No time for a real post today, but I had to get these two very important public service announcements out there…

First, Dance! Show! is on tonight. The season actually started last week with some audition rounds, and I didn’t even know. Guess my bitterness at not being asked to be a judge for this season is showing. Anyway, despite my initial lack of interest you all know that the coming of Dance! Show! means there’s only a few more weeks before this blog becomes all dance show, all the time. You’ve been warned.

Second, apricot season is here! Spotted at the Superstore. Get them now, get them often (but leave many, many apricots behind for me).

You’re welcome.

Every Sunday morning, Gal Smiley and I settle in, marking our usual spot on the concrete bench with jackets and bags. While Little Miss Sunshine takes her dance class, the Gal and I get out crayons and paper, books of poetry, card games and a sewing kit. We only have a half hour to spend together but the Gal likes to jam as many activities as she can into “our” special time.

The first week of dance class, someone else circled around us. He was curious about all our activities. He wanted to borrow some crayons. He liked Star Wars – did we? Did we want to see his book of drawings?

We did.

His name is Matthew. He is so much like the Captain he could be my other son, and so the Gal feels a sense of kinship. His little sister takes dance class with the Little Miss while Matthew and the Gal talk about Lego, soccer, loose teeth. They colour side by side, or sit next to each other while I read to them. They tell each other what they did this past week, what they’ll be doing later today.

He’s been accepted, he’s one of us. Once you have won the Gal’s loyalty, you will never lose it. “Our” time at dance class has turned into a threesome, but that’s okay. I like him, I like that the Gal likes him. We look forward to seeing him every week.

Dance class will be ending soon. Yesterday I finally forced myself to approach Matthew’s father, shyly handing him a piece of paper with my name, address, and email written in blue crayon. I explained that we’d love to have Matthew and his sister over someday. Then I fled – I am too introverted to smooth through such social awkwardness.

I’m as nervous as Gal Smiley – will they call? Will our friendship survive outside the dance class bubble?

I hope so.

This post is for Brie’s series of Mommy Moments over at Capital Mom. This week’s theme was friendship.

Over the next three days, we have a field trip, a soccer game, swimming lessons, yoga class, the National Capital Races, chess club, and dance class. And that’s just the things we have to do at a specific time, it doesn’t include all the errands and jobs around here that have to get done this weekend, plus there’s the Touch-A-Truck event and a fair on just up the road and about a million other things going on.

This always seems to happen in May and June. Every year I swear I will not overload our spring and yet, every year we end up spending these two months running from one thing to the next. There’s one day in June – June 19 – when we are quadruple booked with four super important things, all happening at exactly the same moment in time (dance recital, chess tournament, NAC tickets, visiting out-of-town guests). Still don’t know how we are going to handle that one. [Edited to add: Just realized this is ALSO Father’s Day! Sheesh!]

The field trip is this morning, and Little Miss Sunshine and I are off to the farm. This is the third field trip I have ever been on and it has POURED rain every single time. I’m not talking a little, “Welcome to Spring!” type shower, I’m talking torrential downpours that signal incoming hurricanes. I’m not complaining, I’m just pointing out that the teachers at my kids’ schools should perhaps think twice about asking me if I’m free for field trip duty in the future. As for today, I’m breaking out the bright yellow rain pants, so if you need hear of any planes that need to make emergency landings, I’m available.

As for the National Capital Races, I’ll be “running” the 2K with the girls tomorrow evening, and Sir Monkeypants and the Captain will be running (for real) the 5K. The Captain has been training for this for a few weeks and we’ve been impressed with his dedication and interest. He’s not the sportiest kid around but he seems to really enjoy running, and we’re happy he’s found something active he likes. Cross your fingers for good weather for us tomorrow – at least it’s not a field trip!

I am very annoyed that I do 95% of the cooking in this house, and yet, my husband is effortlessly a much better chef than I am. I can only cook through careful measurement and strict adherence to recipes; he gets in there and is all, a little this, a little that, add some zing, and POW, awesomesauce. ANNOYING.

I recently watched The Hangover and while it was very amusing, I am peeved that they never explained how Phil (minor spoiler) ended up in the hospital. It is like a bitter little mosquito buzzing around in my brain. Even the internet provides no answers. I AM PEEVED.

