Yesterday, we were over playing at the Carl Sagans, and as usual, Mrs. Carl Sagan had her satellite tuned to Galaxy 80s. It’s a radio station that plays all 80s, all the time, and it’s quite a mixed bag of cool alternative stuff and crappy pop music — one category of which listened to at the time, and the other category of which I listened to at the time, and I’ll leave it to you to figure out which one of us, as 14-year-olds, preferred Debbie Gibson to The Smiths.

Anyway, the song “Hard For Me To Say I’m Sorry” by Chicago came on. It’s a classic crap pop song; it was a pretty big hit at the time, I guess, but overall I find it rather forgettable and cheesy. But Captain Jelly Belly is really into learning song lyrics, and so asked me one of his favourite questions, “What is this song about?” So I told him that it was about saying sorry, He wanted to know who, exactly, was sorry. I told him, the guy who is singing the song. He wanted to know his name, so I told him it was Peter (and it is — the lead singer of Chicago is Peter Cetera).

And then CJB wanted to know why, exactly, Peter was sorry. This kind of situation happens all the time, because CJB likes to really understand a song when he is going to be singing along, and anything other than The Wiggles seems to dissolve into an extensive discussion of adult human relationships. Usually we try to explain the song as simply as possible, like, “This song is about love,” or “This song is about feeling happy,” or “This song is about a girl named Stacy and her really hot mom.” Often he will take these simple explanations at face value, but for some reason, he had a real thing about this Chicago song, and knowing that Peter Was Sorry was just not enough.

So I told CJB I wasn’t sure exactly why, and CJB guessed that perhaps, Peter had accidentally taken the Buzz Lightyear belonging to someone else. I agreed that that was probably it, because that was the easy thing to do, and so began my descent into Lying Hell For Liars, because now, this story has spiraled out of control and won’t quit. In CJB’s world now — after a combination of inventing details that I have agreed with, or having details supplied by myself out of frustration — Peter took Andy’s really cool talking Buzz Lightyear, but then he noticed that Andy was sad, and then he gave back the Buzz Lightyear and said he was Really Sorry. And then, because we require a happy ending, Peter’s Mommy took him out to Al’s Toy Barn where he got his own talking Buzz Lightyear.

CJB seriously cannot stop talking about this song, and this story, and is constantly asking me questions to fill in even more detail. The worst part is that he wants to download the song for him, the infamous song where Peter Takes Andy’s Buzz Lightyear, and I’m worried that a) CJB will notice that there are not, in actuality, any references to Buzz Lightyear contained in “Hard For Me To Say I’m Sorry,” and that b) I will have to listen to this song over and over for 50 times in a row, which may make me insane (although, I survived hearing it many, many times back in the 80s with most of my brain intact, and here, I give you all major blackmail material by mentioning that I actually owned the album, a fact that gives me nightmares today).

Didn’t Dante write a story about this once?

So, this is how I know that I am officially very, very old.

About 7 or 8 houses down from ours, around a bend in the road, is the last empty lot on our house. In this lot, the many construction workers who work on our street keep a porta-potty.

Every weekend for the past three or four months, that porta-potty has been tipped over by hooligans. Hooligans, running amok on our street! Every Sunday morning, when I see the porta-potty tipped over, it makes me very, very angry. I hate it that these kids pay no mind at all to the huge mess they are making. That they don’t care that someone has to clean up a smelly, icky mess every Monday morning. That the people who live next door to the empty lot have to deal with a horrid smell every weekend when they’d like to be outside barbequing or making snowmen.

And I really, really don’t see the appeal in the whole event. Like, I know we live in crap suburbia, but really, is this the best you can do for entertainment on a Saturday night? EVERY Saturday night? Doesn’t it get old? Doesn’t it get boring? Can’t you find a friend’s basement to play videogames in, or maybe go to the mall for some fries and to hog space in the elevator so old people and the handicapped can’t ride it? Can’t you take in the occasional movie, or watch a hockey game with your folks? No? Instead you would really, really, rather be outside, tipping over the same porta-potty you’ve tipped over for the past 12 weeks in a row?

