February 4, 2012
It's official.
Em is now a licensed driver.
Drove herself to work yesterday.
We haven't seen her since.
Already spending the night away from home with her car and her friends.
This is going to be tough.
To soothe my aching heart over the light speed growth of my children, Stephen and I took the dog's to the farm for a much needed run.
For all of us.
Once inside the tree lined sanctuary of the private property next to farm, behind the yellow gate, we let Fynn off leash.
It had to happen sometime.
Stephen was reluctant to let Fynn the same freedom he was happy to bestow upon Em.
But I am already weary of bring dragged around by Fynn as he watches Frankie cavort freely throughout the farm.
And tries to keep up.
Knowing that snapping off the leash could well mean it was the last time we ever saw Fynn, we took the plunge.
Stephen in front, me behind in case he did another of his famous turn and runs.
I felt like a football player waiting for the quarterback to run in my direction, me on the tackle ready.
But our Fynn, realizing he was free, and also carrying husky in his genetic makeup, decided running in the woods, through the trees, bounding happily through the snow.
Frankie trying to drag him out by his collar.
As he did with Tikka.
Fynn is less than willing to play that game.
Much to Frankie's chagrin.
For the most part, the run proceeded as we expected it would.
Frankie staying within an acceptable range.
Fynn running straight ahead, out of sight.
Much to Stephen's chagrin.
But, in spite of Fynn's desire to run ahead and search out whatever may or may not have been in front of us, he did come back.
Not close enough for us to get him.
But close.
Until he encountered another dog, and stopped to sniff long enough to allow Stephen to snap the leash back on.
And by this time, he was so happy to have been able to run, he was actually almost content to be back on the leash.
Almost.
We'll try again today.
Maybe letting him off a little longer.
Me with more treats in my pocket.
While I was in my office yesterday, after getting my hair done but before it was time to get Em from Service New Brunswick, talking with my TA, there was a knock on the door.
A student.
Carrying pizza.
Pizza all the way from Papa D S in Bridgewater/New Germany, Nova Scotia.
A friend and former roommate own Papa D S and this student is from New Germany, ergo when her boyfriend was coming to visit, she connected with him and my friend and voila! there is a pizza, a donair pizza in my office.
Oh. My. Gawd.
Knife included, the three of us noshed on that pizza, savouring ever, single, bite.
It was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO good.
Thinking about it now is making my mouth water.
But that marks my pizza consumption for a long, long time.
Unless another one is sent my way.
Thanks my dear friend.
It was so good!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Title Lyric: Running by Jully Black
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
Driver education, driver education. . .
February 3, 2012
I woke up this morning, alone.
All alone.
Only the blaring of the alarm, and the soft snores of the dogs indicated there were beings in the house other than myself.
This has never happened as far as I can remember.
A Friday morning.
Not having to get up and drive Em to school, get to a class, go to a meeting.
Fight with Stephen to get up.
I arose at 5.30, as usual.
The dogs hungry and in need to bladder relief.
Ate my customary bowl of fiber cereal with yogurt, not milk because that's disgusting.
But no coffee.
I was tired.
Am tired.
But was more tired at 5.30.
Knowing I didn't have to take Em to school because Stephen had a 9.00 am class, I did what I had to do and crawled back into bed.
I do remember signing something for Em.
If it's anything bad, I guess I'll find out later.
And a conversation may have occurred with Keith.
If so, he'll remind me later what I promised.
Stephen must have set the alarm so I'd remember to get up in time for my hair appointment.
The one I've put off twice now because I either didn't have the money, or something was scheduled last minute that conflicted with my hair appointment.
It's my one site of vanity.
The grey wings.
If grey was splattered throughout my hair, and not concentrated on the hair framing my face, I wouldn't care.
At least that's what I'm saying.
But I do care.
Ergo, I must do something about it.
So here I am.
Alone on a Friday morning.
Coffee beside me.
Jasper cleaning his nether ye-yah on the bookcase beside me.
Frankie and Fynn resting quietly on the office floor.
No other sounds in the house.
THIS is how Friday morning was meant to be.
Today is also a big day for Em.
ROAD TEST DAY is written on the More-Time-For-Mom calendar.
As if I could forget that today is the day my baby may well be granted official permission to traverse the highways and biways of Canada on her own.
Without parental accompaniment.
On the one hand, I accept that this is a rite of passage, an indication that she is growing up, moving into parts of her life that won't include me.
On the other hand, I am wishing that she was still my little girl gigantic blue eyes, who just wanted to spend time with Mum, content that her world didn't extend too much beyond the house, school. . . .
Most of all, I am terrified of the idiot drivers who daily risk the lives of others when they get behind the wheel and think that where they're going is FAR more important than where anyone else is going.
