Goodnight, Ladies

This will be the last week Poutine will be up, so don't forget to update your blog rolls, or your favourites list to http://www.revandthemissus.blogspot.com if you want to keep up with Wiggle Man's adventures. And mine, of course. And Hubba Hubba's...I mean, The Rev's.

And hey, go one step further and follow me over there. It's easy to do: head on over, and click the follow button on the left hand side.

Don't Forget

If you have a hankering for adorable pictures of Wiggle Man at an apple orchard, you need to head over to Rev and The Missus!

Poutine will only be up for a little while longer, so please update your bookmarks, etc, or even better--follow me over at www.revandthemissus.blogspot.com !

Don't Forget

I'm now posting over at Rev and The Missus, so update your favourites list, or your blog roll, or however it is you lovely people find me.

The Missus says please. The Missus says she'll give you candy. (Not really, unless you, like, know me, and come over to my house and stuff. Then I might be able to dig up some candy or sumpin'.)

The Missus says thanks.

Moving

No, not us, silly! We just moved! My blog is moving. Now you'll be able to find me at www.revandthemissus.blogspot.com . I'll be there, and so will Wiggle Man, and Hubba Hubba (only we'll be calling him Rev now--I mean, if I can't do it in real life, I'm surely going to call him that online).

Don't worry--I'll leave this up for about a week or so in case you forget the new address. I hope you'll all follow me over to my new place...see you there!

Teeny Man

Even when he was a baby, Wiggle Man looked like, well, a little man.



This is him, inspecting his first train. Considering he still plays with it, it must have passed inspection.

Wiggle Man continues to amaze us. I'm convinced he grows inches every time he sleeps, and today I have proof that my boy is paying close attention to what he sees on tv. In a touching mother/son moment, we sat on the floor reading a book about trucks. Some sort of large, manly, dirt-moving type tractor was on the page, and Wiggle Man pointed to it and said, "George."

I was thrown for a minute, until I remembered the Curious George episode where George goes to the landfill, and drives a tractor very similar to the large, manly, dirt-moving type tractor in the book.

Then Wiggle Man pointed to his head and said, "hat." Because, of course, in that episode, George goes to the landfill to rescue The Man With The Yellow Hat's, well, Hat.

He's growing up so fast. I hope I can keep up.

Lucky Seven

Seven years ago today was my first date with this hunka hunka burnin' love.



(This is one of the few pictures I have from his ordination service--this is from before the service.)


Here we are, in all our youth and glory, on our honeymoon.


Somewhere, there are pictures from when we were dating. But those are on film. I know. Perhaps I'll bust out the scanner. When those pictures actually get unpacked. So, look for those sometime, I don't know...next year, or something.

Nutmeg and Cinnamon

I love this thing.



Fall would be so tedious without my apple peeler/corer/slicer. Before this lovely invention, I had to do all this by hand. The horror.

Even with a broken handle (the repair, by the way, will be a boy job) I whizzed through those apples to get to the good part: dark brown sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon. This was the first time I've grated my own nutmeg and cinnamon. It was a little extra work, but worth it.

There you have it: my first apple pie of the season. Inspired by Julie, whose blog you definitely need to check out. We went to college together, so I can tell you that as cool as she seems in her blog, she's just as sweet and cool in real life.

Another Big Day

We've had quite a week in our family. Not only did Wiggle Man turn the big 0-2, but tonight Hubba Hubba will add another title to his name. Hubba Hubba is many things: Husband (obviously), Father, Son, Brother, Friend, Killer of Spiders and Other Unidentified Crawlies...but tonight, he adds Pastor.

Tonight, surrounded by friends and family, Hubba Hubba will be ordained as a Minister of the Word and Sacrament. In a way, it's the culmination of a journey that began when he was in high school, got detoured for a bit, and began again one fall night as we sat in his car and he told me he felt called to ministry. I knew then that one day we'd be here--he'd be ordained, and we'd be preparing to start serving a church--our new family in Virginia. (Still working on a blog nickname, guys.)

So, babe--congratulations. I plan on telling you this about a million more times today, but I'm so proud of you.

Party Time!

Now We Are Two

From this:

To this:

Happy Birthday, baby.