MyFriendJen actually lives directly across the street from this lot, and we’ve had this conversation a few times before, complete with fist-shaking and use of the word, “whippersnappers.” She dreams of setting up some surveillance cameras and catching the culprits on film. Then we’d nail their asses to the wall! We’re like two little grannies who are policing the neighbourhood, while hip young people laugh behind our backs and make plans to spray paint our mailboxes with obscene words. Worse, I can easily see myself turning into that old guy who lives one street over, who is often standing on the side of the road angrily waving down cars, giving the drivers lectures about how they are going too fast in a residential neighbourhood. Maybe he and I should get together for coffee and ranting some afternoon.

Anyway, yesterday they came and dismantled the porta-potty from the empty lot, because it has been sold and they are going to start construction there soon. So I guess I will have to find some other way to vent my old lady anger. I tell ya, when I was young, kids were respectful! Kids knew their place! Kids were seen and not heard! Jesus.

Captain Jelly Belly is really, really into following rules. This is usually a pretty good thing, as once he knows what we expect of him, we can trust him to follow our wishes exactly to the letter. I can leave him alone with markers or paint and I never have to worry about him colouring on the table or the walls. I can take Gal Smiley upstairs for a nap and I never have to worry that the Captain has let himself out of the house, or is emptying the cutlery drawer, or is eating pennies. He’d never dream of touching our stereo equipment and he always reminds us to buckle his seat belt if he has been sitting in the car for three nanoseconds without us getting around to it.

Here’s an classic example of CJB rule following. Last night we brought out his Spiderman PJs, which he hasn’t worn all winter since they are a lightweight, springtime kind of pyjama. He was so excited — he’s really into superheroes now — and he played Spiderman all last evening and this morning. This morning when it was time to get dressed, convinced him, after a lot of effort, to take off the PJs and put on clothes, by explaining that his clothes were his “Peter Parker” undercover outfit.

Then, after had gone to work, CJB came to me very tentatively and asked if please, please, would it be alright if he pretended to be Spiderman, even though he had a Peter Parker outfit on? And I said, of course, dear, you can pretend to be Spiderman anytime! He was just so happy to hear that pretending to be Spiderman fit inside the rules, and zoomed off to fight the Green Goblin. Here is a little boy who is going to do very well in the highly structured environment of school.

Lately, CJB’s desire to adhere to the rules has caused friction between him and Gal Smiley. GS is not so into the rules — she’s much more curious and adventuresome, and likes to test boundaries. As a result, she can give CJB a heart attack just with the most innocent of actions — daring to take her juice cup onto the new couch, for example, or boldly taking three or four steps off of the front mat while wearing shoes. CJB usually freaks out at these occasions, certain that GS is facing certain doom, either because the breaking of a rule means imminent danger, or because the breaking of a rule means incurring the wrath of Mommy and Daddy. When CJB has to sit on the naughty step — which he hasn’t had to do for ages and ages — he wails and cries like the end of the world is near, and requires a huge amount of consoling afterwards. GS, on the other hand, sits there happily chatting to herself, and doesn’t seem to care at all if she is ever allowed to get up.

CJB also loves to make up rules for GS to follow, and then she pays him no mind at all, which causes him to stress out even more. When they’re playing together, he’ll say stuff like, “No, Gal Smiley! You can’t put the blue car on the blue couch, only on the black couch!” or maybe, “Gal Smiley! If you are pretending to be Woody, you can only jump on the red pillows, not the green ones!” They’re completely random rules, and he would be so much happier if he didn’t make them, because GS is only going to break them anyway, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

It’s a fine line, as a mom, to know what to do here. Sometimes I intervene, because I don’t want CJB to get too upset for no good reason, and I don’t like the way he tries to control their play and boss GS around. But on the other hand, I don’t want to be constantly policing their social interaction, because they have to learn for themselves how to play nicely together. GS is usually pretty easy going with The Little Rulemaker, so they play together very well, but when she wants to do her own thing, they often dissolve into a big fight. I’ll step in if pushing and shoving is involved (usually, only on GS’s side, because CJB knows that pushing and hitting is AGAINST THE RULES, JESUS). But when they’re just playing, I try to stay out of it as much as I can stand, and just let them be who they are going to be.