I encountered two of those people last night on the ten minute drive from work to home.
So forgive me for not trusting those morons who turn speed limits into perhaps-if-you-would-like-to-consider-it-a possible speed guideline; who think the yellow light means stomp-on-the-gas-pedal-and-race; for whom a STOP sign is a decoration in an otherwise winter wonderland.
My baby is going to be driving on her own.
And I will seriously harm, maim, mutilate and otherwise damage ANYONE who does ANYTHING to harm her while she is seatbelted into Ellie the Elantra, taking her next step into adulthood.
Don't test me.
Title Lyric: Driver Education by Amy Ray
I woke up this morning, alone.
All alone.
Only the blaring of the alarm, and the soft snores of the dogs indicated there were beings in the house other than myself.
This has never happened as far as I can remember.
A Friday morning.
Not having to get up and drive Em to school, get to a class, go to a meeting.
Fight with Stephen to get up.
I arose at 5.30, as usual.
The dogs hungry and in need to bladder relief.
Ate my customary bowl of fiber cereal with yogurt, not milk because that's disgusting.
But no coffee.
I was tired.
Am tired.
But was more tired at 5.30.
Knowing I didn't have to take Em to school because Stephen had a 9.00 am class, I did what I had to do and crawled back into bed.
I do remember signing something for Em.
If it's anything bad, I guess I'll find out later.
And a conversation may have occurred with Keith.
If so, he'll remind me later what I promised.
Stephen must have set the alarm so I'd remember to get up in time for my hair appointment.
The one I've put off twice now because I either didn't have the money, or something was scheduled last minute that conflicted with my hair appointment.
It's my one site of vanity.
The grey wings.
If grey was splattered throughout my hair, and not concentrated on the hair framing my face, I wouldn't care.
At least that's what I'm saying.
But I do care.
Ergo, I must do something about it.
So here I am.
Alone on a Friday morning.
Coffee beside me.
Jasper cleaning his nether ye-yah on the bookcase beside me.
Frankie and Fynn resting quietly on the office floor.
No other sounds in the house.
THIS is how Friday morning was meant to be.
Today is also a big day for Em.
ROAD TEST DAY is written on the More-Time-For-Mom calendar.
As if I could forget that today is the day my baby may well be granted official permission to traverse the highways and biways of Canada on her own.
Without parental accompaniment.
On the one hand, I accept that this is a rite of passage, an indication that she is growing up, moving into parts of her life that won't include me.
On the other hand, I am wishing that she was still my little girl gigantic blue eyes, who just wanted to spend time with Mum, content that her world didn't extend too much beyond the house, school. . . .
Most of all, I am terrified of the idiot drivers who daily risk the lives of others when they get behind the wheel and think that where they're going is FAR more important than where anyone else is going.
I encountered two of those people last night on the ten minute drive from work to home.
So forgive me for not trusting those morons who turn speed limits into perhaps-if-you-would-like-to-consider-it-a possible speed guideline; who think the yellow light means stomp-on-the-gas-pedal-and-race; for whom a STOP sign is a decoration in an otherwise winter wonderland.
My baby is going to be driving on her own.
And I will seriously harm, maim, mutilate and otherwise damage ANYONE who does ANYTHING to harm her while she is seatbelted into Ellie the Elantra, taking her next step into adulthood.
Don't test me.
Title Lyric: Driver Education by Amy Ray
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Ain't no time for diets. . . .
February 1, 2012
It's a SNOW DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Meaning I was able to sleep in until 6.15 am.
Oh the exciting life I lead!!!!!!!!!!!
And as it is Wednesday, Stephen is the one who has to get up and get ready for his 9.00 am class.
I don't have a class until 2.30.
Normally, I'd be doing something to celebrate my mini freedom.
Coffee with friends for example.
But because Monday was a day spent in bed trying to prevent my innards from being hauled out through my belly button with a crochet hook, I am a tad bit behind in my preparations for my three hour seminar class.
So while the snow falls on our front yard, I'll be sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the CBC and preparing for this afternoon's giggles.
And if it happens that I get through my material, and the weather isn't as bad as they are predicting, Stephen and I may take the hounds for a run to the farm.
Last night, they were so wound up before we took them out, we were in danger of losing our footing.
Fynn running into me with such force I almost went butt to floor.
So a daytime run, in the falling snow, frolicking and prancing, is just what the doctor ordered.
We'll see.
Like everything else during a New Brunswick winter, it's out of my hands.
Musical beds continues.
Last evening, rather than precariously perching herself atop the "Goblet Box" which rests on my dresser to ensure maximum viewage of the outside, and in particular the bird feeders, Goblet spent the night with Reilley in Em's room.
A development none could have predicted.