Wiggle Speak

As we've been meeting new neighbours and friends, I'm noticing I've been translating for Wiggle Man a lot. This reminded me it's time for another installment of Wiggle Speak. So here goes:


Sigh: (No, not the sound, I just don't know how else to spell what he's saying.) 1. Outside

Das: 1. Thank you.

Hoo-hoooooooo: 1. Train. 2. Thomas The Tank Engine. 3. Sirens

Cook: 1. Cookie. (Not that he eats cookies, mind you. He thinks fig bars and animal crackers are cookies. I'm content to let him linger in ignorance.) 2. Tacos. 3. Cook. Eg--what does Mommy do in the kitchen? Cook. What does she cook for you? Chssssssssss.

Ba-Ball: 1. Ball. 2. Baseball. 3. Target. (Wiggle Man calls Target the Ba-Ball store, because of the giant red cement balls out front. He tries to push them every single time. He also claps and cheers when we tell him we're going to the Ba-Ball store. Mommy has taught him well.)

Nom-nom: 1. Food, usually Subway.

Tuuuuuu: 1. Two. 2. Any other number. Eg--how many feet do you have? Tuuuuuuu. How many fingers do you have? Tuuuuuu.

And to finish up, a little Wiggle Eats. We took Wiggle Man to a Chinese buffet for lunch today. My son? Wanted nothing to do with the chicken nuggets they had. Instead, he ate an egg roll (filled with the usual cabbage, etc.) and lo mein. Odd boy.

Movin' On Down (South, That Is)

A thousand apologies for my absence—I’ve spent the last week amidst boxes. Boxes and boxes. Boxes of boxes. It’s been a little ridiculous. But all for a good cause—we’ve moved to our new home in Virginia, and couldn’t be more pleased. Thank you to everyone who helped unload boxes, move furniture, put together furniture, bring meals—we’ve been overwhelmed by your love and generosity.

I’ve been thinking—I have blog names for everyone I write about (except myself, of course.) How should I refer to y’all (I’m practicing being Southern) from our new church? I’m taking suggestions for your collective nickname.

My goal today (which was my goal yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that) is to finish unpacking the kitchen. Who knew I had so much stuff? Seriously—some of this stuff has been packed away so long, I’d almost forgotten I had it. However, I’m proud to tell you that only two boxes remain to be unpacked in my kitchen. (Let’s not talk about the counter, which is covered in dishes to be washed. My poor, poor dishpan hands.)

Wiggle Man seems to be settling in just fine—he’s very proud of his new “big boy” room, and tries to show his choo choos to anyone who drops by. He’s been sleeping in his “big boy” bed every night, and hasn’t rolled out of it once. He has, however, figured out that he’s no longer actually trapped in a crib, and has tried to sneak out and play when he should be napping. What he hasn’t figured out yet is that Mommy has ears like a bat.

Anyway, I think I may go back to my boxes for a bit—hopefully I can post a little more regularly as things settle down.

Another First

Wiggle Man is churning through the firsts this week. He said "bye" for the first time this week. And we had our first "procedure."

Here's how our story begins:

Wiggle Man and I were sitting on the deck Sunday after church. It was idyllic, almost. A beautiful day, a well behaved child...I should have known. We hadn't been out there long when Wiggle Man came limping up to me, whining and pointing at his foot.

I know, I know. He should have had his shoes on. Lesson learned.

So, I pulled him up on to my lap to examine the splinter that, sure enough, was sticking out of his chubby little foot. Using my super Mommy powers, I quickly grabbed the end of it with my fingernails and pulled it out.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, there was a whole lot more to that splinter. I had just pulled the tip off. What was left was like a small tree or shrub, stuck there in my little man's foot. He was not impressed with our attempts to remove it. He was not impressed with the idea of it remaining, either.

Once we got in bandaged up, Wiggle Man decided he felt better. Me, not so much. But I was hopeful that bath time would soften and loosen things up, and it might just, you know, come out on its own.

Not so much.

Nor would it come out after another "session" with Dr. Hubba Hubba. Dr. Mommy had no luck, either. Even Auntie M, with her nursing background, was unable to remove the shrubbery. So, the next morning we headed off to the pediatrician's office for the procedure.

Dr. D asked Wiggle Man where his boo-boo was. Wiggle Man obliged, pointing to his foot. Dr. D thought he was kidding...until he looked at Wiggle Man's chart.

