The last few weeks of summer slipped away so fast, I barely had time to breathe, let alone blog. I can’t get over how quickly this summer just flew by. We did so many fantastic things and had such a good time, and yet, we didn’t even get to half of the things on the Summer of Awesome list. There’s just so many great things to do in this city, too many.

And now it’s fall, and school, and my babies are gone again all day long. Even the little one is gone every morning now. Summer is over, and now I feel the years ticking away too. How many more Summers of Awesome can we squeeze in, until the kids are more interested in going to the mall with their friends or working a summer job?

Too few, is the answer. Too few.

Wow, when did this post become such a downer?

My real point here is that the blog topics are building up to critical levels, which means you’re in for the exciting Point! Form! Post!, so I can catch up and start the new school year with a clean slate.

---

Summing up the Summer of Awesome – well, it was awesome! The big ones were Saunders Farm, camping (Lord Help Me), Mont Cascades, and the approximately one million birthday parties we attended. I started making a comprehensive list of everything we did but I think no one wants to hear about that except my own 65-year-old self, so I will suffice it to say it was a great summer, and I’m sad to see it end.

---

Canadian! Dance! Show! – I’ve had the entire season of So You Think You Can Dance Canada on the PVR all summer long and I’ve been catching up this week. The more I watch, the more irate I get. I’m up to the top 10 show now and if I didn’t like Jordan so much, I’d walk away from this season. Walking away. FROM DANCE SHOW. That’s how angering it is.

I have a huge list of complaints but here they are in a nutshell: the stupid judges are protecting the ballroom dancers and it’s getting ridiculous; the stupid judges went and got rid of all the hip hop dancers and now the field is uniform, boring, and no one can do Luthor’s amazing choreography; the stupid judges never have anything meaningful to say because they never, ever say anything negative, and I have to listen to FIVE of them say nothing every time (thank God for the skip button); Leah Miller is fake and the stuff they write for her to say is unbearable and she is not Cat Deely and that is A Problem; the constant switching of partners is stupid and again, heavily favours the ballroom dancers, and has prevented from bonding with anyone; also, Matt, Adam, and Kevin are the same person and they are NOT FOOLING ANYONE.

---

I was in total denial about lunch making this morning. I really thought that if I didn’t do anything to prepare, it just would magically happen on its own. Like, the lunch fairies would come in the night and make three little lunches out of sheer sympathy for me.

But sadly, the lunch fairies appeared to be busy elsewhere. BITCHES.

So as anyone with half a brain could have predicted, I had a bit of a struggle this morning when I couldn’t find the lunch bags, then couldn’t remember which fold-and-lock lid went with which reuseable container, then stood dumbfounded in front of our fridge for 20 minutes while I just could not believe that I just could not remember a single thing I used to put in the school lunches.

I did used to send food for them, didn’t I? Apparently I’ve blocked that all out.

I managed to make it happen, though, and even remembered to pack the pre-filled water bottles at the last second, and everyone made it out the door and to school on time.

I should BE a lunch fairy.

Except that it would probably send me to an early grave.

And I don’t nearly have the wings for it.

---

Now if only we could get the shoelace-tying down – we’ve moved away from velcro for the first time this year for the older two and OH THE HEARTACHE. Remember in the days before velcro shoes, when we all had to learn to tie shoes by the time we were four? My mom faithfully kept a baby book for each of her kids and on the page where it says I walked (11 months) and was potty trained (22 months, although to hear my mother talk about my poor kids and their extended diaper wearing, I was wiping my own butt at age 3 weeks), there’s also an entry that says I tied my own shoes before I went to kindergarten.

And now, oh the woe of a Grade Three-er who has to master tying. THE WOE. Today we caved and sent one in Crocs and one in last year’s broken down runners.

Tomorrow, THE WOE.

How many more months of this, do you think?

When I turned 39, I made a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the time I was 40. Signs Of True Adulthood. Number one on that list was to acquire and learn to apply makeup – somehow I missed that step as a 16-year-old.