I have discovered something weak about myself: when I am in a bad mood, the happy moods of my children piss me off. If I am grumpy and want to stomp around the kitchen banging pots, while they are running through the house squealing and chasing each other with joy, I feel the overwhelming need to yell at them to CUT IT OUT. Because when Mama is unhappy, the world is unhappy! GOT IT? I’m a small, small woman.

I cleared my lawn of dandelions through the power of hand weeding. Then the next morning, I cleared it again. And again. And again, Repeat a hundred thousand times. DANDELIONS SUCK. I don’t even LIKE the outdoors.

Remember how I cut through my left thumbnail with a knife a few weeks ago? It finally split right in half yesterday, and now I am holding it together with the sticky side of a band aid because my husband a) had the brilliant idea to super glue it together but then b) threw out the super glue and so c) I can’t do anything but delicately pamper it and curse our lack of super glue. AND, I stupidly went and pulled a hangnail on my RIGHT thumb, so now I have band aids on BOTH thumbs, which annoys me when I type or do dishes or peel oranges or EXIST. I AM ANNOYED.

Those kids better not DARE to be smiling when I pick them up from school today.

So apparently I was not clear in my post of yesterday: we will not be getting a cat, ever ever EVER. My allergies make it an easy decision, but in general Sir Monkeypants and I are not pet people, not interested in animals, not adding one to our household. EVER.

I have exactly one houseplant and it’s always at death’s door because I only remember to water it about once every six months, and in the 13 years I have had this one plant I have given it extra soil once. I think it only clings to life to spite me – or else it is related to the dandelions in our yard that cannot be killed by anything short of the Hand Of God, and God is busy these days with other things.

As for pets, we once had fish for a period of about two years, and they were a HUGE thorn in my side, what with the PAIN and HORROR of having to clean the tank out once every six weeks. Not to mention the incredible HARDSHIP of having to feed them once a day. Way too much dedication for the likes of us, and I did a little jig of joy when the last one finally died and we could put the tank away in the basement.

Also, we may have gone away for a week or more at a time without feeding them. But trust me, they were as stubborn as my one crappy houseplant, and the lack of food only seemed to make them more determined to hang on. Stupid fish.

And, the one household chore I hate more than all others is vacuuming, so if it were an animal with fur, or an animal that throws wood chips out of its pen, or an animal that tosses empty sunflower seed shells out of its cage, then it wouldn’t be too long before we were all living in abject filth. The day I find a cat hair in my dinner is the day before the day we have cat for dinner. You get the picture?

I mean, it’s really a wonder that our three children are fed and clothed in a half-decent manner, and I think we can all agree that it’s best to not push our luck in that area, mm-hm?

So yes, no cat for us. When I said yesterday, “What now?”, I meant more of a, “How do we convince Little Miss Sunshine that we are never getting a cat, even if she thinks she has us on a technicality,” rather than a, “I guess that’s it – we’re adopting!” kind of thing.

Do you think I can sell her on a nice stuffed cat for her birthday? It’s almost the same thing…no?

Every time we do anything, they are offered a choice. What TV show should we watch? What should we have for snack? To the park, or to the library? Should we take our bikes, the wagon, or walk?

Every time, three voices pick something different. If one says the park, someone else says the library, and a third wants to just stay home. One wants to bike, one wants to scooter, one wants to just stay home. One wants to have a playdate at our friends’ house, one wants the friends to come over to our house, one wants to be a hermit and see no one, ever. One wants spaghetti for snack, one wants to “help” me make muffins, one wants to think about it for another hour or so.

Do you think they do it on purpose? Are they trying to assert their personality and independence by picking the opposite of their brother and sister? Is this what sibling rivalry looks like?

I can’t get involved. To side with any one of them results in someone gloating, others sulking. Mom always picks you! Mom likes me better! Mom never gives me my way! Mom! Mom! Mom!

So I usually tell them they must sort it out amongst themselves, or we can’t do anything. Find a way for everyone to be happy, and leave me out of it. But that’s almost like siding with the one who wants to just stay home – if we can’t compromise, then “do nothing” wins. There’s no happy solution.

In the end I have to be the one who takes a stand. I’ll tell one of them they can have their way, and the others will get a turn next time – and everyone is invariably upset. Rare is the day when we can get all the way through with us all making the same choices. Forced compromises are the norm.