"Oh," he said.

Yeah.

The plan was for me to hold Wiggle Man up to my chest, so he couldn't see the doctor poking and prodding. Hubba Hubba held Wiggle Man's leg still. Dr. D did his thing.

For 15 minutes. Maybe longer. I certainly wasn't looking at my watch, or anything.

No, I had to look into the screaming red face of my son, who chose this moment to say "Mama." Only it was more like this: "Mamamamamamamamamamamamamamamaaaaaaaaaaaa!" It broke my heart to not be able to do anything besides hold him, tell him every story I could think of, and finally just tell him Mommy loved him, over and over again.

20 minutes later, he was smiling and eating pancakes at McDonald's. Me? I'm still a little traumatized.

Drumroll, Please

Are you ready? Here it is: the moment you've all been waiting for. Or maybe not. But if you've been dying to know what our big news is, I'll let you off the crazy train and tell you.

Right now.

No, seriously, I will.

Ok, here goes:

This morning, at a congregational meeting at a certain church in a certain area of Virginia, that congregation approved the call of Hubba Hubba as their new pastor!!!!

Obviously, we're super excited. This is something we've been working and praying and thinking and hoping towards for, well, almost the entire time Hubba Hubba and I have known each other.

You see, one fall night, Handsome Boyfriend (this was before he became Hubba Hubba) told me that he felt called to ministry. While his telling me this was a big step for our relationship, to be honest, I wasn't surprised. Not only did I know Handsome Boyfriend would make a great pastor, but I always felt that I'd end up as a pastor's wife. (And Handsome Boyfriend and I both knew at that point that we were meant to be married.)

As you might imagine, it's been a long road since that night. There was marriage. There were denominational requirements. And there was seminary life. And denominational requirements. And Wiggle Man arrived. And then were were more denominational requirements. And then there were times we weren't sure exactly what God was doing.

If you've been reading my blog for awhile now, you know that at one point we were considering whether God was actually calling us to serve Him in Kenya. Obviously, He wasn't. I don't always understand the roads God takes us down to show us His plan. But I do know that if we're patient, and quiet enough to actually listen, He will show us His will, one way or another.

Back in June, we traveled down to Virginia to interview with a representative committee from what is now our new church family. I think everyone involved had a sense right away that God's hand was in this.

If you're a part of our new church and you're reading this, I hope you know how very excited we are to meet you and share this life God has called us to lead together. (Oh, and my apologies that you get to hear your new pastor referred to as Hubba Hubba.) I hope you enjoy this glimpse into our lives, and I look forward to getting to know you and your families.

Soon and Very Soon....

I'll be able to let you all off the crazy train, and tell you what big changes await our family. And this time, when I say "soon" I mean, soon. Like, hopefully, sometime tomorrow.

Because of what I hope and pray to be able to tell you tomorrow, my week has been, well, full. Soon, hopefully, I'll be back to posting regularly about my adventures--being a stranger in a strange land, wife to a foreigner (ok, I guess I'm the foreigner here) and mother to a slightly odd, but totally wonderful Wiggle Man.

For instance, this week you missed out on hearing about Hubba Hubba's birthday cake. (Which tasted amazing, and looked like Wiggle Man might have decorated it. Except I did.)

You missed on out what Hubba Hubba requested especially for his birthday cook-out, and my thoughts on the leftovers, which are fragrancing the refrigerator. (Spell check seems to think that fragrancing isn't really a word. Bizarre.)

I'm not even going to rant about those ads on websites that are driving me crrrrazy--you know, the ones that expand to cover half the web page if your mouse even glances in the general direction of the ad? (Note to advertisers: this does not make me want to buy your product. It has rather the opposite effect.)

Instead, I'm going to finish my iced tea, (the fake kind--I only like the real kind when it's done the proper, Southern way, super sweet and ice cold) and go back to doing what I've been doing all day to get ready for next week.

You know, when the crazy train makes a stop somewhere.

Edit

I've been playing with some photo editing, so I thought I'd share.

Since, you know, I'm holding out on you about, ahem, other things.

Hint, Hint

Hoo-Hoooooooo

You may think that a certain place with a certain famous mouse is "the happiest place on earth." For many people, I'm pretty sure it is. I've been known to enjoy a happy day or two there, myself.

