I’ve been back on DietPower ever since I got my new laptop a few weeks ago, and it has been going very well. I haven’t really lost any weight yet, but that’s okay — until I wean the Little Miss, my main goal is to just get a feel for how much I’m eating and what my nutrient intake is.

Also, I MUST get my daily A+. The school system has given me a crazy need for approval via letter grades.

Since I restarted on DietPower I’ve had little trouble getting an A every day. I figured out that one of the reasons I was getting low letter grades last time was that there is a zero tolerance in DP for trans fats — good, but seeing as how I have to get five calcium servings a day with the nursing and all, pretty hard to avoid. Even low-fat yogurt (I can’t stand the fat-free kind) has 0.1 grams of trans fats, which doesn’t seem like much, but when you think about it, it’s an infinite amount more than what DP allows.

Thus, getting an A was pretty tough. I have worked around this by “forgetting” to enter the trans fats box for any and all new foods I’m adding to the dictionary. An A is an A even if achieved via cheating, I say. I’m setting such a good example for my kids.

Anyway, while I was struggling to get a passing grade in DietPower, Sir Monkeypants spent a couple of days logging his own foods and found out that getting an A+ was child’s play. Easy as pie. Even on days when he ate a whole chocolate bar for lunch. And another for snack.

In fact, getting a high DP score was so incredibly easy for him that he soon discovered that if you get a daily score above 120 (totally unheard of in our past use of the software), you can actually get an A++.

Suddenly every over-achieving molecule in my body has something new to shoot for. I can be the best at eating, I know it!

Then yesterday, through the magical combination of Bran Flakes for breakfast, a calcium supplement, a Nutribar, and lentils for dinner, I went where no DietPower user has gone before.

Past 140.

Observe:

I am the Best. Eater. Ever. I am a Genius Eater.

Only took 37 years of practice.

About a year ago, I started to crack down on our grocery shopping budget. It wasn’t that we were spending out of control or anything like that, but I remembered my mom being very price-savvy when I was a child, and I felt like I should probably develop the same skill. I’d go to the grocery store and I’d buy what we needed but I never had any idea if I was getting a good price. I didn’t really know when certain fruits and vegetables were in season, I’d just buy our favourite things all year long, and sometimes the grapes were 99 cents a pound and sometimes they were $3 a pound, and who knew what was good and what wasn’t?

So I took it upon myself to start comparing the weekly flyers, and visiting different grocery stores, to try to get a feel for price points for key items. I was shocked, shocked, to discover that our local grocery store — a Loblaws — was one of the most expensive chains in the city. When the Superstore opened, people flocked to shop there from miles around. At first I didn’t see the point — it was so big! Annoying in its bigness! — but now I understand that of the big chains, the Superstore has lower prices than most. It’s usually only beat out by the Food Basics, or sometimes the Price Chopper, both of which are really far away from us and don’t carry my beloved President’s Choice products.

So as an overall cost-saving move, I chose the Superstore as our primary grocery store of choice. And all was well.

Except for one little thing. There’s only one brand of bread that the Captain can eat (because all other brands are may contain for eggs), and that’s Dempsters. The Superstore doesn’t carry Dempsters brand bread. So in addition to hitting the Superstore every Sunday morning, we also had to go to either the WalMart (best price, but far and busy) or the Loeb (closer and quieter, but more expensive) for bread. Usually the Loeb wins out, actually, because they are also the only store to carry Lick’s brand veggie burgers and Guk sauce, which I could live on if you asked me very nicely and offered me chips on the side. The Loeb also has a kick-ass alternative foods section where we can get frozen waffles for the Captain that do not contain eggs, milk, or wheat. Can you believe such a product could possibly exist? And that it is tasty, crispy, and really and truly tastes just like a waffle? I tell you, we are living in grand times.

A few weeks ago we decided that we were unhappy with the quality and selection of produce at the Superstore, so we committed to going to the Farm Boy every Sunday to get our fruits and veggies. The Farm Boy also offers a fabulous selection of cheeses, the best tortilla chips ever (warning: do NOT check the label for fat content), and some not-bad pre-made sushi.

And now we’re having a problem with the Superstore for meat, too. Their weekend selection is terrible — they are usually out of basics, like chicken breasts and ground turkey, two minutes after opening on Saturday morning and they don’t seem to restock all weekend long. Plus, the Captain has lost interest in meat lately, and since it is his only source of protein, we’re desperate for exciting new meat selections. So I’ve decided to add the M&M to our grocery shopping day for a while, so we can try out some new products.

