Today I was watching Hi-5 with Gal Smiley, and as those of you who read this blog know, I am totally obsessed with the show, especially the outfits the girls wear. I know all the words and actions to all the songs, and I can practically quote along with favourite episodes. It’s sad, I know, but a Mommy needs to have a hobby.

I was thinking today, it’s been a couple of years since the last new episodes of Hi-5 were filmed, what are my favourite quintet up to? Are they still performing together? Are they still wearing very ugly outfits? Or have they put their Hi-5 years behind them and gone on to respectable careers?

So I checked out their official website, and lo and behold, not only are they still together, but they are currently touring. And they are coming to Ottawa in June!! I may pass out from excitement.

One problem though is the ticket price. They are playing at the NAC, and the NAC don’t come cheap. Tickets are $30 or $40, depending on location, which is crazy enough — I don’t think I’ve ever paid more than that to see a band that was actually meant for adults. And then — I don’t know if this is Ticketmaster or the NAC doing the gouging — each ticket has a “Building Facility Charge” of $2.50 AND a “Convenience Charge” of $9.25 tacked on to it, plus there is an “Order Processing Charge” on the set of tickets of $3.50. So overall, it will cost almost $130 just to take the kids to see a one hour set. And they don’t even care about the clothes!

I did some fishing around on the Ticketmaster site, and it would seem that although tickets have been on sale for two whole weeks already, they’ve only sold a handful of tickets — we could still get second row on the floor, if we wanted, or front row on the mezzanine or balcony. So I find it really hard to believe that they are going to sell anywhere near enough tickets at the asking price to even cover their cost of being there. There MUST be some way to get cheap tickets to an event like this. Any tips?

I know, it was only two days ago that I blogged about how I am going to try to be more price-focused at the grocery store, but man, nothing is better than brand-name Kraft Dinner. I haven’t made it in ages since CJB can’t have it, but today he and Gal Smiley were sick, so I whipped up a batch for myself. We’ve tried other brands but Kraft — with plain chips sprinkled on top, a trick I picked up in university from my friend Lisa — is the king. THE KING, I SAY!

Screw the store brands, it’s gotta be KD.

Everyone has something about their body that they don’t like. Maybe it’s the way your ears stick out, or your hairy toes, or the way your butt is a little more J. Lo than you’d like. For me, it’s my teeth. They’re not rotting or gross in a British sort of way, or anything like that, but they are very big. Their size has led to overcrowding, which apparently cannot be fixed with braces because my bite is already perfect, but the overcrowding does make my eye teeth stick out in a rather vampiric way. I’m not so self-conscious about it that I can’t smile or talk or function normally on a daily basis, and every time I’ve brought this up with friends they’ve sworn that they don’t notice at all. But one time I was at a party in high school and met this guy, a friend of friends, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Wow, you have really big teeth,” and I was like, great dude, now we are so totally BFF forever. So I know it’s at least noticeable to the outside world.

This morning I was sitting next to Captain Jelly Belly, and he pointed out my more prominent eye tooth. Yesterday, we watched a TV show where someone had a loose tooth, so he said to me, “Hey, you have a loose tooth!” I explained that it wasn’t loose, it just was a little crooked. And I felt really sad about it, although I tried to play it casual, acting like it was no big deal, and reassuring CJB that his teeth were beautiful and perfect and straight.

I know he probably doesn’t care at all about my teeth, but it’s just that one thing, you know? That one thing that you don’t want people to notice. I thought I was prepared for our kids to someday see us in a different light — to be teenagers and think that we are so embarrassing, or so stupid, or so out of touch with reality. I thought I was prepared for them to think that we made mistakes, or were bad parents in some way, because inside, I know and I are doing the best we can, and giving all we can give. But I guess I was just fooling myself, because this one little thing — nothing that even reflects on my ability to be a mom! — this one suggestion that I am not 100% perfect in CJB’s eyes was just so upsetting.

I’m sure I’ll be over it within the hour. In the meantime, I’ll just have to make up for it with lots and lots of hugs and kisses from the kids. Always a good emotional salve!

While playing in the backyard with the kids this afternoon, I saw my first mosquito of the season.

That sucks! No pun intended.

