So, our fridge died.

To tell the truth, I should have seen it coming. It’d been making death-throttle sounds for a few months now. It was only five years old, though, and I was in denial. I kept telling myself that it was only the ice maker acting flaky. I’d give it a good kick when I walked by and the buzzing-grinding noise would stop for a few hours and I’d think, “See? No big deal.”

But sadly, it turned out to be a big deal.

On Friday morning I noticed that items in the freezer were frosty and soggy. We quickly moved all the freezer items to our wee little secondary freezer in the basement. Within an hour or so, though, we realized that the fridge was slowly losing its cool as well. Happily, it’s gotten a lot colder here in Ottawa — Saturday’s high was only 4 degrees — so the essentials went in a cooler outside.

Non-essentials, meanwhile, went down the drain and into the recycling. See, FameThrowa, there’s a positive side to it all — I got rid of all the expired salad dressings! Also getting tossed: that bottle of sundried tomatoes I used once two years ago; that jar of peach jam that I swear moved into this house with us five years ago; and that bottle of mayonnaise that did not have an expiry date on it, so I kept convincing myself that that meant that it would never expire. No?

Anyway, the fridge is a lot cleaner. But also a lot warmer.

You know what’s extra bitter-making? Just a month ago I was defrosting our little freezer in the basement. I carefully moved all the food outside (this was back when it was still well below zero outside) and took a day to melt all the ice build up. Then I carefully reloaded the freezer, and forgot to plug it back in.

STUPIDO.

So the next morning, I went to get something from the freezer and everything was soggy and soft, and after that little incident, we had to throw away tons and tons of very expensive meat and other frozen foods, which GACK, totally sucked.

So having to wash a whole fridge’s worth of fine sauces and leftovers down the drain really, really sucked.

Anyway, we made an emergency call to some very nice repair people (Action Repair Services, if you’re ever in need). They rushed out and replaced a small part for a small amount of money and we were overjoyed. They said that in 95% of cases, that would do it, but in about 5% of cases, the real problem was the compressor, so we should keep an eye on it for a few days.

Then two hours later, as I was reloading the fridge, it suddenly and completely CHA-CHUNK died. Blown compressor.

To the coolers, gentlemen! To the coolers!

As I write this – Monday evening – our friends at Action have come and gone (I’m planning on having them to Christmas dinner, we’re best buddies now) and have completed a second repair. This one was bigger and much more expensive, yet still less than a new fridge so we are grateful.

I’m not allowed to touch the fridge. Between the freezer incident, and the fridge, and me breaking the camera the very first hour on our first day at Disney (conveniently left that little nugget out of my glowing reviews of Disney, didn’t I?), and several other recent breakages and damages and injuries, I am CUT OFF. Sir Monkeypants says I’m not to touch anything else expensive in the house, EVER.

Of course, this means he will have to take over the laundry. And loading of the dishwasher. And the cooking. That vacuum was pretty pricey, too.

(I suspect a very quick re-evaluation of his plan. At least until the fridge starts making that CHA-CHUNK noise again.)

This weekend a friend of mine turned 40 (many happy returns of the day, Miker!). At his party I was talking to RheostaticsFan about the fact that many in our circle of friends will hit the big 4-0 this year. It seems so surreal; I can’t believe four decades have gone by in my life. I always thought there’d be more when I got here.

It’s not just that I thought I’d have done more, although there is that. I still feel like I’m floundering about, trying to make my mark on the world. I like being a stay-at-home mom, but someday I’ll have to be more than that, and heaven knows I don’t know what “more than that” is. Every time I hear about some 25-year-old getting their first novel published, or some 30-year-old starting up a major philanthropic organization, or some 35-year-old working on his third major internet invention that will make him a multi-multi-multi-millionaire — I cringe. Have I been wasting myself? Why don’t I have more to show for my 40 years?