So that means that, on Sundays, we are going to the Superstore…and the Loeb…and the Farm Boy…and the M&M. It’s become an all-day grocery shopping marathon. Not to mention all the worth-its-weight-in-gold gas that we’re using. Thank goodness we use those reusable produce bags as a carbon offset.

Do other families do this? Do they store hop for food? Or do they just pull up to the Sobey’s at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday and fill ‘er up?

On one hand, I like the fact that we are trying to get the best possible food for our family. But it really does seem a little too hunter-gatherer for me. Is it too much to ask that one store actually provide a nice selection of all foods, at reasonable prices?

Apparently so.

Well. After an outstanding weekend, I must say, this week is not off to the best of starts.

The weekend was great, though. Sir Monkeypants transformed himself into his superhero alter-ego (proposed name: DaddySuperFun!, exclamation mark mandatory) and did activity after activity with the kids. He took them to the Museum of Nature, which was very informative and interesting and we all loved it (plus, free on Saturday mornings before noon — I smell repeat visit in the near future). He took the older two kids to Little Ray’s Reptile Zoo on Sunday afternoon, which again, was fun and informative and interesting and the kids loved it. He helped Captain Jelly Belly make books. He took Gal Smiley for a one-on-one trip to the Home Depot, which they both adore. He took the older two kids to their gymnastics class on Sunday morning. He carried Little Miss Sunshine around for hours on Sunday evening, since she’s sick with a bad cold and needed extra cuddling.

See? Superhero.

So overall, amazing weekend, fun for all.

Then, this morning? Not so fun.

Captain Jelly Belly was up at 5:30 a.m. He’s always been an early riser, but he’s absolutely not allowed to enter our room before 6. I could hear him messing around in the bathroom, though, and then wandering around in his room.

Then, surprisingly, Gal Smiley also got up before 6, which basically never happens — she’s a late sleeper, plus she’d been to bed a little late the night before.

The two of them, up together in a house where Mommy and Daddy were still sleeping, turned out to be…Trouble. They got a hold of a tube of vaseline and — less than six feet from our bed, where Sir Monkeypants and I were struggling to find the energy to open our eyes — decided to play “mud puddle” right there on the rug. I could hear them talking about mud, and “pretending” to get all goopy, and “pretending” to need to wash their hands, and I thought, “Oh cute, they are ‘pretending’ to make a mud puddle.”

Only it was a little too much on the “real” side of things for our liking.

Warning bells started to go off when I started to approach consciousness and I heard Captain Jelly Belly tell Gal Smiley, “Now you have to put your face in it.” Gal Smiley said, “But I don’t want to.” And the Captain said, “But you have to.” And the Gal said, “I don’t WANT TO.”

Seems like a pretend puddle wouldn’t cause this kind of disagreement, no? Moments later we were both out of bed and there was TROUBLE.

Naturally there was a lot of yelling. Lately, though, we find that yelling is not enough. The Captain just rolls his eyes and ignores us. Gal Smiley is at an age where she will deny anything and everything in order to avoid getting in trouble, and that much denial eventually leads her to believe that it really didn’t happen at all.

So today, we had to actually go so far as to find a punishment for our kids. For playing with the goop, which we think was an obviously stupid thing to do, and at the very least, they should have asked first before using something that was clearly not in the “toy” classification. For lying, because they both lied about the fact that Gal Smiley did, indeed, put her face in it, and they both tried to finger the other one as being the primary instigator.

The Captain is in even more trouble for bullying his sister into the face thing, which really upsets me. Mrs. Carl Sagan has told me hair-raising stories about how her older brother tormented her growing up, and even though they both made it through childhood in one piece and seem quite happy and well-adjusted and loving now, those past stories leave a feeling of panic in my stomach, because I know they will probably happen around here when I’m not looking.

Or, you know, when I’m lying in a bed six feet away.

So now, in addition to having a funny oily stain on the carpet in my bedroom, I’m looking down the barrel of Punishment Day Number One, of what I’m sure will be many in the years to come. They’re not allowed to play with each other ALL DAY LONG. Hopefully this will show the Captain that Gal Smiley is a playmate that he loves and needs and should not abuse. Hopefully it will show Gal Smiley that she can have fun without the Captain and does not need to do whatever he says. Hopefully they will shrivel up from boredom and thus be unable to open any tubes of vaseline EVER AGAIN.

