If you’ve been having trouble commenting on this blog or any other WordPress blog, it’s because WordPress.com has introduced some controversial rules about anonymous commenters. You can read a rather hilarious description of the new rules here.

In other news, thanks so much to everyone who expressed concern about me and my shingles (now playing seven days a week, twice on Sundays!). I’m doing absolutely okay. I didn’t realize until I made that post that most people with shingles really suffer. Mine is the most mild case ever – a very small patch that is already halfway to healed. A little Advil and hydrocortizone and I was well able to function normally. (Well, except for the big QUARANTINE sign I had to wear around my neck.)

Lately we’ve had some issues with Little Miss Sunshine being, shall we say, rather fluid with the truth.

There’s two facets to her dishonesty. One one hand, she’s doing this weird thing where she denies having said something she JUST said. For example:

Me: Would you like juice or milk?

Her: Juice.

Me: pours juice

Her: I said, I want milk!

Me: No, you said you want juice. Do you want milk?

Her: I said, I want both. makes “Duh” face

The second thing she’s doing these days is inventing fanciful stories about things that never actually happened. Like so:

Her, while riding in the back seat of the car: I just saw the museum!

Me: That does look like the museum, doesn’t it? But really it’s just a school.

Her: I have been to that school before.

Me: I don’t think we have, no.

Her: Yes, once my teacher took us there. It was a field trip and we rode the bus and I sat with Emily and Tamara. And my teacher said, hold on tight over the bumps! And we did and it was SO funny. Then we got to the school and the teacher had brought everyone apples and granola bars! And we had a picnic on the lawn, and then we went in and saw a concert. And Elmo was there!

And so on.

Lately we have begun trying to correct her when she denies having said what she said, Sir Monkeypants and I will gently remind her that it is okay to make a mistake or change her mind, but it is not okay to say you didn’t say something when you definitely said it. So far she is not taking to this kind of correction very well – she gives us her stank face and stands by her story. We are flirting with the idea of upping the ante with a trip to the naughty step. It’s not serious now but we both think it’s important to enforce the idea that she can trust us with the truth.

As for the storytelling, I used to find it amusing but now I am somewhat worried. I think this kind of fanciful dreaming happens sometimes in kids (although our other two were firmly-planted reality-addicted kids who would never, ever have come up with something so ridiculous). I’m trying not to crush her creative spirit. But I do wonder what, exactly, she is telling her teacher at school about me. SHUDDER. So again, I’m starting to think about having some more serious discussions about truthiness.

What do you think – phase she’ll grow out of, or dangerous warning sign of future grifter?

Long time readers of this blog may recall that back in 2010, Little Miss Sunshine was diagnosed with molluscum contagiosum. It’s a kind of rash caused by a virus that looks like little white pimples – my mom said when she was a kid they would have called them boils. They’re tiny little things that swell into slightly larger little things with white pearlized tops. Eventually they get big enough to pop open and a bunch of ooze and a hard centre come out (highly contagious at this stage, by the way), then it bleeds like you’ve cut an artery for a day or two before finally drying up.

Most kids who get it get one spot; a “bad case” might be five or six spots. The Little Miss had, at one time, more than 50 spots, with new ones cropping up all the time. They spread from her armpit down her arm and side, then onto her stomach and neck, and eventually she had a few on her leg as well before the tide turned. I’m happy to say that the last spot finally, finally broke open and then healed a few weeks ago. We are CONTAGION FREE.

Or, we were.

A few days ago I woke up with a super, SUPER itchy rash on my lower left hand side. I figured, allergic reaction. Or maybe bug bites. But it got itchier and itchier, and eventually started to hurt in a stabbed-by-a-thousand-needles kind of way. Gal Smiley, who was always deeply concerned about catching the molluscum contagiosum (which no one else ever did, by the way), kept asking me if it was contagious, and I kept assuring her it wasn’t.

But it turns out it is shingles.

Which is a manifistation of the chicken pox virus.

Which is contagious to people who have never had chicken pox.

Which includes my entire immediate family, including Sir Monkeypants.

So now I’m walking around with my abdomen swathed in the World’s Biggest Bandage, alternately dying of itching and stabbing pain, and fretting about giving my whole family a horrible disease. Quarantine for Mommy!