Why do I even bother to offer them options? I want us to be a Family Democracy, but Dictator Mommy works better for everyone. If only I had a big enough personality for that – Idi Amin I am not. I’m not even a Stephen Harper. I’m more of a Joe Clark. I just want everyone to get along. FOR ONCE.

More than anything, I need to choose to take charge. Consensus is not an option.

This post is for Brie’s series of Mommy Moments over at Capital Mom. This week’s theme was choice.

Home Depot. We need supplies to help install the new microwave/hood fan. I am puzzling over bolts – will the smallest size be enough to secure the new access panel? Or should I get one size up?

“Why don’t I have a gold finger?” asks Little Miss Sunshine from the cart.

It takes a moment to refocus. “What?”

“Why don’t I have a gold finger?”

“You mean, you would touch things and they would turn to gold?”

“No, just a finger that is gold and sparkly.”

“I…don’t know why you don’t have a gold finger. We will look into that. Now, which do you think: the big bolt, or the small one?”

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WalMart. Our cashier has electric pink lips framing a warm, friendly smile. “I’m worried about this bag. I’m going to double bag it for you – nothing worse than your bag splitting all over the parking lot, is there?” She hums while my credit card goes though, leans over to ask Little Miss Sunshine the name of her Pretty Pony. “Have a nice day,” she calls cheerfully to me, and I say I will, but I don’t see how it can possibly be as nice as the day she is having.

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A reversing car almost hits me in one parking lot. A van in the next one turns too quickly into their spot, and I have to brake hard. Later I’m turning left into the Superstore and a speeding red Mustang zooms around on my left hand side, cutting into the same parking lot ahead of me. What is with people these days?

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Home Hardware. We are buying a giant snake of tin tubing for the microwave vent. If anyone wants to be a robot for Halloween, we’ll be all set. At the cash register there is a man in front of me who is trying to return a half-used bottle of organic weed killer. He says he knows it is open but it did not work at all, and he wants to bring it back. The manager explains that once a product is open, it cannot be returned.

I’m surprised the man thought for a moment this plan would work. If you buy a product based on what it says on the label, is the store required to stand behind its claims? Shouldn’t you bring your bitterness to the internet, or complain to the company directly for your money back? Should a good store only carry products they personally feel are top quality, or should they just offer what they know they can sell?

I wonder.

We left before the issue was resolved.

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Driving home, we pass a brown Ford Tempo. That brings back some memories – every other family on my block had one when I was in Grade 10. If I hurried in the morning I could catch my friend down the street before she left for school, and her father would give us all a ride in his Tempo.

Someone has used white paint to write “’91 MINT” on the back of this brown one. I must say it is astonishing that it still runs. I wouldn’t rush out to enter it in any classic car shows, though.

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Little Miss Sunshine is tired and so am I – Sir Monkeypants and I were up past midnight struggling with the microwave. We lie down together in her bed but neither of us can sleep. It’s time for another errand, anyway – the older kids will be finished school soon. The days full of little jobs always seem so much harder than the days with one big project. It’s the running, running, running, and getting nowhere.

Every morning is the same.

Little Miss Sunshine arrives first. If we’re lucky, she’s waited until her clock says six, like she’s supposed to. If we’re unlucky, the sun isn’t quite up yet. Either way, she crawls into the bed between us, snuggling in under the covers and hugging us both as tight as possible. She lays as still as she can for two minutes, perhaps five, then attacks us with aggressive kisses from her bear, asking in a whisper-yell what we will be doing today. Time to get up!

A few minutes later, Captain Jelly Belly arrives. He’s a creature of routine. It’s always straight to his father’s side of the bed, a quick stop to drop off his stuffed monkey, then reporting to the bathroom for a morning pee. A moment later he’s back in bed with his daddy for his morning cuddle time – always his father, not me, but I don’t begrudge them their bonding. The Captain is content to lie still and be held while his father dozes, lost in his own thoughts of ninjas and video game strategy.

Soon Gal Smiley wanders in, rubbing her eyes. She’s not a morning person, and she’s prickly at the best of times, so it’s best to greet her cautiously and evaluate her mood. She wants her mommy, but not if it means getting too close – she is not a snuggler – and with four of us already in the bed, it’s a tough call. Some days she will accept the narrow strip of mattress left on my side, as long as I lay immobile beside her and not hug her too much. Other days she chooses to flop across the bottom of the bed, claiming her own territory rather than trying to invade the settled country.