I guess in the end, that’s the hardest job a parent will ever have — stepping back and letting their kids find their own way. The desire to do everything for them is really tempting. At least with CJB around, I don’t have to worry too much about anyone getting in trouble — he’ll be right there to make a citizen’s arrest.

There’s a family on TLC that has their own reality show, and I’m totally addicted to it. It’s called Jon & Kate Plus 8, and it features the Gosselin family of Pennsylvania. They have their own show because they have 8 kids — one set of 5-year-old twins, and one set of 2-year-old sextuplets. Crazy! Jon works as an IT consultant, and Kate stays home with the kids. Kate is uber organised and anal — I think you would have to be, just to survive, and I totally understand her need to make lists and sort things and keep things on a tight schedule. Jon is laid back and easygoing, which again, I would think you’d have to be, just to survive the constant unexpected and insane things that must happen at their house.

Past episodes have shown them doing everyday things like taking their kids shopping, or preparing meals for 10 people, or even just getting the sextuplets down for a nap. It’s fascinating to see the sheer volume of work involved…not to mention the sheer volume of stuff. Just a quick pan of the shoe and coat racks that line their garage is enough to give any other parent heart palpitations. I really hope they are making some money from the show, as they are already thinking about saving for the day when they have 8 kids in college. Aye carumba.

The Gosselins are often invited to speak or make appearances on talk shows, which is nice because they usually get a little trip out of it, something they would never be able to afford or organise otherwise. I like watching them because despite their semi-celebrity status, they seem like real, down to earth kind of people. Kate is always saying that people refer to her as an “inspiration,” but she never feels like anything other than a normal mom. Still, I find their lives fascinating and, yes, inspirational — like, if they can get through a whole week without having a nervous breakdown, then surely, I can handle my two with no problem. Another thing I really like about the show is that although they have a few close friends, they don’t seen to have any family nearby — certainly no grandparents have ever made an appearance on the show — and that, again, reassures me that it can be done. You can do it! You can survive parenthood!

Another thing that is great about the show is that Jon and Kate aren’t shy at all about sharing their private lives. With eight kids, there’s definitely some tension, and they are quite comfortable talking about the bickering and squabbling that sometimes goes on between them. But besides the little arguments, there’s obviously a lot of love — between the parents, and also for their kids. Although life is tough, it’s clear that they don’t regret their decision to have the babies at all, and are really, really happy with their big family. The kids are adorable, outgoing, and sweet, and they love their Mommy and Daddy. It’s just nice, and makes me (and , who I actually have watching the show now) feel all misty about our own kids.

But we are definitely stopping at three :).

Yesterday morning I woke up with major stomach cramps and nausea. I thought it was just something I ate and it would be out of my system in an hour or two, but luckily for me, I have a totally awesome husband who immediately decided that this was something more serious. He made me lie down on the couch while he took the day off to take care of the kids. That worked out well because, as it turned out, I didn’t move from the couch all day — just lay there making pathetic moaning sounds while occasionally crawling to the bathroom.

Eventually I started to worry that the cramping was early labour, so around dinnertime, we called to come and take me to the hospital. There I was spectacularly sick in many different ways but the good news is, it’s only the flu, not labour. The baby is a-okay, and enjoyed his/her visit to the birthing ward — a little preview tour, if you will.

Today I’m much better but still a little queasy and sore. I’ve learned the following valuable lessons:

1. I have the awesomeist husband ever.
2. Gravol is safe for pregnant ladies, and is the awesomeist drug ever.
3. Being sick while pregnant really, really sucks.

Hopefully I’ll be back to 100% tomorrow…for today, I forsee a lot of Gravol, some apple juice, and a few movies for the kiddies.

I sometimes fantasize about going on What Not To Wear. Aw, who am I kidding — I fantasize about it all the time. I hate my current wardrobe, mostly because I’ve watched enough episodes of the show to now realise that everything I’ve been wearing in the past is completely unsuitable for my figure and totally the wrong size. That $5000 they give you on the show would really come in handy a year from now, when I plan on burning most of my existing wardrobe (and all my maternity wear) and replacing it with fabulous Yummy Mummy fashions. Plus, I would definitely give up a whole week’s worth of desserts just to have my hair cut by Nick, the show’s stylist, who always manages to find a hairdo for everyone that is lovely and totally suited to their lifestyle.