A few years ago a friend of ours I’ll call “Glenn” (hi Glenn!) got The Gout. And we all mocked him, because that is an Old Man Disease, and clearly his days of fun in the sun were over, he may as well learn to play bridge and drink tea and move to a retirement home. And now, here I am with the shoe on the other foot (is that a saying? I feel like I messed that one up), as I have The Shingles, which is also an Old Lady Disease.

It’s really amazing how fast your body betrays you once you cross that 40 line. I have to say, now that I’m here I kind of wish it would get it over with and just commit to being actually old. Having to deal with PMS, pimples, 10% unruly grey hairs, and The Shingles all at once seems like Just Too Much. Really, body, we cannot be all ages at once. We CANNOT. Commit!

I spent this morning working at the book fair at the kids’ school.

Overheard:

Preteen Girl A: Ooh, The Lucky One by Nicolas Sparks!

Preteen Girl B: That’s a movie.

Preteen Girl A: I know…this is the book it was based on.

Preteen Girl B: So why read it? I’m just going to watch the movie version.

Sigh. So sterotypical, Girl B, so stereotypical.

My husband and I were both into reading as kids. We were the kind of kids who snuck under the covers at night with a flashlight and a novel, who thought they were totally fooling their parents with their surruptitious glances at the book on our laps under the dining room table. We were the kids who would rather sit inside on a warm summer day because the glare of the sun on our books make it hard to focus.

I remember my mom yelling at me about ten times a day to PUT THAT BOOK DOWN and come and do something useful, or engaging, or physical.

Now I’m at the other end of things – I wish our kids were readers. Actually, Gal Smiley shows early signs of possibly enjoying reading, we have caught her sitting with a comic book or even a short novel a few times lately, all without prodding. Then Sir Monkeypants and I make mad hand gestures at each other and mime how EXCITED we are to see one of our kids reading, but of course we can’t make a big deal about it, but it’s a BIG DEAL. Do you know how hard it is to mime out how long do you think before she is ready for Lord of the Rings?

But the Captain. Oh, the Captain. He is a guy who is Not. Into. Reading. In general, he’s not into schoolwork – always rushing to get it done as fast as possible, with the minimal acceptable effort. He’s passionate about Lego, video games, The Clone Wars, and kicking everyone’s butt at Sorry. Reading? Not so much.

It’s such a dicey thing, because this is one of those things that we desperately want him to take an interest in, but we know that if we push it, he’ll end up seeing reading as a chore and hate it even more. Others have recommended comic books to us, but he’s lukewarm about those too; he says he’ll read Star Wars novels if I buy them but it turns out to be a scam just so he can get the free Darth Vader bobblehead that comes along for the ride.

We had heard from several parents that the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan was The One that transformed their non-reader into a reader, so a few weeks ago I bought the whole set from Scholastic. They were nominally for bedtime reading – we still read to him before bedtime, and he LOVES that – but Sir Monkeypants had a secret plan to read him only some of the book, then encourage him to read the rest on his own. It is…sort of working. We still have to tell him that it’s reading time, and he is to go in his room and read now. But once we can convince him to be there, he will read (for the minimum required time) and enjoy the story (to a minimum degree). So I guess that’s progress.

What I really want is for him to discover the wonder of storytelling. To have his imagination fired up by stories that serve as the seeds for new tales to grow in his own mind. To devour books like they were chocolate-flavoured Pez and to come to us with complex questions like “what does ‘lackadaisical’ mean?” and “are any of my grandparents Greek Gods?” To curl up next to us on the couch with a book and then not be able to resist telling us about this funny part, or this scary part, or this sad part.

Is there a way to make that happen? Or is it just an inborn thing? Are some people born to read, and others born to travel lightly on the open road?

We’ll keep reading to him, and keep hoping. And make him read the book before seeing the movie, dammit.

I don’t want to delve too deeply into this, but here is what happened. About six weeks ago I got a job. It was going to be a work-from-home kind of thing, totally flexible hours, the kind of thing all stay-at-home moms dream of getting. It was fun and interesting and involved being paid for writing.

Then the company went under, and that was over.

I am doing okay with this, it’s a mental adjustment but I wasn’t attached enough to the whole situation to feel a loss. So don’t worry. It’s nothing that chocolate and a cup of tea can’t cure.