With five in one bed, sleeping is definitely out of the question. The kids chatter to each other, maybe playing a pretend game, maybe talking about their day. Little Miss tries to get someone to tickle her, or “buy” the kitty-cat version of her from a pet shop. Someone always complains about not having enough space. Someone always feels that they are not getting their fair share of blanket.

Eventually my alarm goes off, signalling the passing of the last possible moment in which we can be ready in time. I struggle to get up, as children fling themselves on me, battling to keep me in the bed even though they’re ready themselves for breakfast. I fight them off, sometimes in fun, sometimes frustrated that we are now running late.

“It won’t always be like this,” my husband says. Joyously, wistfully, lovingly.

This post is for Brie’s series of Mommy Moments over at Capital Mom. This week’s theme was repetition.

Our microwave died a spectacular, flaming death yesterday. It spontaneously came on by itself – SPOOKY – and then refused to be turned off. I like to think it was making its own Stephen Harper protest – FIGHT THE MAN, microwave! Alas, I do care about not burning the house to ashes so we had to throw the breaker and shut that thing down.

I wouldn’t have said that having a microwave was so critical to my kitchen experience. This winter when Andrea was hosting the Shopping Embargo, Laura at The Mindful Merchant lost her dishwasher and decided to just suck it up and wash by hand until the embargo was over. So I thought maybe we should just see how it goes for a while with no microwave. Live old school! Just like the Ingalls did!

Plus, we are a little low on disposable income at the moment. Did you know that new houses are programmed to begin a self-destruct sequence when they hit six years old? Ours is just over that and it seems every time I turn around, something is breaking or falling off or turning to dust. Light switches no longer snap, doorknobs won’t turn, blinds have lost their ability to open and close. Paint is peeling, the driveway is sinking, the furnace is angry at us for some reason it won’t say, like, this is not GOSSIP GIRL, furnace, spit it out.

So this microwave thing is one pretty giant straw on that camel’s back.

But this morning, oh man, my kitchen mojo was off in Siberia. I keep a huge stash of muffins, cookies, and biscuits in the freezer for the kids’ breakfasts and it was all off limits – no one wanted cold, hard grains this morning. I couldn’t heat the leftovers from dinner and throw them in a thermos, as is my usual lunch-making plan, so instead I had to pull out pans and use the oven to heat things up. I had to get out a pot to warm up the kids’ milk – LIKE A HEATHEN.

I have to say, when you have a sink full of dirty pots and pans at 7 in the morning, it does not bode well for the rest of the day.

I didn’t realize before today how much of my morning routine is built on muscle memory. Apparently, I can pretty much go in the kitchen and be mostly asleep, and yet still make breakfasts and lunches on automatic mode. When you take away one piece of the process, everything goes to pot. I felt awkward and cumbersome, my little morning dance struggling to fit to a new song.

I’m sure I could get used to it, learn to make it work. But it would be a lot of effort to retrain. And I’d have to do all that retraining with no breakfast in my belly, because my robot-loaded daily breakfast involves thawing frozen blueberries in the microwave for my bran flakes, which is now off the table. Think of the poor, bare naked bran flakes! It’s so sad.

I’m guessing my microwave-free lifestyle isn’t going to last too long.

Yesterday the kids and I watched Buzz Lightyear of Star Command. It’s a cute 2-D movie featuring Buzz Lightyear in full space ranger mode, fighting Zurg and setting the galaxy to rights.

In the film, Buzz gets a new partner in Mira Nova, an alien princess who can fly, move through walls, and snap a one-liner like a wet towel:

She’s voiced by Nicole Sullivan, and she is cool beans.

Partway through the movie, Little Miss Sunshine says:

“What is the princess doing?”

Me: “They are fighting the bad guys. The space rangers are good and they are fighting Zurg.”

She: “But, she’s a princess.”

Me: “Yes, and also a space ranger.”

She: “But, princesses can’t fight. She might get hurt! She should just watch.”

MOTHER. OF. GOD.

Memo to self: Force a viewing Buzz Lightyear of Star Command every single day, until the Disney Princess brainwashing is reversed.

AS LONG AS IT TAKES. Good grief.