And it’s not just that I thought I’d have mastered more skills, although it is that too. I thought I’d be able to make a great pie by now (working on it). I thought I’d know how to grow a garden, get the best deal on a new car, decorate my house like an adult, dress myself like a professional instead of a university student. I thought I’d know how to how to break up with a friend leaving no hard feelings, how to comfort someone who has lost a loved one, how to make small talk with strangers at a wedding without babbling like an idiot.

I thought I’d be more skilled. More well-rounded. More accomplished.

But more than anything, what makes me shocked to be be 40 is that I don’t approach life with the confidence that I thought would come with adulthood, especially 40-year-old adulthood. I’m not always sure of what I want or need, and how to get it. I can’t always figure out which choice is the best one. I’m not often sure that I’m doing the right thing.

When I think back to my childhood, my parents and grandparents seemed to know it all. Their few moments of weakness were terrifying — I needed them to be strong, tough, in control. Looking back now, I’m sure they felt just as lost and confused as I do now, like they were figuring it all out as they went along. But I grew up thinking that they had some sort of secret handbook of life, that they knew all the answers, and that by the time I was old (i.e. 40), I’d be in on the secret club, too.

My kids probably think of me that way, and surely it’s my job to shepherd them through this life. To fight for them, to be powerful for them, to know all, do all, be all. I can hardly believe anyone could think of me that way, however. Me, as a tower of strength? Me, who isn’t sure if these beige socks really go with the khaki pants I’m wearing? Me, who still nods when a waiter asks me if “everything is okay,” even when my food is burned and he forgot to bring the bread?

I think I actually was a lot more self-confident in my early 20s than I am now, approaching 40. Back then, I’d get up in the morning and have a plan. I’d attack my to-do list with vigour, sure I could figure out how to do everything on it to my satisfation. I’d know the answers to my university tests, or at the very least, I’d have a good idea of whether I’d pass or fail. My first full-time job paid me enough that I got a place of my own, strutted down the street in my new fancy work clothes — oh man, I felt like hot stuff then. I didn’t always know where life was headed, but I knew it was going to be awesome. I was going to do stuff. I was going to be someone. I was going to know it all.

Not that I’m unhappy, or particularly fretful about the future or anything. Life is good. I just keep waiting for the day when I’ll wake up and feel like an actual adult. The magic day when I’ll feel like, oh yes, this is how we do this thing called life. This is how we run the show. This is how we deal with it all.

Maybe on my 40th birthday, it’ll all become clear. Not too long to wait now.

At the mall, after a lunch of Subway sandwiches and french fries:

Gal Smiley: I am SO stuffed. When we get home I don’t want to eat lunch.

Me: This is your lunch.

Gal Smiley: Oh! I thought it was crap.

***************

In the car, on the ride home:

Gal Smiley: I wish I could marry my brother.

Captain: Yeah, me too. Why can’t we?

Sir Monkeypants: Well, when you get older you’ll probably think that idea is pretty gross.

Gal Smiley: Well, I guess I could marry some other guy, if he was nice. He would have to live with us, though.

Me: That’s okay. He can share the Captain’s room.

Captain: That’s cool.

Gal Smiley: No! He’s my boy, he’ll sleep on the floor in my room!

***************

Now, what fine potential mate could turn down an offer like that, I wonder?

I made a new header for the Blog Out Loud site, and I love it!

And I made a new header for A Crafy Mom’s new stamping blog, and she loves it!

So that’s what I’ve been busy with lately. Besides PTA stuff. And BOLO stuff. And garage sale planning. And potty training — oh right, there are kids around here!

Also keeping me busy: FameThrowa got engaged!

Know what this means? Another website I get to design!

And also, a chance to be all SuperCrafty! With pretty pretty things! Pretty crafty things!

It’s busy times, but it’s good times.

My youngest sister just called, she of the three-month-old baby. The hospital has been hounding her to bring him in for a follow-up hearing test, even though he passed his first one in the hospital, and my sister doesn’t want to do it.

