My sister is getting married in just over two weeks, and I suddenly decided this morning that I had to have a new dress for the occasion. I’m not desperate — I have this one from last year that I could wear — but I wanted to just have a poke around and see what the mall had to offer.

So I headed into Laura Petites, and I’m fingering their fancier evening-type dresses when along comes the saleslady. And she says to me, “Are you looking for something for a wedding?” and I say, “Yes, yes I am,” and she says, “Are you the mother of the bride?”

MOTHER. OF. THE. BRIDE.

Still not over it.

Probably never going to get over it.

(To answer your questions – she was not some young teenager, I’d guess she was around 50 and probably thought we were peers, which we kind of are, but NOT OVER IT. Also, I was kid-free as Little Miss Sunshine started preschool this week – I’m sure I would not have gotten that assumption with a preschooler in tow. BUT STILL. NOT OVER IT.)

I’ll be turning 40 in a few weeks and it really wasn’t bothering me at all. I kind of had weird issues when I turned 20, like WOE, my fun times are OVER, wah wah. But by 30 I was over that shit and kind of saw the new decade as a chance to finally figure out what it meant to be Lynn. Now I’m 40 and I still don’t have a clue but I don’t feel all that old and I still feel like there are lots of things to look forward to in life…

(like, apparently, the imminent weddings OF MY CHILDREN)

…so I wasn’t too fretty.

Then last weekend, my good friend Lisa came for a visit and I only see her and her adorable family like, once every five years, so we took some pictures. Gal Smiley wanted to take some shots so we gave her our camera and she snapped a few. In one of them I am bending over and looking to the side so she captured the top of my head, and HOLY CRAP, BATMAN, the grey hair. I have been absolutely fooling myself about the noticeability of the greys.

The old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be.

So now, a wee bit fretty, yes.

It’s a little tough realizing that the hair colour ads and the nice, matronly beaded dresses with long jackets and the Oil of Olay commercials are aimed at me. That when my kids’ swim instructors and babysitters look at me, they see someone old (AYE AYE AYE). It’s rather like that time in my early 20s when someone in a store first called me “ma’am” — a turning point, where you know you’ve passed into the next generation.

Here it is, folks! Middle age! Welcome, settle in, make friends, you’ll be here a while.

So my sister’s bridal shower was here last weekend, and I wasn’t going to blog about it at all because lately I have been in a mood that I like to call “September Bitchy,” in which I think that I suck, and everything sucks, and blogging sucks, and no one wants to hear about my pathetic attempts to be all Martha Stewart like with the crafting and baking and whatnot.

And plus, before the shower, I thought I’d cleverly non-blog about it by doing a “FameThrowa’s Shower In Pictures” post, in which I’d dazzle you all with soft-lit photos of pink sugar heart cookies, and two kinds of pie, and beautiful inviations I’m qutie proud of, actually, and little swag bags that I made myself that were stuffed with cool shit from Etsy, and the prize bowl, also populated with Etsy stuff, and pretty decorations, and the beautiful array of scrapbooking cut-outs (during the shower we made a “friends and family” scrapbook for FameThrowa), and whatnot.

But then, on the day of the shower, I was frantically running around here like one of the Captain’s Bad Influence idiot friends, and when the guests arrived I was still trying to hang decorations and get food on the table, so there was no time for artsy-fartsy shots of food. Instead, I just took about a dozen pictures of people standing around eating, and you all know how that goes, what with the weird faces and the big biting mouths and people holding their hands in front of their faces to hide the chewing. And that sucks.

However, there is one thing, just one thing, I did manage to take a picture of, and that is this cake I made, and word has gotten out on the street about the cake and I promised I’d post a picture so here you go.

FameThrowa and Mr. Chatty aren’t having a tiered cake at their reception so I thought I’d make them one for the shower. And TWELVE HOURS LATER, there it is. I should mention that this was a totally vegan cake, by the way, so the Captain could bury his face in it and eat his way out if he so desired. Orange cake on the bottom, chocolate on top, all tasty. I’m not going to go all Martha Stewart on your ass and give details but I will share the glory and horror of the making via email if you really, really want to know.

So now we’re past the shower, and on to Gal Smiley’s birthday. We’ve got the wedding itself coming up too and I tried to convince Gal Smiley to wait until mid-October to have her party, but NO, she has waited a whole GODDAMN YEAR for presents, and she will HAVE PRESENTS NOW, thank you. So we are throwing something together crazy fast and as a result I had about a half hour last night to make up invitations and that is BARELY enough time to choose one font, let alone three. So she gets kind of a cut-rate invite this year.