All morning long, I’ve been working on The Document. It’s four pages in Microsoft Word that capture a “general overview” of our kids’ lives — where to find the diapers, what kind of snacks they like, what time bedtime is. When we had to go to the hospital with Gal Smiley, I wrote an even longer document just for the Captain, with his full schedule and details about how to get to the park and where we keep his favourite books and, basically, how to breathe in his presence. I was pretty paranoid about leaving him with someone else — at the time, he’d never been left with anyone else, ever — and I just panicked at the thought that maybe, just maybe, while we were at the hospital, he’d really really need to hear “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” one more time, and no other book would do, and the babysitter wouldn’t know that we keep it in his top bedside table drawer, and I’d be a complete and total failure as a mom. So, it all went into The Document, which, in the end, I don’t think our friend RheostaticsFan actually looked at, even once, as she easily had everything under control and didn’t actually require someone else to explain to her, exactly in detail, how to prepare toast with jam. Shocking, I know.

So this time, I swore I would not do it, because it will mostly likely be RheostaticsFan and/or FameThrowa who wind up coming, and they can probably figure out which pair of shoes goes with which child. Plus, this time around, both the Captain and Gal Smiley are actually able to talk, and tell people what they want and how to do it just right.

But…I just couldn’t help myself. I’m clearly too anal, and obsessive, to just trust that they will actually survive an hour and a half without me (due to the shortness of Gal Smiley’s labour, we figure will be back home by then). It started with me “just jotting down” a few relevant phone numbers, and a list of the Captain’s food allergies. But then I felt like I should mention where we keep the epipens and asthma medication. From there, it was a short leap to details on where the diapers are…and a quick list of snack and meal ideas…plus some information on when they need to sleep, and when they like to eat…and may as well mention where the paint and markers are…oh, and why not write down some information on how to work our new universal remote, to watch TV and videos? And do you think you can figure out which bedroom is which, without my detailed writings?

I just really need to walk away at this point and declare it over and done with. I think writing it all down just makes me feel more prepared and secure about the whole birthing process, like, I don’t need to worry about the other two at all because if they happen to want to do some PlayDoh while I’m gone, I’ve left instructions on where to find it (and I’m talking instructions, like, “PlayDoh is in the blue cabinet in the office, the right-hand-side one, on the middle shelf, in a white Tupperware container with all the PlayDoh accessories”). Maybe this time around, I’ll just put a nice friendly warning at the top of The Document, saying something like, “I realise you are not a complete idiot, so please ignore everything contained within as the rantings of a hormornal pregnant lady.” Sorry in advance, RheostaticsFan and FameThrowa!

On the most recent episode of Jon & Kate Plus 8, Kate revealed herself to be Sir Monkeypants’ dream woman, as she managed to save almost $100 off of her $250 grocery bill through careful use of coupons and focus on sale-priced items. She interviewed that before the sextuplets were born, she used to just go to the store and get what they needed, and that was that. Now she spends quite a lot of time before each excursion poring over the various grocery flyers, selecting which stores she will shop at to get the best deals, and looking for coupons and vouchers online. Good strategy, considering they go through a loaf of bread and 1 1/2 boxes of cereal every day.

I don’t want to get too excited, but watching Kate shop has really put me in a thoughtful mood. I’m like pre-sextuplets Kate; when we run out of something, I put it on the grocery list, and next time I’m at the Superstore, I get more. I never look at grocery store flyers because I find them a little confusing — I can never tell if they are actually advertising stuff as being on sale, or just highlighting stuff that they have a lot of and are looking to move, like the WalMart (“We never have sales”) flyer. Plus, due to my known laziness, there is no way I am going to go to more than one grocery store per outing. We’ll get what we need from the most convenient place, and that’s that.

But Kate said she looks back on her old self and feels terrible, knowing the money she could have been saving with only a little effort. And also, she pointed out that she considers it her job, as the non-working parent, to figure out how to best stretch their dollars. She makes it sound easy. And worthwhile. And responsible. And in the land of Sir Monkeypants, damn sexy.