But if you are not quite two years old, and you happen to be my son, then "the happiest place on earth" has got nuthin' on this place:



We spent yesterday at a local railroad museum, and even got to take a ride on a working steam engine. We also got to spend the day with Grandma and Papa (my parents), so Wiggle Man got thoroughly spoiled. (As is proper, for a day out with Grandparents.)








Of course, Thomas The Tank Engine has a lot to do with Wiggle Man's love of trains.

All day long we got to hear Wiggle Man point out the trains to us: "Hoo-hooooo! Hoo-hooooooo! Hoooooooooo-hooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

We got some interesting looks in the museum, that's for sure. And, when he wasn't "hoo-hoo-ing", Wiggle Man was screaming. (Also bringing us interesting looks, stares, and--from the parents of other Thomas-loving toddlers--knowing glances.) Yes, screaming. Big, giant tears of agony every time we left one attraction to go to another.

It didn't matter that we were leaving the steam engine ride to go to a entire museum filled with trains. Or that we were leaving the museum to go to a petting zoo. Wiggle Man doesn't exactly have the concept of anticipation down yet.

All he knew was that we were dragging him away from something fun. It didn't matter how much more fun he was going to have where we were going next--he was willing to miss out on that to stay where he was. A bird in the hand, and all that.

There's a lesson in that, I'm thinking.

WiggleSpeak

Finally, (or so it seems to my anxious Mommy heart) our Wiggle Man is learning to say more than animal sounds. So I thought I'd take this opportunity to give you a dictionary of WiggleSpeak, for those who may not be fluent.



Dada: 1. Daddy, of course. That's an easy one.


Pop: 1. Pop-Pop (Hubba Hubba's dad. My dad is "Grandpa", and Wiggles is still working on that one.) 2. Popsicle (specifically, Mommy's special blueberry-banana-yogurt pops--the only kind he knows.) 3. The machine at the farmer's market that makes multi-grain cakes (like rice cakes, sort of) and which makes a big popping sounds. 4. Pretzel dogs, from the same farmer's market. This gets confusing, as you might imagine.

Car: 1. Car, simply enough. 2. Uncle Carl, our neighbour and good friend.

Book: 1. Book. 2. Milk. (I have no idea.)

Bee: 1. Plane. 2. Blankie.

Gas: 1. Gas. Heaven forbid Mommy not get gas after a trip to Walmart--he doesn't understand we don't need to get it every time we're out.

Chhsss: 1. Cheerios. 2. Cheese. 3. Shoes. (Sometimes, you just gotta take it in context, and figure it out from there.)

Chuch: 1. Church. Wiggle Man does not like passing by the church and not stopping. This has less to do with his early spiritual leanings (although we do have an ultrasound picture where his little hands appear to be clasped in prayer) and more to do with the toys in the nursery.

Bech: 1. Beach. However, since he likes to say this randomly (when no beach or sand is present) this one took us a while to figure out.

Brrrr (or, beurre): Regular readers already know this one--my bilingual child is merely asking for peanut butter.

Trash: 1. Trash, garbage.

Pee: 1. Just what you're thinking, only more inclusive. Wiggle Man refers to, ahem, numbers one and two as "pee." You just have too look at where he's pointing to know which, um, number he means.

Stinky: 1. Yup, stinky. He especially enjoys telling us his feet are stinky. Sometimes he'll even demonstrate for us just how stinky they are by sniffing them, declaring them "stinky", and laughing hysterically.

He has a few more words, but I think I'll save them for another day.

Blindsided

Just when you think you have them all figured out: they become toddlers.

All afternoon, I was in Supermom Mode. I was sooooo proud of myself: I had a plan. A plan to get Wiggle Man to eat something other than beurre. Or animal crackers. I was going to get him to eat vegetables and fruit. In a single sitting. And he was going to enjoy it so much, he wouldn't even realise it was good for him.

This plan might have worked, had it not been for the terrible unpredictability of the two year-old (or almost two year-old) set.

I made mini pizzas on whole wheat crusts, cut up the veggies very, very small and covered them with cheese. Then I made us fruit smoothies. Brilliant, yes?

No.