It’s gonna be a loooong week.

This past week, Little Miss Sunshine (formerlly known as the Wee One) slept through the night three nights out of four. By “through the night,” I mean we put her in bed at 6:30, and she stayed asleep until 5:30 the next morning, when she woke up refreshed and cheerful. Those nights, I got EIGHT HOURS OF SLEEP, which is kind of a miracle. I felt like I could fly, maybe, if you asked really nicely.

I even wrote a blog post about how we’ve turned a corner, she’s growing up, my nights are my own again.

But. Before I could post it…she learned to pull herself up to standing.

And now, when she stirs little bit in the night and approaches consciousness, instead of going back to sleep, her little baby brain thinks, “I CAN STAND UP.”

So she does.

Then, once she is up there, her little baby brain thinks, “I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO GET DOWN.”

So she cries. LOUDLY. With maximum distress.

And so, napping has been a little tough lately. Sleeping through the night? Just a distant memory. It’s times like this that I remember what my friend Izabela always said about her little boy, that she was always amazed at how you have to teach them everything, that there is absolutely no a priori knowledge in there. We’ll be making “learning to SIT DOWN” a high priority around here.

Also a new priority…learning to walk. Up until now, she’s been a happy crawler, but suddenly that’s not good enough. I’m spending a lot of time now as a human walker, humped over a tiny little girl as she slowly, slowly, walks around. She’s good with her left foot but her right foot drags a little, so the other day I said to Sir Monkeypants that she reminded me of House. That started a disagreement over which one of us is her Wilson, and which one is Cuddy. You’d think it would be obvious, but yesterday Gal Smiley asked Sir Monkeypants why his chest is bigger than Mommy’s, so there is some question.

Anyway, getting our little walker to go into the playpen these days is a bit of a challenge, especially when she’s working on a reduced I CAN STAND sleep schedule.

On the plus side, though, the Little Miss is in this adorable phase where she is absolutely fascinated by bucketfuls of stuff. Any stuff will do, as long as it’s in a bucket. I’ve always kept an assortment of small toys in her playpen and recently she’s become bored with them, so she fusses when I have to pop her in. Solution? I got an ice cream bucket (empty, we’re not quite feeding her ice cream yet, that’s next week), and put it in the playpen too. Now when I put her in there, I just grab a random handful of toys that were already in there, pop them in the bucket, and say, “Oh look! What’s in your bucket today?”

Suddenly, everything old is new again. Stuff! In a bucket! SO COOL.

Second only to the immense appeal of unravelling the entire roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. Ten months old is a very busy time.

I feel like I don’t blog about Gal Smiley as much as my other two kids, and I’m hyper aware of this because she is the middle child and my mother is full of dire predictions about how she is going to grow up to be bitter and angry and wear black turtlenecks while creating performance art pieces on the streets of Paris. But the thing is, Gal Smiley is just pretty much normal. She has temper tantrums sometimes but in general she is a really sweet girl, extremely generous with her love, her time, and her belongings, kind to her sister and brother, and valuing family above all else. It’s kind of hard to mock that, you know?

She’s also by far our healthiest child, rarely getting sick and recovering quickly when she does. She still talks about “that one time” she threw up — compare to Captain Jelly Belly, who throws up on a weekly (if not daily) basis and who now is so cavalier about it that he can turn to the side while playing, barf, then go on playing like nothing has happened. We recently had her eyes checked for the first time and despite having two rather myopic parents, her eyes are healthy and show no signs of ever needing glasses. Our dentist assures us that she won’t need braces since she has small teeth that are not crowded at all, and a perfect bite.

It’s kind of a shame because there’s nothing she likes better than medicine, band-aids, and visiting the doctor. Figures.

As for hobbies, she likes the usual things — playing robot superheroes with her brother, baking muffins with Mommy, dressing up like a princess with her gal pals at school, watching Toopy and Binoo curled up on the couch with a cup of chocolate milk.

Also, she enjoys cutting.

I don’t mean the mental illness kind of way, Mom.

I just mean she really, really likes to cut stuff up with scissors. Pretty much every school day, she spends a large chunk of time just cutting stuff up — random paper, paper plates, tissues, PlayDoh. The teachers know that she’s a scissors whiz, and they just hand her a pair and let her go to town. Her typical daily school output includes a few drawings and a little pile of cut up bits. Thank goodness she doesn’t have a Special Box. Otherwise we’d be able to open our own confetti store.