So, don’t tell my husband, but this weekend, I am actually going to look at the grocery store flyers and attempt to decipher them. As an additional first step, I’m going to try to get a feel for how much the stuff we buy usually costs, because sadly, if you asked me how much a loaf of bread is, or a package of hot dogs, or a box of cereal, I could not even begin to guess. We need it, we eat it, so I throw it in the cart, you know? We are somewhat limited by the Captain’s food allergies in terms of brand name, but I’m hoping I can at least start to pay more attention and be more aware.

The results from the repeat ultrasound I had a couple of weeks ago are in, and my doctor called me personally to let me know that my fluid level is really high. That’s doctor speak for, “You are too big,” which is person speak for, “Hey lady, would it kill you to take a pass on the doughnuts every now and again?” Because seriously, I cannot stay away from the food. Sir Monkeypants has nicknamed me “The Hoover” because if there’s food lying around, you can bet that I’m gonna eat it. Everything the kids leave behind on their plates…everything that would have become leftovers in another place, another time…instead, goes into my tummy.

My weight gain this time around is on par with, or maybe even a bit less than, my first two pregnancies, but the problem is the kind of food I’m eating. Whereas before I used to eat whole grain toast and apples and yogurt, these days I’m into pop tarts and hot dogs and chocolate chip muffins. Last Saturday, we were at a birthday party all afternoon, and so accordingly I ate a huge bowl of chips, several deep-fried appetizer-like things, and a huge slice of cake. Then I came home and had a quick “dinner” of plain spaghetti noodles (leftover from the kids), and then, it was poker night…so that meant another big plate of chips, cheese dip, cool whip, and these yummy mini-Rolo candies that I totally cannot get enough of. Thank God for the pregnancy pants!

Yesterday when I was pushing the kids on the swings, Captain Jelly Belly would accidentally bump into my big belly on every backswing. I’ve given up worrying if this will cause our baby to emerge with a really, really flat head, but I can’t deny that it seems to be a bad sign when it comes to size. I have to actually stand sideways now, to be able to reach out to push the swings without having full belly contact. I’ve been kind of treating this pregnancy as my last chance to eat everything I’ll ever want to eat, as after this (and the nursing cycle…God, the food required by a nursing woman is so scary, I may have to ask Sir Monkeypants to hide the children) I’ll be back on my “healthy weight for life” plan, which involves lots and lots of celery, and not so much Rolos. But with nine weeks still to go, and lots of swinging in my future…I guess I could maybe, on occasion, pass up the Pop Tarts for some extra milk.

With strawberry syrup in it. Mmmm.

We just came inside from a walk around the block. It’s so gorgeous outside, 20 degrees, a little bit of a pleasant breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. Before we went walking, we spent some time blowing bubbles, which it seems every other stay-at-home mom is doing with her kids on their front porches today. We did some swinging on our swing set and then everyone had a freezie. Then we went for our walk and checked out some cool rocks and played in some dirt and said hello to some of the other bubble blowers.

I thought to myself in the middle of our walk that there was nothing at all I could think of that I would rather be doing this afternoon. It definitely was the kind of day when you value not having to be stuck in an office somewhere.

Just as we were reaching home, the Captain said to me, “Mommy? You know those days when all your wishes come true? This is one of those days.”

Well said, my dear.

So yesterday we went to a birthday party for the boy next door, and the subject of the famous Porta-Potty Of Tipping Over came up. And apparently, the porta-potty was not, as I thought, politely dismantled by the construction company. Oh no!

It was actually burned to the ground. By hooligans!

The fire that was set inside it was hot enough to completely melt the plastic exterior, leaving nothing but a little pile of goo. I thought the company had removed most of the potty, leaving only the square base of it behind…but it turns out, that “square base” is only the surviving crud from the fire.

Isn’t that insane? We saw MyFriendJen last night, and she is both bitter that she didn’t get a chance to capture the culprits herself, and kind of scared that there was a big fire right across the street from her place, and her kids, while she was sleeping, and she was totally unaware of it until morning. It’s pretty scary when you think that, now that the object of their obvious obsession is gone, these kids will now be roaming the streets on Saturday nights looking for something else to tip over, or set fire to, or cover in raw eggs.

My friend Agi half-jokingly suggested a neighbourhood watch, but I’m starting to think it’s not a bad idea. If I ever caught the vandals red-handed, you can bet there’d be some ass kicking. And probably not a little bit of whacks over the head with my umbrella. Whippersnappers!

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?