Wiggle Man sat in his high chair for...I lost track of time, but for a ridiculous amount of time, refusing to eat. Smoothies and pizza. I would have killed for smoothies and pizza as a kid. I certainly would not have sat stubbornly at the table, refusing smoothies and pizza. Now did I refuse potatoes? Yes. Pork chops? Yes. Meatloaf? Heck yes. But pizza? Are you kidding me?

To top it off, while typing this I had to tell Wiggle Man not to eat the goldfish crackers. Out of the trash. They were soggy from sitting in the rain for two days. Apparently garbage is preferable to mini pizzas and smoothies.

I have a feeling two is going to be a fuuuunnnnnn age.

Taste of Summer

Dessert tonight took me back. A thousand memories of summers past came flooding in. Memories of dinner at Grandma's, dinner with friends in my college apartment over the summers, and the nights I wasn't sure if I wanted to cook, and just took a spoon to half a melon.


Yes, a melon.

Cantaloupe, specifically.

Nothing says summer to me like a good, fresh, cantaloupe.

I treated myself to a ginormous fruit cup from the local farmer's market. By the time I thought to take the picture, I'd already eaten the strawberries off the top.

As much as this absolutely made my dinner, Hubba Hubba is not a fan of the cantaloupe. This:

totally grosses him out. He thinks it tastes rotten. Literally, rotten. Can you imagine?

RFP Strikes Again

RFP.

Random Foot Pain.

It's probably not so random. If I'd just get over myself and go to either a) a doctor, or b) a decent shoe store, I'm sure someone could tell me what's bothering my feet. My guess is it has something to do with my high arches, and unwillingness to spend more than $40 on shoes. But, if it comes down to a choice between never running again, or shilling out the cash for decent shoes, I may have to swallow my pride and go to a decent shoe store.

Hubba Hubba thinks I need to go to a podiatrist, and get "special shoes."

Just calling them "special shoes" is enough to keep me from thinking that's a good idea.

I'm pretty bummed about this, since this RFP, whatever it is, once kept me from running for about a year and a half. It wasn't until a month and a half ago that I found I could actually run again. (And please, check out the link to learn what I mean when I say "run." It's probably not as cool as you think.)




Dutifully I got up at 6 am to go for my run. As soon as I started down the stairs, I knew RFP had struck again. The old familiar ache was there with every step down I took. It's nowhere near as bad as it was before I gave up running last time, but it was enough to make me decide to give these a break for the rest of the week:

Instead, I'll do some strength training, and see how my tender tootsies feel after a bit of a break. If any of you are avid runners out there, like Sara, feel free to chime in with any thoughts you have. My RFP and I would appreciate the free advice.

Oh, and one more thing:

Sorry to keep you all in suspense. I promise I'm not trying to drive you crazy. I just figured it would be nice to have some company on the crazy train.

I'll share all the top secret details as soon as they're declassified. Til then, enjoy the ride, and please keep your hands and arms inside the crazy train at all times.

Thank you.

Oh, The Times...

They are a-changin'.

I can't go into many details right now, but our little family is about to have some big changes. Big changes that don't (I repeat don't) involve the pitter patter of little feet, or anything like that.

I'm writing this in the midst of a crazy storm, with some pretty impressive lightning. It's a reminder, for me, that, as Rich Mullins so aptly put it, we are not as strong as we think we are. In the times that I long to be in control, I have to remember Who is in control.

In Job 38:24 God asks Job if Job knows the way to the place lightning comes from. We may have a better understanding in our day and age of how lightning actually works, but we certainly don't control it.

In the times I feel so insanely blessed it leaves me without words, I have to remember Who each of these blessings is from.

Times change. What seemed out of control several months ago can be life's biggest blessing. Sometimes when the storm passes, it leaves something beautiful.

Wordless Wednesday

The CCT

I have a theory about cars.

I've noticed this over the weeks as I've been jogging in the mornings. You see, the roads near our house are windy, with little to no shoulder. At 6 am (I know, I know) it's less of a big deal than, say, at 5 pm.

My theory? The Car Clump Theory, or CCT. The basic principle behind CCT is that where no shoulder or sidewalk is present and a pedestrian is sharing the road, all cars will travel in clumps of two, three, four or more cars. The pedestrian hears the cars coming up behind her, moves on to the uneven, often soggy grass. Thinking the car has passed, the pedestrian moves back onto what little shoulder is available, only to find herself in the midst of a car clump.