At home it’s more of the same. Captain Jelly Belly is really into making books right now (sample title: “If you are a superhero and you see a superhero fighting a bad guy, always join in!”) so he’ll spend hours at the kitchen table drawing elabourate pictures and ordering them and adding a cover and then reading it over and talking about it, all the while Gal Smiley is…cutting. Cutting up pretty coloured paper into really small bits.

Yesterday she cut up a little toy plane, made of foam board, that she’d gotten at a birthday party on the weekend. Then I convinced her to do a gluing project, so she painstainingly glued several magazine pictures onto a piece of paper, and then…cut it up. Into bits.

It goes without saying that I have to keep her away from such important projects as homemade valentines and Father’s Day cards. Although Sir Monkeypants would probably understand that a little pile of bits that used to be a card is really a symbol of her undying love.

Maybe for her birthday I’ll get her a little “Cutters” shirt, like the ones in Breaking Away. “They want a fight, we’ll give ’em a fight!”

Oh, not that kind of cutter.

It’s no secret on this blog that Captain Jelly Belly has a bit of an issue with throwing things away. He’s a hoarder, no doubt. I used to try to take a hard line on the gathering and keeping of garbage, but it was a really slippery slope, and Dr. Phil says that parents should never dig their heels in and make an issue out of something unless they are willing to fight it out to the bitter end. I found I was caving in too much on this front — “Okay, you can keep just one fruit snacks wrapper…just this one sales tag from your new t-shirt…just this one used popsicle stick” — and so I felt my power as a Mommy being diluted. So basically now I just try to look the other way and keep the clutter to a minimum, sometimes by throwing things away after he’s asleep. I warn you now: loose lips sink ships.

I do draw the line at medical-grade waste, though. No matter how many tears are shed, there will be NO keeping of dirty kleenexes, used band-aids, or Q-tips covered in earwax. We do have some standards here.

A few weeks ago the Captain started to keep all his little treasures — a mixture of little toys that he didn’t want to share with anyone else, things he’d made at school that were precious to him, and of course, various bits of garbage that I had mistakenly, horrifyingly, tried to dispose of — on his bedside table. I think he would have loved to have slept with all that detritus but we decided that the side table was the closest he needed to come to the three broken pieces of a 1-inch long sponge dinosaur that he collected at a birthday party.

The gathering quickly escalated until we could no longer safely clean his room — any attempts to dust, stack books on the table, or get a tissue from his kleenex box caused a cascade of crap, into the bed and all over the floor.

So last week I bought him a little plastic bin with an interlocking lid the Superstore. A little bin to keep on his bedside table to hold all his super precious stuff. It’s his “special box,” and boy oh boy, does he ever love it. He immediately put all his little scraps and toys in there and found, to his delight, that it was only half full. Since then, he’s been scouring the house for other bits of garbage and little toys that he can squirrel away in there, where they will be safe from the baby and safe from Bad Guys and safe from disposal for all eternity.

The keeping of stuff is keeping him very, very happy.

I’ve warned him several times that once the bin is full, he’ll need to take some stuff out of it to make room for new stuff. We have a stuff limit now, and it’s Special Box sized. I can’t imagine what I will find when it comes time to houseclean the Box. Kitchen spoons? Gal Smiley’s hairclips? Superstore receipts for the past six months? Empty wax paper backings from stickers? All possible…all likely, even.

Although I’m a little alarmed at how quickly the Special Box has validated his need to collect and keep stuff, I kind of like it, too. It makes me think of the movie Amelie — she finds a little tin in her apartment that used to belong to a little boy, and it contains similar stuff, like a candy wrapper and a little car and a random playing card. Things that don’t really have a lot of actual value, but that are have some mystical priceless value for the boy in question. Things that inspire his imagination and capture his fancy and just are him in some nebulous way.

It’s like having a box full of Captain Jelly Belly. I like it.

One chore around here that I don’t mind doing is the dishes. I once read in my copy of Panati’s Extraordinary Origins Of Everyday Things — yes, I am that geeky — that when the dishwasher was first being marketed, they had trouble selling it to housewives, because the ladies actually enjoyed the quiet, meditative dishes-time at the end of the day. When I read that, I had a big Eureka! moment, in which I realised that hey, I also enjoy doing the dishes! It’s calm and restful and there are bubbles. I can daydream and ponder the day and compose blog entries in my head. Nice.