I’m sure I’d think that was cuter if I weren’t in such a bitchy mood. Thank the maker that she wants to do the same thing as last year, namely, stay home and watch a movie with her friends. I offered her a huge list of options, including revisiting this summer’s big hits, Cosmic Adventures or Saunders Farm, and instead she chooses to veg on the couch with a huge bowl of popcorn, which apparently, is THE ultimate food, she’s so excited about the freakin’ POPCORN, for heaven’s sake. I shouldn’t complain, but I am BITCHY, so I will. DAMMIT.

Oh, and I also made these lovely table signs for FameThrowa’s wedding, which I like, so you get a bonus photo for free.

Now if you’ll excuse me, the September Bitchy will not wait, and I have an appointment with a dark room and some 80s goth music and a ginormous coffee. EVERYTHING SUCKS.

The Captain has a favourite stuffed monkey, Big Wheel.

Sir Monkeypants and I are Big Wheel’s grandparents.

Big Wheel calls Sir Monkeypants “Mighty Bobo” and me “Lala Chachi.”

I am wildly in love with this, and if someday our real grandchildren aren’t actually calling us “Bobo” and “Lala,” I will be very disappointed.

The “Mighty Bobo” name is actually, apparently, circular. The Captain says it can mean “grandfather” OR “son.” So Sir Monkeypants is Mighty Bobo to Big Wheel, but the Captain is Mighty Bobo to Sir Monkeypants, and Big Wheel is Mighty Bobo to Captain Jelly Belly.

NICKNAME OVERLOAD.

And yet, I love.

The other day, Gal Smiley wanted to know why I never use her name, but rather always call her “honey” or “sweetheart” or “cuddle monkey” or “sugarpie” or one of the dozen variants of her name that we throw around. She seemed disappointed in me, as if I don’t know her real name. She doesn’t seem to have much tolerance for anything other than a strict Gal Smiley.

How will she ever survive team sports?

I spluttered a vague explanation about family and closeness. I hope someday she will see that these private names that we have for her make her part of our posse, mark her as our own.

Just call me Lala Chachi.

At the very last second, we decided to wrap up our Summer of Awesome with a road trip to Toronto and Niagara Falls. I don’t think I can emphasize enough how very, very unlike me it is to throw together a trip at the last second. I barely had time to make, like, four lists. How can one travel with ONLY FOUR LISTS?

Crazy.

Anyway, the trip was awesome. In Toronto, we went to the Science Centre and Centre Island; in Niagara Falls we did Maid of the Mist and Marineland, and most importantly, stayed in a hotel, which as far as the kids are concerned, was NIRVANA. I’m not going to go into any more detail than that as I think this trip has fairly narrow appeal, but if you’re really dying to know more, let me know.

So now we’re back, and I’ll be spending this week running around like a nutcase getting the kids ready for school, doing about a MILLION last minute things for Little Miss Sunshine’s co-operative nursery school (I’m on the executive there, and oh, how I pine for the simple days of the PTA!), trying to squeeze in a bit more Summer of Awesome Awesomeness including sixteen birthday parties, and OH MY GOD, planning my sister’s bridal shower which is this Saturday.

So I might not be as chatty as usual, despite the fact that So You Think You Can Dance Canada has begun, and you just KNOW I have a ton to say about THAT. Until I can find some free time, though, have a look at my post on

Despite the fact that my children are INGRATES, I still took them to the Carp Farmer’s Market this past weekend. Read all about it at Kids in the Capital.

The other day I was talking to someone I had just met about a family that we both know. This new person said to me, in a very warm and heartfelt way, “I really love them – they are such a nice family.”

I agreed, because they really are very, very nice. Their kids are so sweet, kind, gentle, and polite. The parents are thoughtful, considerate, soft-spoken. They’re all talented and smart and accomplished and generous. They enjoy charity work and calling their grandmothers on Sunday. They are seriously, SO nice.

But of course, because it’s all about me, I started to wonder if anyone out there would deliver such a spontaneous, gushing review of my own family. I have to think not. What do outsiders see when our family approaches? A harried, tired-looking mom? Whiny children? A thumb-sucker, a nose-picker, and a third having a meltdown? Kids who are too loud, too mean, too unfamiliar with the concept of personal space?

There’s a great scene in the movie Parenthood between Rick Moranis and his sister-in-law (in the film), Mary Steenburgen. Rick is talking about getting his hyper-articulate, brilliant daughter into a gifted program. Meanwhile, Mary’s youngest son has put a bucket over his head and is repeatedly running into the wall. Mary gives Rick an apologetic smile and says, “He likes to butt things with his head.”

Oh Mary, how well I understand you.