Why? Because she has to not nurse him prior to the test, and she doesn’t see the point in driving a hungry, wailing baby across the city for a seemingly unnecessary test.

So the people who are pushing for the test told her that she is welcome to bring a bottle of formula to give to S-Man during or immediately after the test. And my sister was all, “Oh, I don’t give him formula, I just breast feed.” And the nurse there was HORRIFIED, she gave my sister a little lecture about how she MUST give him formula as a top-up, and however was her baby SURVIVING on breast milk alone.

GAGH.

This is my sister’s second baby so she was all, “Whatever, crazy lady, now go away,” but I think you can see how a first-time mother might be swayed by a member of the medical profession saying something like this. It totally smacks of this post that I just read a few days ago at Captial Mom — the same thing happened to her, and it was so upsetting.

I do not understand how the message that “breast is best” is totally getting through to Canadian mothers…and yet not to Canadian doctors and nurses. Something is wrong with our system, isn’t it?

I now wonder why I chose to breast feed in the first place. Was it the internet? Was it parenting magazines? Maybe the What To Expect books push nursing? I know it wasn’t my family – none of the women had nursed a baby in generations. It wasn’t my doctor, who bottle fed both her babies and was not interested in nursing.

And lordy, it wasn’t the staff at the hospital. I can’t count the number of recovery ward nurses who pushed me to bottle feed, who said that my baby was crying because I wasn’t making enough milk, who warned me that my kid would never thrive without external milk. For shame! After Little Miss Sunshine was born, I was randomly selected to complete an exit survey, and I waxed on at length about how the recovery nurses required a course in breast feeding, both so that they could provide adequate instruction and support, and so they wouldn’t fill new mothers’ heads with nonsense. For heaven’s sake!

I guess it just shocks me that in this day and age, when almost every new mom I know is either breastfeeding or at least making the attempt, that the medical profession is still so full of anti-breastfeeding propaganda. That a medical person could be out there spreading information that is simply not true, that the majority of mothers know is not true.

One of the hardest things to learn as a new mother is to trust your instincts; that you know your baby the best. That doctors are only people with opinions, and they aren’t always right.

Thank heavens my sister already knows that. SHEESH.

We had the Captain’s 7th birthday party on Saturday and I learned two very important things.

First, nine boys at a party is too many.

Second, our kid is (reassuringly) pretty far down on the spectrum of acting goofy. Seriously, you want to talk about butts and boogers, six-year-old boys are THERE FOR YOU.

Despite that, it all went very well, The Captain had a very, very good time, no major fights broke out, and all the boys went home happy, so that was good. Sir Monkeypants was a champ, and FameThrowa and Mr. Chatty came and without them we literally would not have survived. WE OWE THEM.

Actual conversation between me and FameThrowa last weekend:

FameThrowa: Do you want me to come over to help with the party?

Me: Oh, no, I’m sure we’ll be fine.

FameThrowa: Really? Because it’s nine boys plus the girls, that sounds crazy.

Me: It’s only three hours, I’m sure we can handle it.

FameThrowa: Think about this. Little Miss Sunshine is two. She requires constant supervision herself. If Sir Monkeypants takes her, that leaves you with TEN CHILDREN. So how about I come over?

Me: YOU ARE THE MOST WONDERFUL SISTER EVER.

I really hate it when I have to ask FameThrowa to come over to our house to do work, I like her to come over just to relax and visit and be our guest, but seriously, she and Mr. Chatty saved our asses.

Anyway! Here’s what we did. I already blogged about the invitations over here, but I forgot to mention that the font used was Eager Naturalist. VERY KEY.

Once the boys arrived, we did a boy-centric craft, which was this:

We made little parachutes for Lego men. I got the instructions from this site. Basically you cut a 14 inch square from a plastic bag (I used white kitchen garbage bags), then cut 4 18-inch strings. Tie a 1-inch loop at the end of each string; use one end of each string to form a slipknot and loop it around the corners of the plastic, and then use the loops on the other four ends to wrap around the Lego man’s arms.