It just goes to show you that you can learn something about yourself from books. It’s rather like that time I was reading Couplehood by Paul Reiser, and he referred to his wife as being the perfect mate because she still loved him even when he was too stupid to eat. Then I was all, Eureka! Sometimes I am bitchy because I am hungry! And I am too stupid to eat!

Thus, Paul Reiser saved my marriage. Suck on that, Dr. Phil.

Incidently, they managed to successfully sell the dishwasher in the end by advertising it as being more sanitary. Which is probably bull, but since I don’t plan on giving up the dishwasher or anything, it’s a nice thing to think.

What was I saying? Ah yes, I don’t mind doing dishes. One thing I do dislike, though, is wearing rubber gloves. I absolutely have to wear the gloves all fall, winter, and spring, otherwise the tips of my fingers will crack due to the water exposure in such a dry environment. And the cracked fingers — which, incidentally, are just as gross and horrifying as you might imagine — hurt like a puppylover. So I wear the gloves.

Come summertime, though, it’s a glove-free zone in the kitchen and I am embarrassingly gleeful about it. Here is the life of the stay-at-home-mom — happiness is found in the non-wearing of rubber gloves. It’s cute how small my life is, don’t you think?

Anyway, this morning as I was doing an enormous amount of dishes — don’t tell my mother, but I didn’t do the dishes ALL WEEKEND LONG, we are immersed in filth over here — my glove-free hands got pretty wrinkly and dry. I had a really good look at them and I noticed something — I’m getting old lady hands. I still feel pretty young overall, grey hairs notwithstanding, but there’s no denying that my hands look fundamentally different than they did even a few short years ago. I can’t really put my finger on it (ha!)…they’re just sort of…bonier? veinier? wrinklier, even when not wet? In any case, they’re older.

Usually when I notice that some part of my body just isn’t what it used to be, I get all freaked out and whiny. I think I’m okay with the hands aging, though. They are starting to remind me of my mother’s hands, and my grandmother’s hands, and that makes me feel wise, and powerful, and connected to the women in my family in a strong and loving way. I see history in my hands; I see the love I have for my kids in my hands; I see the wisdom that many years of experience have wrought in my hands.

Also, I see the joy of not wearing rubber gloves in my hands. Summertime is good time.

Turtlehead is my mother’s word for that groggy feeling you get when you sleep in too late. I swear I didn’t know about the poop connotation until much later.

I used to blog over on LiveJournal, but I’ve moved over here in order to have more flexibility when it comes to user comments. I’m still a little weepy about the breakup but the ice cream is really helping.

I thought about renaming my blog during the move so people wouldn’t think it was only about poop, but as it turns out, I do write about poop on occasion. More often than I care to admit, actually. Plus, I was a little sentimental about the name, so I kept it.

I hope to import my old LJ posts in the near future. Until then, we’ll start fresh, shall we?

There goes the alarm clock.

I don’t know if it’s springtime, or that soccer has started, or that we’ve taken him completely off milk products, but man, has Captain Jelly Belly ever had an excess of energy lately. He’s always been kind of a low-key kid, and when I see other five-year-old boys bouncing off the walls and throwing things and wrestling each other to the ground, I notice that the Captain isn’t like that.

Usually.

For the past three weeks or so he’s been jumping off of furniture and randomly smacking his sisters around and getting down from his chair at dinner so he can run a few laps around the table between bites. He goes to soccer and runs and runs and runs for an hour and a half straight, then he comes home and wants to go for a bike ride. It’s exhausting just watching him.

On one hand, it’s fabulous so see him being so exuberant and full of life. He’s happy and bouncy as a Tigger, and that kind of energy tells us that he is also feeling really healthy, which is great because we always have the nagging doubt that something in his diet is making him feel sick.

On the other hand, it would be good if he would stop smacking his sisters around.

I think what we have here is a very typical five-year-old boy, and I’m noticing that they are a bit more of a challenge than a typical four-year-old boy. Because now we have eye-rolling when he gets sent to the naughty step, instead of hysterical tears and vows to never do anything wrong again, ever. Now we have bleep-bloop robot sounds drowning out the sounds of lecturing and rule-making, instead of rapt, wide-eyed attention. Now we have A Series Of Crazy Death-Mask Faces: A Performance Art Piece By Captain Jelly Belly over every meal, instead of focused, polite eating.

In short, it’s discipline time, and I think both Sir Monkeypants and I are feeling a little lost in the woods. What do we do now that all our usual punishments are being laughed off? How do we raise him to be a person that can live in society without annoying or offending everyone he meets, yet keep his spirit and personality intact? How do we find constructive outlets for his energy and creativity?