But now I find I am sitting on information, and it’s burning a hole in my pocket. Part of my job was to gather weekly info on what was happening in Ottawa that was suitable for families. Trust me when I say I know everything, every little thing, that will be happening in this city in the next six months.

I was thinking of making some weekly activity posts, just to get it out of my system. It’s kind of like the Summer of Awesome, but extended out to a Year of Fabulous. Plus, it would shake things up around here because lately I feel all I am blogging about is cooking and YouTube and how I yearn to be on Cash Cab (well, that series is mostly in my head – you’re welcome).

I’m mulling it over. Pass the chocolate.

Back in September, Little Miss Sunshine started ballet classes on Monday afternoons while the older two were still in school. I thought it would be a nice quiet hour for me, maybe read a book, maybe pop out for an errand or two.

But then came the first week. I was sitting in the waiting area with a magazine when I heard a sound from the studio right next to ballet class. It sounded like…tapping. Good tapping. Advanced tapping.

One thing I don’t mention much on this blog is that I am a tap dancer. I’ve been tapping since I was a child and I’ve taken classes on and off as an adult. I LOVE tap dancing. It is the only form of exercise I actually get excited about. It is one of the few things that make me want to leave the house. In fact, I am proud to say that I own this:

Oh yes, I am serious about tap.

So I asked at the desk, and it turns out that the tap class that is on at the exact same time as ballet is an intermediate level tap class.

For seniors.

But they’re good! Really good! Most of them have been tapping for years. Most of them tap at least twice, sometimes three times a week. And, they even have their own little dance troupe, with costumes and bookings and shows and everything. They are SERIOUS about tap.

So I begged them to let me into the class, and they said yes, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I love my tap class. It’s so much fun, and bonus: I get to be the young kid in the class. One lady in the first week asked if “what are you, about 20?” AWESOME. It’s one of the highlights of my week.

So last week, I came into class as usual and there was a new person in the class.

FRANCES.

Frances is a lady that used to be in my old tap class, a few years ago. I wrote a whole post about how awesome she is, because at that time she was already in her 70s and had just started to learn tap. I was in a class with other Mommy types and she was way older than us but still kicking up her heels in a kick-ass kind of way. Plus, I used to see her at the pool once a week when I took the Little Miss for a swim lesson, where she was doing laps with her husband.

I totally want to BE Frances when I grow up.

And there she was! In my new tap class! LIFE IS COMPLETE.

Of course she had only the haziest memory of who I was. It probably didn’t help that I assaulted her with glee and practically jumped around in her face. Frances! Frances! Frances! I care not. I will admire her from afar or close, as required.

The last few weeks, the Little Miss has been grumbling that she doesn’t care for ballet any more. TOO BAD KID. You will be going to ballet NOW AND FOREVER. Doesn’t she even realize that FRANCES is in my class now? I’m a lifer.

Well, that Backstreet Boys thing went on in this house for many days, with all five of us dealing with serious Song Worm issues. It was getting desperate.

Then Sir Monkeypants broke us all out of the Pattern of Harm with this:

I was thinking about Party of Five the other day because Little Miss Sunshine insists she has a cavity (really: manufactured drama because Gal Smiley has a loose tooth and we are all making a fuss over it). That got me thinking about the episode when Claudia has like, five cavities, and Charlie sees it as a personal parenting failure on his part, then Claudia tries to make him feel better by eating lots and lots of apples. Ah, I yearn for those more innocent days of television.

So based on that train of thought, I challenged Sir Monkeypants to name all five Salinger children, because although I am usually quite good at that sort of pop culture trivia, I was drawing a complete blank when it came to the wee toddler boy Salinger. And Sir Monkeypants actually knew it, and that was sex-ay, my friends.

Then we had listen to the theme song on YouTube approximately one million times, and played it for the kids too, so now we are all trying to be Closer to Free.

Sir Monkeypants got on a kick there where he was showing the kids YouTube videos of all kinds of TV openings. He and I got all nostalgic about Magnum, P.I.

Ah, I yearn for the days when shows took a full minute to introduce their cast of just four people.

I’m trying to convince Sir Monkeypants that what he and I need now is a Magnum marathon, because in all seriousness, that is a show that Holds Up (short shorts notwithstanding). Tom Selleck, still cool in 2012 – who knew? Oh who am I kidding, WE ALL DID.