These worked awesome and the boys had a smashing time running up and down our stairs and dropping them off the upstairs landing. I had pre-cut the plastic and strings, and pre-made the knots in the end, so all that was left was the final assembly, but even then, FameThrowa and I wound up assembling them ourselves for the most part while boys waited around impatiently for their chance to THROW STUFF. Still, a good craft.

The hardest part was finding the Lego men. We wanted the boys to be able to take one home with them, but the Captain did not want to part with his Lego men, so I had to buy some new ones. Lego doesn’t sell a lot of sets with just minifigs in them, so I ended up buying several sets to get the right number of men. In the end the craft cost a bit more than I had planned due to Lego expenditures.

Next up, we paused for a pizza break, and then we played this Star Wars guessing game. I made up little cards with Star Wars characters on them, like this:

The boys took turns going one at a time. The boy in question would put on a baseball hat with one of these cards taped to the front — he didn’t get to see it. Then he had to ask questions of the other boys — is it a good guy? is it a robot? does he have green skin? — to try to guess who he was.

This game was a huge success. The boys loved it and (thankfully) they all knew enough Star Wars characters to play. Any number of kids could play, so we started the game as soon as a few kids were done eating and then the others joined in as they finished eating too. There were no prizes for “winning,” but each kid got to keep the card of the person they were, and that was like SOLID GOLD CHOCOLATE, they were so excited.

I made the cards by grabbing images from the internet, so I can’t post my file here, I’m sure it’s totally illegal. But if you are interested, just email me and I’ll mail you the file.

Oh, and I almost forgot, the font used for the “Darth Vader” text is Digital Strip.

After the game we decorated cupcakes:

And then we opened the gifts, and then we watched the movie. By the time we started the movie, all the adults were legally deaf. Seriously, nine six-year-old boys in one house is VERY VERY VERY VERY LOUD.

In the end, the movie we chose was The Adventures of Clutch Powers (Alert — this link automatically plays a video, man, I hate that). It’s a new direct-to-DVD Lego movie. Clutch Powers is kind of a MacGuyver of Lego and goes on missions to help people, building the stuff he needs on the fly. It was basically an hour-long ad for Lego, but boy, did our party guests ever eat it up. Ten minutes in, the loudest noise was the sound of crunching popcorn. They were HOOKED.

THANK GOD.

The movie is not great, but not bad either, and extremely safe for the six-year-old crowd. It was short enough, and since it was less than two weeks old, we felt confident that no one would have seen it (although I did have word searches and dot-to-dots available for those who did not want to watch). Plus, the movie went with our party theme — we made Lego men, and we gave Lego packs as the take-home gift, so the Lego movie kind of pulled it all together.

Anyway! By seven o’clock we were SO ready for everyone to go home. The boys got a gift bag with Lego inside:

And they got a balloon:

Font used on the gift bag tags is my new favourite font, Black Boys On Mopeds, which is also the name of a beautiful song by Sinead O’Connor. Love them both!

Once the last boy was gone we put the kids to bed and then poured some stiff drinks. Until next year!

The other day I got an email alerting me to the fact that there are only 30 tickets left for BlogHer ’10. I had to just sigh and delete it. It’s officially official, I won’t be going to BlogHer again this year… can I hear a whoo hoo for BlogHer ’11?

On the plus side, I’ll definitely be organizing Blog Out Loud again this year. I am planning to have it sometime in the first half of July; most likely on a Thursday evening again from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m.

I loved having it at Raw Sugar last year, but if the event grows by even one person then we’re in trouble in terms of size, so I think I have to move it. I’m currently looking for a unique and fun location downtown somewhere, that serves food and drink, that can host up to 100 people. Any suggestions?

I’ll have more details on the readings and such as we get closer to the date. I’m just looking to nail down the venue soon, so I can have a real day and time to aim towards. I work so much better with a deadline!