I feel like I don’t have a lot of answers to these questions right now. It’s a new frontier and it’s time to learn some new tricks. Hopefully I’m not too much of an old dog.

We just picked up the new Barenaked Ladies CD for kids, called Snack Time. It’s totally adorable. My favourite song on it is called “Crazy ABCs,” in which Ed goes through the alphabet saying unusual words for each letter — “aisle” for A, “czar” for C, “psychosis” for P, that sort of thing.

The best one is X:

Ed: X is for Xian, an ancient Chinese City.
Steve: Ancient Chinese City, eh? My guitar player, some hotshot.

Referencing, of course, the famous Calgon ad that I totally blogged about not two months ago. Ha! I am totally still on the cutting edge of pop culture!

Or else, the Barenaked Ladies are as old and decrepit as I am.

Also good from the song:

Steve: By Zed, for the benefit of our American friends, you mean Zee, right?
Ed: No, I mean Zed, as in Zed Zed Top.

I’ve heard that before, but it still made me chuckle.

Speaking of Zed Zed Top, I finally got around to watching the finale of American Idol on the PVR yesterday. I’ve been watching AI for the past four weeks or so; this is the first time I’ve ever actually watched the show since it started. I blame Neil Diamond for getting me engrossed.

Since this was my first AI finale, I must ask…do they always have such grotesque product endorsements during the show? I’d guess that at least half the show was basically commercials. Thank goodness I was watching it on the PVR, so I could skip over the whole Love Guru extended bit. Even a few seconds of that was more than enough to make me want to stick my head in the oven. I am not without goodwill towards Mike Myers but damn, that looks like a bad movie. And not bad in a “so bad it’s good,” Evil Dead kind of way, either.

Of course, I was watching the finale while making muffins and standing two feet away from a running dishwasher, so maybe I missed out on some of the subtler points of humour.

Funny story about the AI finale. AI always runs a few minutes late, but I’ve been too lazy to get around to setting the PVR timer to record for a few extra minutes each week. While watching the finale I noticed the timer on the show getting down to less than two minutes left, and they still had not announced the winner.

Uh oh.

With about 20 seconds left of recorded time, Ryan Seacrest finally gets around to…”And the winner is…David…”

Three seconds left…two…one…

“Cook!”

CHUNK. End of recorded time.

Whew. It would have been pretty funny if I had avoided the internet for a whole day in order to avoid the spoiler, only to have to turn to the internet to find out who actually won. Ha ha ha. Hilarious.

At least this way I was spared the AI Big Ballad, which I understand is something the AI winner is expected to record and release right away. Right? It doesn’t matter, I’ve already completely lost interest. It must be tough to be an AI finalist, and have to do all these crappy show numbers and sing and dance to the tune of the producers for weeks, causing mass hysteria and total fan devotion, only to find yourself forgotten and unwanted like, three weeks later. Crazy.

Watching the AI finale kept me from working on moving the blog last night. I think I’ve decided for sure on WordPress, but now I am at an impasse. I can’t decide if I should continue to call my blog “TurtleHead” — in which case, I need to find a non-TurtleHead URL — or if I should just rename it to something else. Last year I actually wanted to rename the blog, but now I find I am all sentimental about TurtleHead and I want to keep it. But what for a URL? Something like, “IHaveATurtleHead”? Or “IAmTurtleHead”? Or “RockOnWithYourBadSelfTurtleHead”?

Any ideas, anyone?

Alternately I could rebrand, but I had a ton of trouble coming up with a new name last year, hence we still have TurtleHead today. Here are some of my new name ideas this time around:

Unmade Beds And Dirty Dishes (a nod to my mother)
My Fun With Words Dictionary (in which case I will post words from this fabulous book on a regular basis)
Bowl Of Cherries (a nod to the great Erma Bombeck)
Bear Sheep Monkey (my kids’ special stuffed animals — I’ve already decided to name my company this, should I ever start a company)
Canadian Tired (because I love the pun)
Cereal Fetish (because I have a cereal fetish, and it has a nice domestic flavour to it)
Crispy Flakes Of Bran (because Bran Flakes are the greatest food ever)
Three Brunettes (because I have three brunette babies)

Any other ideas? Anyone?

Wow, did this post meander. I blame the head cold. Maybe that should be my new blog name! “I Blame The Head Cold!”

I need some rest.