing caregiver is taking July off to go to Greece for her son's wedding. From our perspective this is regrettable, but completely understandable.
Then, she's taking August off too because she always takes August off. Ummm...normally falls under the 'regrettable but understandable' category but she'll have just taken July. I know I'm horrible, but I have to say it anyway: WTF?
THEN, starting in September she's working a shorter week - four days only. My response: pretty much exactly what you see right here but with more fingers and lots more hair.

I know it isn't like she just dropped this bomb on June 15th or something but you have to understand, getting a place for a kid Brynn's age in a good daycare here in the 'Couver is like winning the bloody lotto. I would have had to register her the day I conceived for some of these places (you can't actually do that, I checked into it) and that's provided they're actually willing to take your name. One place we'd love to take Brynn to has a 400+ long wait list and hasn't accepted new names in over a year. Provided I ever get them to take her name, I'm sure there will be a spot just in time for my first grandchild. 400+ names? Really?

I've checked our top three preferred options (of the ones that would actually take our names for their wait lists) and all three are a no go.

Next Stop? Tantrumtown. According to The Great and Powerful Google, this may actually work.

The Devil's Boon!

Brynn's first word was Kitty.

Her next word was Balloon (although it actually comes out as "Boon!").

She loooves balloons. Loves to hold them. Loves to hug them. Loves to bite, kick, drag, punch, throw and body slam them.

Me? I'm not a fan. I hate balloons. I actually qualify as globophobic and yes, that is actually the correct term. I know it sounds stupid but I find balloons scary and stressful.

I'll just wait while you laugh it out.

....

....

...

Ok are you done? All out of your system? No?

...

Moving on. Brynn loves these horrible globes of death. We've had to dress her while she clutched her latest balloon. We've had to read to her, feed her, brush her teeth and bathe her while she held her balloon. I've had her smack me in the face with one repeatedly while I changed her diaper. (Strangely, she laughs just a little too hard while doing that...it is almost like she knows it freaks me out and she's enjoying it) She got one for her birthday and I was insanely happy when it disappeared...and by 'disappeared' I mean it no longer floated out of reach so I quietly cut it up one night when Brynn was sleeping. Yaay!

Unfortunately, when we came back from Thailand, my daughter had a brand new one, courtesy of her grandparents. Thanks, mom.

Since then, I've become convinced this particular balloon was possessed. One day while I was home sick, it was left floating in the kitchen and no one touched it after Brynn left for daycare. Later, I walked the length of the house, went up a flight of stairs, down the entire length of the house, up another flight of stairs and into our bedroom to have a nap. This is only important because when I woke up and rolled over I was literally face to face with Brynn's balloon. My first thought was that it was a good thing I woke up when I did because the damned thing was probably going to smother me in my sleep. The second was to wonder how the hell it followed me up there.

Sadly, this balloon also soon took a turn for the worse and is now a pile of limp Mylar. Yaay!

Whaaat? Oh please. Surely I'm not the only parent out there who secretly sabotages her child's most offensive possessions. I know for a fact that there are people out there that throw out their kid's favorite stuff when it gets too dirty, holey, small or smelly so if I maybe (and I'm not admitting to anything here, folks) happened to accidentally poke Brynn's possessed balloon with my tweezers hard enough to cause a very small hole then what can be done? Yes, Brynn was sad but it was on its last legs anyway and she soon got over it.

Yesterday, we went to Safeway to get a few groceries after picking Brynn up from daycare. It was like somebody took every bloody balloon in creation, brought them to the grocery store, and then strategically placed them everywhere a young child might look. She nearly lost her mind. Just picture a toddler spinning and pointing in every direction while chanting "BOON!" at the top of her lungs and grinning like a maniac and you have an idea what it was like. Needless to say, we left with a brand spanking new Hello Kitty balloon and I'm back to only shopping at Superstore...and sleeping with one eye open.

Beware the Devil's Boon!

Dinglie Danglie Doodle!

These days, I constantly make Rolie Polie Olie references in conversation...sadly often to people who don't know what the hell I'm talking about. For those of you who have avoided being dragged kicking and screaming into the cult of the Treehouse Kids TV channel, it's about a 6 year old robot boy named Olie and his "charming" adventures growing up on the planet Polie. Charming is in quotes because the charm part is debatable.

We find this one of the more palatable cartoons for young kids so we use it for distraction purposes whenever necessary (and yes, I know some people out there are freeeeeaking out that we're purposefully exposing our young child to TV. Blah blah blah yadda yadda). I was pretty surprised the other night when I realized this show actually got me thinking about a fairly serious parenting issue: bad language at home. The episode I was watching...I mean Brynn was watching...was called Dinglie Danglie Doodle (apparently quite a swear word on the planet Polie - called "the 3D word"). Olie's 2 year old sister Zowie overheard her father say it when he hurt himself and she wandered around repeating it until finally her mother heard her and nearly popped a gasket.

This is an issue for us now because Brynn is talking. Well...more accurately, she gabbles a lot but she also actually says a few words. 'Kitty' was her first one but now she also says baby, cracker, bye bye, balloon, Claire (her daycare friend's name), and - awesomely - Mommy and Daddy. The last thing I want to have to do is to try to get her to STOP saying something, even something rude, when she's got such a limited vocabulary but a ridiculously large percentage of my vocabulary is not particularly polite and unless some serious changes happen at home, it is inevitable. I have horrible visions of sending her to daycare, only to have her blithely babble out a string of swear words I unwittingly taught her that will make everyone think I'm the most horrible mother in creation.

Yup, there's an awkward conversation to have with your child's caregiver, to be sure.

So now we have a swear jar. Well actually it is a "swear piggy" 'cause it is her piggy bank and we're charging $1 per swear. What? You think that's expensive???? Well now I'm just going to mumble something vague about inflation and the expense of sending a kid to university in a decade and a half while I slink off into the sunset.

I know she'll eventually learn something rude.
I know she'll look up at me one day, smile charmingly and chirp out something that would make a pirate blush and I know I'll have to work really hard not to laugh BUT that time should not be now. For now, our house is a Dinglie Danglie Doodle-free zone, at least between 7am and 8pm.

After that, all bets are off, dammit!