But one thing that makes me nervous, even in my little fantasy world, is having my makeup done. The show’s makeup lady, Carmandy, is fine and everything, but I just know I would be one of those people who are uber crabby on the show in this segment, complaining about how much I hate makeup and the feeling of stuff on my face and generally looking my What Not To Wear gift horse in the mouth. And then everyone would be like, “I saw you on TV! You were a supercrank to Carmandy, bitca.”

I have never been a makeup fan and my whole life I’ve been a totally naked face kind of girl. In high school, my other friends would sneak makeup into their backpacks so they could glam up at school. Meanwhile, my mom was putting blush and eyeshadow into my bag, saying, “Why don’t you put a little rouge on your cheeks? You look like death warmed over!” By the age of 16 I’d accumulated the basics — foundation, coverup, blush, lipstick, and eyeshadow — purely on a hand-me-down basis from my older sister. I had one of each type of thing, and I’d wear it maybe two or three times a year. If my mom begged.

These days I’m on a similar timeline. The only day of the year that I’m guaranteed to have makeup on is the Saturday in October when my friends Mike and Mike host their annual semi-formal wine and cheese party. This year for that party, FameThrowa came over to do my makeup, and left me with some new eyeshadows and foundation products that she was done with. I used the new stuff to replace the exact same set of makeup I’d had since high school. Which, you will remember, I also inherited from a sister. I think maybe I bought some nail polish once. Other than that, it’s possible I have never been in the makeup section of a drugstore. No wonder I’m known for my glamour!

Lately I’ve become a little more interested in makeup, probably again thanks to What Not To Wear, as Carmandy is finally helping me learn the basic makeup application techniques that most girls learned in grade 8. So on Friday, for our anniversary, I actually wore a little makeup, even though we were only going to the movies. And you know what? I looked pretty cute. And not in a whore-y kind of way, either. In a way that said, “I am an adult woman and I actually know where the apples of my cheeks are.” Fabulous!

Today, MyFriendJen was hosting a sort-of shopping party where a friend of hers, who makes custom-order pants, was showing off her wares. Even though I am not going to spring for custom-made pants in my current state of a 42-inch waistline, I went along for the social side of things, and also the promise of good cookies (and Jen did not disappoint in this area — I’m sure I’m up to a 44-inch waistline now). Since it was a clothing shopping party, I decided to a) wear a bracelet — holy fashionista!, and b) break out the makeup for an unprecidented second time in one week. And I looked so cute, actually accused me of glowing. Me! A glowing pregnant lady!

If this keeps up, I’ll be a total diva in no time.

Today I went to the mall because I’d bought some t-shirts for Gal Smiley last week, and we were accidentally overcharged. It was at the Old Navy, and not only did they refund the difference on the t-shirts, the cashier also noticed that the other things I’d bought — shorts for CJB and two maternity tops — were also now on additional sale, and so credited me the difference for those, too.

Overall I walked away with a $15 refund. I consider this my anniversary gift to Sir Monkeypants. I’m incredibly lazy when it comes to money, and I’m really prone to just getting stuff at the store I happen to be in, even though I could get it cheaper at a store across town, because I’m too lazy to get in the car and go save $5. And I’m really bad at returning things I’ve bought that turn out to be unsuitable or broken or mispriced. Sir Monkeypants is much more fiscally responsible and my laziness is one thing that, while not exactly driving him crazy, is a bit of an annoyance for him.

But today, I am supershopper! I am super refunder! Happy anniversary, Sir Monkeypants!

Today is our 11th wedding anniversary, and it also marks about 17 years that Sir Monkeypants and I have been together. I’d like to avoid grossing you all out with a mushy gushy post, but the truth is, I really love the guy, and I’m happy to say so. He’s definitely the anchor of our family, keeping me calm when I’m on the verge of freaking out, letting the kids use his body as a jungle gym, and giving up hours and hours of potential Star Trek watching on the weekends just so he can soundproof our baby’s new room. This year, for the first time, he actually has a handful of grey hairs on his head, which only makes him look more handsome. Plus he still has a cute butt.