By the way, the inverse of CCT is true when you are the driver of a car waiting to make a left hand turn. Instead of traveling in clumps and thereby making it possible for you, the waiting driver to make your turn, the others cars will space themselves so perfectly that turning is impossible.

I believe CCT and its inverse should be submitted to the most reputable scientific journal available, don't you?

Rainy Day Editing

It's a rainy, grey day, and I'm curled up in a chair doing some photo editing while the two men in my life sleep the afternoon away.




Here's the same photo, as a fractal. Or something.

Today's Special

My giftings do not include car maintenance.

Once upon a time, I was making the long drive from the True North Strong and Free back to New Jersey. By myself. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, actually, for having attempted the(thus far successful) trip. When I was about 30 minutes from the U.S. border, still on the good ol' QEW, my car decided that steering was no longer in its job description. As was the whole "forward motion" thing.

Amazingly enough, I was near an exit, and I managed to get the car off the exit ramp, and on the side of the road. At dusk. Across from nothing but a rather seedy looking "motel."

Really.

I don't remember if I just didn't have my cell, or if it wouldn't roam in Canada, or what. For whatever reason, I had to trudge my way across the road to the motel, and use the payphone to call AAA. Except I was still in the TNSAF, so it was CAA I called. The very kind lady got help sent to me, and very strongly urged me to not wait in the motel bar.

I didn't.

A very nice tow truck driver came to rescue us, I got to spend the night in a hotel by myself, and CAA fixed the serpentine belt on my car.

Fast forward to yesterday. I was on my way to my monthly indulgence--a massage. I didn't used to be one of those people that got a regular massage. (I secretly always wanted to be one, though.) However, I found a great, reasonably priced massage therapist, and I find it really does help.

But I digress.

So there I was, driving happily along, blissfully unaware that disaster was about to strike. As I turned onto the street my masseuse was located on, my car decided to reminisce about that time we were driving home from the TNSAF. Once again, steering went out the window. Once again, my car crawled to a stop. Just like before. I thought to myself, "Well, there goes the serpentine belt."

I was totally proud of myself for remembering what the thing was called.

I phoned Hubba Hubba, who said he would come "take care of it", and I walked the remaining block and a half to my appointment. But not before I followed Hubba Hubba's advice to put a rag, or something, in the window. I assured him I'd find something, but all I could find was an dried out diaper wipe.

It worked, I guess.

After my appointment, I ventured out in the rain, expecting to see HH and a tow truck. Instead, there was my car, parked neatly in the parking lot of the masseuse. A block and a half away from where it died.

What?

I called Hubba Hubba. I heard a hint of amusement in his voice as he explained that my car had not, in fact died. The serpentine belt was just fine. The car had merely stalled.

Yeah. I never bothered to try and start the car--I assumed it was the serpentine belt, like before, and went from there.

Cars: not my specialty.

{Almost} Wordless...um...Thursday

To give you a break from all my blogging about cake, I give you Wordless Wednesday.

On Thursday.

Presenting....The Cake

Drum roll, please.



I didn't get a good shot of a slice showing all the gooey filling, since my "birthday girl" piece was an end piece with all the icing.

So imagine all that chocolate buttercream covering yellow cake with actual fudge marbled in (not just chocolate cake--fudge, people) and two fillings: strawberry, and a chocolate custard filling.

Do you understand the importance of the countdown now?

This is why I jog, friends. Because I get this excited over food.

In other news, I did not get the one thing I asked Wiggle Man to give me for my birthday--the word "Mommy." No, his ever-growing vocabulary, which includes "cake" (he means pancakes, not the sugary goodness pictured above), and "Pop" (meaning Pop-Pop, or yogurt pop, depending on the context), still does not include Mommy.

I did get a sweet Willow Tree, though, and the faceless boy and his faceless mommy look remarkably like my Wiggle Man and me, so I'm happy.

My Button

Dudes, I made a button for my blog!

It's not the most fabulous button you'll ever see, and I'll probably change it in the next week or so when I get a little more adventurous. And skilled. But, seriously, it took me a while just to make that teeny little button you see on the right. (Note: I've already changed it once since I put it up, and may again, who knows?)