I did manage to get some makeup (thanks to MyFriendJen and FameThrowa), and I even learned mostly how to apply it (again thanks to MyFriendJen, although eyeliner is still a huge mystery to me). I tried wearing it daily for a few weeks but then I gave it up, because a) I felt like a huge poser, like what am I, a Real Housewife Of Ottawa-Gatineau?, and b) makeup combined with my Mom Uniform of jeans, t-shirt, and ponytail, made me feel like I had earlier today been stood up at the altar. It just didn’t fit the lifestyle.

This past week I had occasion to be at the grocery store on a weekend, something that doesn’t usually happen anymore as I prefer to shop kidless on weekday mornings (child-free grocery shopping = NIRVANA). I had a good look around at the unusually large crowd and saw so many moms there, moms with toddlers in the carts and bigger kids hanging off the sides. They were moms in jeans and t-shirts and ponytails, my people, my kin.

Looking at them made me feel kind of sad, because I could see the smart, interesting, beautiful people they were, but they just looked so tired. And I knew they were seeing exactly the same thing when they looked at me and my three hooligans running wild up and down the aisles. There were awesome people in there, but wearing a Mom Mask that shut out all other interpretations. Some days you just don’t have the energy or the time to do anything for yourself.

I wanted to issue a Call To Arms right then and there, to moms everywhere. You’re gorgeous! Own that Mom Uniform! Do the Superstore Strut! Smile and nod knowingly to other moms, sensing the shared fabulousness! Let the twinkle in your eye be your bling! We’re all Real Housewives on the inside!

So all this is a rather dramatic way to say that I have reclaimed my interest in adding a little cover-up and mascara and lip gloss to my daily routine (thus doubling the number of steps involved, so that’s a pretty major commitment). I deserve to put my best face forward. It’ll probably last three weeks. But the inner fabulousness lives on!

(I’d totally watch The Real Housewives of Ottawa-Gatineau. Wouldn’t you?)

We just got back from a week Down South, visiting the grandparents. It was a good week and everything went smoothly and we had a nice time.

Until the drive home.

Right before we left Sir Monkeypants drew my attention to a flyer at my mom’s house advertising kids’ OshKosh jeans for $10 at an outlet store nearby. OshKosh stuff fits our kids really well and you can’t get it in Ottawa, at least not in the west end. I think there’s a store in Orleans that sells the brand, but considering a hop over to Stittsville qualifies as a day trip in my book, and a visit to downtown is an epic journey requiring the companionship of elves and dwarves, you can imagine how often I get to Orleans.

So we decided to make a super quick stop at the outlet, and then my mom pointed out that if we went just a few extra kilometers we’d come across a Nike outlet that sells discounted kids’ runners. And that seemed worthwhile, too. Meanwhile, we were already planning on hopping off the highway to hit a Crocs outlet that Sir Monkeypants’ brother-in-law had told him about.

Where are all the outlet stores in Ottawa? Are we not worthy of outlets? How is it that Cambridge and Mississauga are lousy with outlets, and yet I have none? I’m pouting.

Anyway, we stopped and shopped, then stopped and shopped, then stopped again, and had some lunch, and all in all it was three hours later than planned by the time we finally hit the road to come home, and then due to the late hour we hit major, major traffic all across Toronto. After two hours of creeping and crawling we hadn’t even gone down a real hour’s worth of road.

So needless to say it was a loooooooong, epic journey home and we really should have brought along some elves and dwarves. By the time we hit our own driveway we basically never wanted to see each other or the van ever again. It’s taken two days just for us all to have a normal conversation with each other.

As a topper, Gal Smiley threw up about 15 minutes after we got home. Although, you could really see that as a plus, seeing as how she a) didn’t do it in the van, and b) even made it all the way to a toilet. Small blessings, people, small blessings.

So now we are home, and ready to pack some last-minute fun into our Summer of Awesome, in between the massive list of chores I have to get us all ready for school. At least all the kids have jeans. And running shoes. (Turns out the Croc place had moved.)

Still no outlet stores, though.

POUT.