It’s getting into the doldrums of summer, and I’m melancholy. We’ve had some really good times this summer, been to some fun places, done lots of interesting activities. And yet. Day in, day out, it seems I say the same things, do the same things. I feel like I could easily be replaced with a lifetime supply of pre-boiled hot dogs and my voice on a tape-recorded loop, saying:

Stop that.

Leave your sister alone.

That is NOT funny.

No one is getting any candy, so STOP ASKING.

Hands and feet to yourselves!

STOP THAT.

That was his first, DO NOT SNATCH, USE YOUR WORDS.

We are NOT buying anything for you today, and STOP CRYING.

The next person to say the word “butt” or “poop” is going to their room.

And so on. Are other homes like this, where we alternate between love fests and hating each other? Or are the nice families having nice times playing board games and appreciating each other’s inherent value and respecting everyone’s opinions and thoughts?

Sigh.

This morning I told the kids it was grocery shopping day, and the Captain said to me, “Why does it always have to be about what YOU want to do, and you NEVER do anything for your kids?” And that really, really hurt my feelings. Does he really not notice the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry? Does he really not remember the day trips, the visits to the library, the little special treats they get almost every day in the summer? Does he really think that grocery shopping with three kids is what I WANT to be doing with my time? Does he really not understand what being part of a family and part of a household means?

I guess I’m just not a nice mother.

If Sir Monkeypants had been home, he would have punished the Captain for talking to me that way, which would not have been unjustified, but I was so deflated I didn’t have the heart for it. It would be one more thing to yell at them about, one more thing to fight over, one more battle that they’ll “appreciate someday.” Instead, I told him that he’d be spending some time every day this week making a book of all the stuff we did over the summer. I hope he will see (and value) the great things we did.

How do the nice families do it? How do they make kids that are empathetic? How do they take trips to the grocery store without everyone asking for something, someone having a meltdown, and everyone whining that their lives are just SO BORING?

Today, I feel like I’m doing something wrong. Today, I’m looking forward to school starting.

Today, I’m feeling like we’re not a nice family, no, not at all.

The Captain’s latest saying is, “You’re getting out of the thinking zone.”

He said this to Sir Monkeypants at breakfast the other day, and we immediately looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

Pressured to explain, he said, “You know, sometimes you say, ‘I like what you’re thinking,’ but if you don’t like what they are thinking, then they are out of the thinking zone.”

Oh, of course.

I’m sure this one will catch on faster than cheese.

Come over to Kids in the Capital to read all about our totally fabulous, totally awesome trip to Saunders Farm. Whoo hoo!

I know people with spouses who travel for work are going to be bitter at me right now, but I have to confess that since the Captain was born – more than seven years ago – I can count on one hand the number of times either me or Sir Monkeypants has been away overnight. I KNOW. We really need to get out more.

So this weekend, when Sir Monkeypants went on his own to Toronto for a family thing, it was pretty unusual. He’s only going to be gone for 24 hours, but due to work and bedtimes and travel and such, the kids don’t get to see him for a full 48 hours.

And oh my LANDS, you would think the world was coming to an end. The weeping! The wrenching of clothes! The horror!

The Captain especially has been terribly sulky these past two days. About every five minutes he says, “I wish Daddy were here,” or maybe, “If only Daddy were here,” or perhaps, “I just can’t have any fun because Daddy isn’t here.”

At least ten times in the past 24 hours, Little Miss Sunshine has informed me that she loves Daddy much, much more than me. I can be third on the list, behind Daddy and her teddy bear. MAYBE.

Oh yes, I feel really adored.

At least I have my loyal soldier, Gal Smiley, who is and will always be a Mommy’s girl. But even she misses Daddy, because a) she has no one to take her bike riding, and b) with Daddy gone, I have to spend so much more of my time with those other two crappy kids who live here, and that cuts into her Mommy time, which is not cool, dawg, not cool at all.

So even though we have had a really nice time these past two days, full of treats and outings and junk-food breakfasts, the kids still really want their dad to get home, pronto. SHEESH.

As I was putting the Captain to bed last night, he was all sad and mopey and I-want-to-paint-my-room-black, and under questioning he admitted that he thought that Daddy was probably going to die while away, and never return, and he was going to be “stuck with me” forever.

And because I am a super good mom (yesterday, at least), I did not agree with him, nor suggest that a plane crash was likely. Instead, I assured him that his father would be there in the morning as always, and that his father was thinking of him and loving him and missing him, and that his father was definitely NOT going to die.

Then I went and had a big bowl of ice cream, because dammit, the ice cream loves me. It does too!

Sigh. See you soon, honey.