The point of the button? To take you to the post where my songs are. I've got a couple of more I'd like to add in the next month, so stay tuned!

And, it's 7 hours and 50 minutes until cake. In case you were counting.

This Is It!

This is the last full day I will spend as a twenty-something. Tomorrow, around mid-morning, I become a thirty-something.

Whoa.

I've mentioned before that I'm ok with the whole "Big 3-0" thing. I really am. I mean, Hubba Hubba passed that threshold three years ago. So, being married to a thirty-something, and being a thirty-something can't be that different, can they?

Can they?

At any rate, I get cake. Yummy, marble cake with strawberry filling and a chocolate buttercream icing. Or frosting, if you insist on calling it that. Whatever it is, it's super delicious.
And, if Hubba Hubba was smart, the cake will read something like this:

Happy Birthday to my darling wife, the most beautiful-est, special-est woman there is.

You know, if they can fit all that on the cake.

Friday Peevishness

Every once and a while, I like to list some things that drive me nuts. Like, you know, gravity. I find it very therapeutic. Maybe these aren't things that bother you. Maybe you do these things yourself. (Don't worry--I'd still be your friend. I'd just make faces at you when the need arose.)

Irregardless of where you stand, I present my Friday Peeves:

• The word irregardless. It makes no sense.
• Drivers who refuse to merge when told their lane is ending. Come on, people. If we all wait until the very last second to merge, we end up with a mile-long back up. Like last night.
• Drivers in a roundabout who yield to the people entering the roundabout. In addition to the fact that this makes no sense, there's the whole issue of the road signs.
• People who do not flush. Public washrooms or otherwise. I don't want to have to flush for you.
• Having my personal space invaded in salad bars. I'm going as fast as I can, I promise.
• Drunk screaming guys (or gals) at ball games. The likelihood of Charlie Manuel heeding your advice does not increase with the volume of your voice, of the number of offensive words you choose to use.

I feel better already. Don't you? If you'd like to get something off your chest, feel free to leave it in the comments. Unless, of course, one of your peeves is people who list their peeves.

Wordless Wednesday

Trippin'

Well, if you read my last post, you know that we spent part of last week in Virginia. Rather than share the details of our trip, I thought I'd give you more of a visual:

Ok, so we spent a lot of time at a playground. And a small carnival. But most of those pictures aren't flattering. To me. So you only get to see the one of me and Wiggle on the slide.

The combination of our top-secret, confidential purposes there (insert evil laugh) and Wiggle Man's nap schedule meant we didn't do a lot of tourist-y things, but we still had an amazing time.

Plus, we learned what "cloth bologna" is. It's bologna. But it tastes less bologna-y than regular bologna. Don't ask me why.

Potty Break

What a day, what a day.

If you happened to be walking around a certain town in a certain part of Virginia today, you may have seen a woman walking hand in hand with a young boy, not quite two years old yet. You may have stopped the woman to tell her that her son was adorable--that he had beautiful eyes, beautiful hair. You would have been right.

You may have noticed the woman's hair was, perhaps, slightly less beautiful. You would have been right again. You wouldn't have known that the reason for that was she forgot her straightener. And her running shoes. Which has no effect on her hair whatsoever. But still.

(Fear not. I have it on good authority that the woman in question hit the local Wal-Mart to buy replacements.)

However adorable this mother-son picture may have seemed to you, walking around the picturesque town you may or may not have been walking around this morning, you would have had quite a different impression if you were in the vicinity of a certain coffee shop.

Had you been outside the ladies room of a certain coffee shop in a certain town in a certain part of Virginia, you may have heard the following conversation:

(If that was you, my deepest apologies.)

Mother: Wiggle Man, come here please. Come here, honey. Mommy has to change your bum.

Wiggle Man: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

M: Please, honey, don't scream like that. This is a very small room. Now come here, please.

WM: EEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

M: Now. Come here NOW.

WM: (Shakes his head no.)

M: Stop touching that garbage can. Get up off the floor and come here so I can change your bum.