We have a babysitter booked for tonight — every year, we trade anniversary babysitting services with our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Carl Sagan. For a couple of weeks now, we’ve been trying to decide what to do. We aren’t really up for anything overly dramatically romantic; it’s just not our style. And I’ve been so tired lately, we know it’s going to be an early night. All we know for sure is that we want the festivities to include lots and lots of sugar, preferably in an exciting new format called “chocolate cake.” And maybe even a five-dollar shake on the side.

We were going to head downtown for fancy dessert and a walk around the market, but it’s pouring rain outside, and all the fancy dessert places have a universal “may contain” rule about nuts, which cause Sir Monkeypants to break out in hives, and I’m thinking, unromantic as we are, a trip to the emergency room isn’t tops on my list of anniversary activities. So I think instead we might just go to the movies, and then out for some shakes at a nearby burger place.

But no matter what we do, I’m really looking forward to seeing all evening, just us. And lots of sugar.

In honour of the Senators making the playoffs, we bought Captain Jelly Belly a little Senators t-shirt. He’s been watching the hockey with his dad, and he’s really interested in it. He calls the Senators the “Canada team” because he understands that we root for them because they are from the place where we live, and to him, that place is Canada.

Last week, when we were watching a playoff game, CJB was full of questions and we tried our best to answer them. But it did get tiresome when he started asking, every 30 seconds or so, if the Canada Team had scored. So we taught him to recognise the signs of a score — a horn sounding, followed by lots and lots of hugging. Luckily, it was a high scoring game (for the Sens), so we had lots of opportunity to say, “Look CJB! See the hugging! That means we scored!”

I told CJB that the Senators are playing tonight, and he got pretty excited and ran to get his t-shirt to put on. Then we started playing a game of his own invention, where he, Gal Smiley, and I pretend to be Canada Team players, and whenever CJB yells out, “I scored!”, we all ran together for a hug. As games go, I think that’s a pretty good one.

After several minutes, in which it was clear that the Canada Team was way out in front (6 goals to 1), CJB came over and we had this conversation:

CJB: I have good news, and I have bad news.
Me: Okay, what’s the good news?
CJB: Our team got the most scores.
Me: That’s great! What could be the bad news?
CJB: The other team won the game.
Me: But how is that possible, since we got the most goals?
CJB: Well, they did more hugging.

Ah yes, hockey…it’s all about the hugging.

Gal Smiley is going through this really annoying phase right now, called the “I help you?” phase. Every single thing I’m trying to get done around the house — cooking, cleaning, laundry, playing solitare on the computer — is something she wants to get involved in. You’d think I’d be somewhat happy about this, because it’s no secret that the whole reason we had kids is to gain access to a private army of slaves who will one day shovel our snow, mow our lawn, and unload our dishwasher, all for free. But I find I’m getting a little cranky about her good intentions.

As soon as I’m in the kitchen, she’s pulling over a chair to “help,” which mostly involves getting too close to the hot stove and giving me a heart attack, or stirring various bowls of stuff so that most of it ends up on the floor. She likes to “help” sweep up after meals by using her little toy broom to redistribute my piles of crumbs to all four corners of the breakfast nook, and she likes to “help” put things in the dryer by dropping half of the wet stuff onto the sandy floor of the laundry room. I know she just wants to be involved, and be like me, and that’s really nice and everything, but Jesus little lady, sometimes a Mommy just has to get a little work done, ya know?

Yesterday it rolled around to dinnertime and I was even more tired than usual. We’d been outside swinging on our swingset and riding bikes around the block, and earlier we’d been on a massive shopping trip to several different stores. But I could tell the kids were getting hungry (evidenced by the increased frequency of their requests for chocolate chips, up from once every five minutes to approximately once every 10 seconds), and it was time to get up off the couch and cook. So I told Gal Smiley I had to go make dinner, but that I was really tired. And she said, of course, “I’ll help you!” and she very gently took my hand and pulled as hard as she could, to help me get up. Then she led me over to the stove and said, “There you go, Mommy!” and gave me a big leg squeeze.

She was just so sweet and adorable that after giving her a million kisses, I found the energy to put together something very closely resembling a meal. And that is what real “help” is all about.