I wrote another post about a really good Summer of Awesome activity – the Science and Tech Museum. It’s up over at Kids in the Capital. Don’t skip it just because you think you’ve seen it all before – they have some great outdoor summer activities on this year, and it’s worth checking out.

Hey, remember last winter when I got caught downtown with the girls in a snowstorm with a flat tire? And how I kind of freaked out and called Sir Monkeypants in tears and barely made it home alive?

Today I was out running errands with the kids and guess what happened – the flat tire light came on!

But now I am a wisened professional at this, so I calmly pulled into the nearest gas station (luckily we were in Kanata, which has a gas station about every 500 metres). Then I dug the air pressure checker thinger out of the glove box and checked the tire pressure (after removing all the hubcaps with my BARE HANDS, because I am badass like that).

Having identified the troubled tire, I made a quick, calm call to Sir Monkeypants just to check and see what the tire pressure should be. Then I passed around granola bars and gummies to keep the kids calm while I put some money in the air machine and filled the tire.

Then, with oily hands that I didn’t even bother to clean, I carried on with the errands.

STONE COLD COJONES, I tell you.

Of course, I am never driving the van again, but that’s merely a coincidence.

Yesterday I took the kids to the movies. It was between Winnie The Pooh, which I knew my four-year-old would love, and The Smurfs, which my eight-year-old was pulling for. In the end, The Smurfs fit better into our schedule for the day, and the older two kids convinced the youngest that Gargamel wasn’t really very scary, and so off we went.

I knew it was going to be bad. I have a personal rule about movies that mix animation and live-action – AVOID. I knew what I was in for. It certainly lived up to expectations – it’s possibly the worst movie I have ever seen. And that’s saying something, as my standards for movie quality have really gone down since I had the kids – I have recently enjoyed, for example, such timeless titles as Sharpay’s Fabulous Adventure and Phineas and Ferb: Across The Second Dimension. Ah, those were good times.

So The Smurfs, despite the presence of Neil Patrick Harris (I weep, weep that Hollywood can’t find anything better for him to do) and the super cute Jayma Mays (who at least gets to wear some very nice outfits), is terrible. As a movie.

But it’s sadly successful at being one giant commercial.

If you haven’t been yet, and plan to take the kids, keep an eye out for all the product placements. You won’t really have to concentrate too hard. Almost every scene has something in it. The guy sits down at his computer and the logo is promenently displayed. The Smurfs ride on top of a taxi which has an ad on top, meaning the ad becomes the backdrop for the entire scene. Camera pans of Times Square not only linger on giant billboards, but the Smurfs point them out and comment on them.

There’s one scene set in a toy store where one of the Smurfs lands in a bowl of candy – I can’t say which one as I’m totally grossed out by their marketing tactics. Not only does he taste the candy and comment on its deliciousness, but there is a giant stuffed version of the candy sitting nearby that becomes part of its own subplot. Gross.

Another scene that features a video game is supposed to be a humourous break from the action, but five long minutes of characters talking about how awesome the game is, how fun, how relaxing, how excellent, and you start to wonder if you’re watching a movie or one big ad.

I guess I have been spoiled in the past by Pixar and Disney films, which I wouldn’t have said were above product placement really, but compared to this film, come off like marketing saints. I guess Disney films are kind of like one big ad for themselves – there’s always a ton of associated merchandise to buy – but I don’t know, it goes down easier. And maybe it’s harder to put product placements in animated films, which are often set under the sea or in the desert or in a forest, where an animated Sony VAIO laptop would kind of stick out.

After watching Cars 2, Sir Monkeypants and I had a huge debate about whether or not Ferrari paid to have their car mentioned so many times, and with such reverence, in both of the Cars films. Sir Monkeypants felt that it was a paid placement, and a blatant one. But that seems mild to me now – at least it was part of the story and part of the characters. This stuff in the The Smurfs was just so…slimy. I mean, it’s not like my kids are going to pester me to pick up a Ferrari next time we’re at Toys R Us. But they’re already asking for that candy they saw in The Smurfs. You know, the one that was so funny? When he fell in the bowl? can we get some?

GROSS. I actually paid for that crap.