***It should be noted at this point that there was no actual change table in this washroom, nor was there even a counter to do in a pinch, so Wiggle Man ended up back on the floor, where his bum was promptly, and with wet paper towels--guess who forgot wipes?--changed anyway.***

M: Ok, Wiggle Man. All done. Mommy needs to use the toilet now, and then we can go.

WM: Uh-uh. (More head shaking, followed by whimpering and tiny hands being held over tiny ears. Whatever you may think, this is actually about the noise of the toilet flushing. It's Wiggle Man's newest fear.)

M: Wiggle Man, come back here. Stop running around. No honey, it won't be scary. Please stop whining. PLEASE. Stop making that sound. Seriously. Stop.

The conversation continued in much the same vein throughout the fearsome toilet flush, hand washing, and purse-gathering that followed.

And then, of course, came my apology to the kind woman waiting outside, who I can only hope was entertained while she waited for her own potty break.

Crying Over Spilled Milk

I'm not sure why gravity hates me. I've posted about this before, but gravity's onslaught continues.

Yesterday I was quite proud of myself for having cleaned my floors, and having cleaned them with vinegar instead of a harsh, yucky chemical. (I know, I know--some of you do this on a much more regular basis, and so my self-congratulating here seems trite. Just let me have this.)

Anyway, there I was, admiring my gleaming floors. Less than 24 hours later, I had spilled milk, a lot of milk, all over the kitchen floor. Twice.

I can't even blame this on Wiggle Man, or complain about Hubba Hubba tracking mud all over my clean floors--both of the men in my life are perfectly innocent of the defiling of my clean floors.

It was me. All me. Both times.

Well, me and my evil nemesis gravity.

Being BH

In my ever-growing list of blogs I enjoy, you'll find Suburban Turmoil. Lindsay is not afraid to tell it like it is, and tell it in a way that makes you laugh so hard you may or may not just pee a little. Last month she linked to a column she wrote about Brag Hags.



The Brag Hag, a term Lindsay coined, is that mom who insists on sharing with you each and every one of her child's many, many accomplishments.



Well, just this once, just this once, you understand, I am going full on BH.



See this?

If you spend any amount of time in our house at all, you've probably seen Wiggle Man doing one of two things: eating a peanut butter sandwich, or asking for one. Now, Wiggle Man's vocabulary may not be as extensive as your child's. I'll give you that. But is your child bilingual?

I thought not.

Remember, Wiggle Man is half Canadian, and there's some French Canadian in that Canadian part of him. You may not realize what he's saying at first when he comes up to you and says "Brrr. BRRR!"

Is he cold? Is he mimicking a car? But if you grew up in the TNSAF (True North Strong And Free) and remember any of your high school french, or if you always read the french side of your food packages, you know that what he's actually saying is this: "Beurre." As in "beurre d'arachide", or peanut butter.

Yes indeed folks, my kid is spontaneously speaking french.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

D-Day

It's coming.

It's only 25 days away.

My 30th birthday fast approaches. And I'm ok with that. I'm actually looking forward to it.

For one thing, there's the cake. In Hubba Hubba's family, we do cake and ice cream for every one's birthday, big or small. Last year, Hubba Hubba got me a cake from my favourite local bakery, where their marble cake is yellow cake with actual fudge (not just chocolate cake) marbled in. And can I tell you about their butter cream icing? My mouth is watering just typing about it. I'm not kidding. This cake is so good, I refused to let any go to waste. I froze the leftovers in individual servings, and had birthday cake for the next six months.

And of course, I'm debating what I want for my birthday present. I need a new flat iron, but I've been watching infomercials for the InStyler. It looks pretty cool, and I know someone who has one, and she loves it. But then again, I a shopping spree at Target is always a great gift.

But as 30 approaches, I'm starting to understand why wisdom comes with age. I know, I know--most people don't equate wisdom with the ripe old age of 30. But when I look back on myself at 20, I can see a big change.

I'd like to think I've got more discernment. I hope I've got a better vision for my life, a more balanced vision. I make better decisions, and have more realistic expectations. (Except when it comes to gravity. I still expect the laws of gravity to suspend themselves when I'm having a clumsy day.)

So, all in all, I'm ready. Ready for the big 3-0. And all that comes with it.

Besides, no matter what--Hubba Hubba will always be older than me.

It May Be Late, But It's Still...

Wordless Wednesday! (Happy Canada Day!)