Am I out of touch? I must admit it’s been years since I saw a big summer tentpole movie. Maybe Transformers and Thor and Green Lantern were all like this – smothered in products. Maybe The Smurfs is just the same as any other big budget movie appearing in theatres today, even the ones for kids.

But I really, really hope not.

The Little Miss likes to dance.

When I’m watching Dance! Show!, she gets up in front of the TV to do spins and leaps and poses, asking if she’s a better dancer than the ones in the show.

(She is.)

When music is playing, she can’t resist swaying her hips, taking a few kicks, rolling on the ground and pointing her toes in the air. She asks if she’s the best dancer ever.

(She is.)

This spring we enrolled her in Twinkle Toes, a city-run program that is an introduction to ballet. She wore her pink tutu, a costume from the toy store. She pranced and skipped and marched with pointed toes. She was terribly disappointed that there wasn’t any twirling involved.

She told us she wants to be a ballerina.

I have to admit that the world of ballet lessons scares me. I envision a strict environment, with a barking, snapping teacher wielding a stick and bright red lipstick. A bored piano player rolling her eyes as the girls, dressed identically with their tight buns, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

But she loves it. And she’s the best dancer ever. It’d be a shame to deny the world.

So we’ve enrolled her in dance classes for the fall. At a real ballet school. Complete with buns, and uniforms.

(Jury is still out on the red lipstick.)

This past weekend I bought her a used pair of pink ballet slippers. At another store, we found the black leotard she needs to wear. No shorts, no sweatshirts, no socks allowed.

We tried on the leotard, to make sure of the size. She whispered to me, it makes me feel like a SUPERSTAR.

She pranced up and down before the mirror. She didn’t want to take it off. She wore it all day.

She’s my best dancer ever.

This post is part of Brie’s Monday Moments series over at Capital Mom. This week’s theme is dancing.

So! Last weekend we went camping.

And it was…kind of nice.

NEVER thought I’d be saying that.

Now I will be the first to admit that we had the most ideal conditions ever. First of all, the weather was gorgeous – sunny 100% of the time and warm, perfect for sitting in the shade at the campsite, lying in the sun on the beach, or taking a refreshing dip in the chilly lake. Second of all, everyone was healthy and happy and came to the event with a good attitude (well, the kids did, anyway). Thirdly, there were real-life bathrooms and they were kept really, really clean, surprisingly clean, and I was not squeamish at all about using them.

Fourthly, there were very, very few bugs. I KNOW.

That was my number one fear – especially after reading Andrea’s bug-related camping post from a couple of weeks ago. I brought six bottles of bug spray with us – SIX. I was dead serious about kicking some bug ass. But we saw no more than a handful of mosquitoes and flies the whole time – I think among all five of us there are at most 10 mosquito bites. I think we saw maybe two spiders, no bees or wasps. The beach was completely bug free, and my worst heebie-jeebie fear of all – bugs in the shower area – was a total non-issue. Super clean bug-free showers. LOVE.

By far the best thing about camping was this: approximately every 30 seconds, one of our children would declare, “This is the BEST DAY EVER,” or alternately, “You are the best Mom and Dad EVER.” Then Jeff Probst would stride into camp with his blue shirt and baseball hat and present me with the People’s Choice Award for Most Ultimately Amazing And Cool Mother Ever.

It was pretty awesome.

So I guess all this means that we will go camping again, someday. I doubt I’ll ever be an enthusiastic camper, but I’d go again, maybe once a summer. If only to catch up with Jeff and tell him that his tooth/shell necklace is getting a little dated.

On the other hand…

There’s a secret part of me that believes that there’s a camping goddess, and she’s evil (of course), and when she found out that I, of all people, was going camping, she used her black magic to orchestrate a perfect weekend in which everything would go perfectly right. Then she’d cackle to herself softly about how another family has been sucked in, and how we will worship her by faithfully booking a site every single year for the next 20 years, vainly trying to recreate that first perfect weekend, while she rains on us and hails on us and sends plagues of blackflies.

It can never be this good again, can it? Maybe we really should quit while we’re ahead.