Stephen, of course, torn between wanting to return her to her homeland, and letting her enjoy the peace and quiet of Reilley's company.
And of course, there is the food issue.
Goblet is supposed to eat weight management food only.
In her world, that translates into an all day, all night buffet of lite food.
And she makes the best of it, believe me.
In Em's room, she can nosh on food made to assist in the weight gain process.
As Reilley has not been blessed with Goblet's expansive girth.
Which means, as Stephen put it, "She's in there eating Reilley's high fat food."
To which I replied, "Stephen. It's cat food. She's not in there chowing down on bacon strips and cheese burgers."
But I don't doubt that for a second if she could, she would.
As would Stephen.
Title Lyric: Ain't No Time for Diets by Janey Clewer
It's a SNOW DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Meaning I was able to sleep in until 6.15 am.
Oh the exciting life I lead!!!!!!!!!!!
And as it is Wednesday, Stephen is the one who has to get up and get ready for his 9.00 am class.
I don't have a class until 2.30.
Normally, I'd be doing something to celebrate my mini freedom.
Coffee with friends for example.
But because Monday was a day spent in bed trying to prevent my innards from being hauled out through my belly button with a crochet hook, I am a tad bit behind in my preparations for my three hour seminar class.
So while the snow falls on our front yard, I'll be sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the CBC and preparing for this afternoon's giggles.
And if it happens that I get through my material, and the weather isn't as bad as they are predicting, Stephen and I may take the hounds for a run to the farm.
Last night, they were so wound up before we took them out, we were in danger of losing our footing.
Fynn running into me with such force I almost went butt to floor.
So a daytime run, in the falling snow, frolicking and prancing, is just what the doctor ordered.
We'll see.
Like everything else during a New Brunswick winter, it's out of my hands.
Musical beds continues.
Last evening, rather than precariously perching herself atop the "Goblet Box" which rests on my dresser to ensure maximum viewage of the outside, and in particular the bird feeders, Goblet spent the night with Reilley in Em's room.
A development none could have predicted.
Stephen, of course, torn between wanting to return her to her homeland, and letting her enjoy the peace and quiet of Reilley's company.
And of course, there is the food issue.
Goblet is supposed to eat weight management food only.
In her world, that translates into an all day, all night buffet of lite food.
And she makes the best of it, believe me.
In Em's room, she can nosh on food made to assist in the weight gain process.
As Reilley has not been blessed with Goblet's expansive girth.
Which means, as Stephen put it, "She's in there eating Reilley's high fat food."
To which I replied, "Stephen. It's cat food. She's not in there chowing down on bacon strips and cheese burgers."
But I don't doubt that for a second if she could, she would.
As would Stephen.
Title Lyric: Ain't No Time for Diets by Janey Clewer
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
. . .lying there in your new twin sized bed. . . .
January 31, 2012
The end of January.
Meaning we are almost 31 days closer to warmer weather.
Not disgustingly hot, sticky, don't-touch-me-or-I'll-cut-your-hand-off-weather.
Rather oh-it's-nice-to-be-outside-without-dressing-like-we're-at-the-North-Pole-weather.
Of course, we're supposed to get another 15 cms of snow tomorrow.
But at this point, I'll cling to the hope of warmer weather in any capacity and/or form that hope chooses to manifest itself.
We broke down yesterday and bought dog beds.
Which are nicer and more comfortable than our living room furniture.
Frankie and Fynn just looked at us and we wrestled the behemoth beds to the upper floor of the house.
You think we're sleeping on those? they inquired, eyebrows twitching all the while.
Oh yeah, we replied.
No more pushing us out of bed, waking us up in the middle of the night as you change positions, growling when one gets too close to the other.
And that's just me and Stephen.
The boys, as I like to call them, are a whole other story.
No more sitting on my legs, leaning against my legs, pushing on my legs, rendering my knees stiff and useless while putting my legs asleep so that when I get up to go pee in the middle of the night I'm staggering around like a shit faced drunk, grabbing furniture, anything, to assist in remaining upright as I walk on legs that are more like drum sticks than legs.
It's the little things.
Not that there wasn't some negotiation about where to put said beds.
Stephen's side of the room is much less cluttered than mine.
Imagine.
I will have to sort through some books this weekend and make a stop to the Owl's Nest Used Book store.
Which will more than likely result in more books coming into the house than leaving it, but whatever.
Frankie's bed needs to be closer to Mummy and that means the teetering piles of books on the floor must be moved.
Last night we get into bed and two sets of deep brown eyes are staring at us.
Staring contest?
Bring it on!
Fynn making the bold move to actually jump on the bed only to be shooed off by Stephen and told to go sleep in the Fynn bed.
Frankie, much less willing to risk the wrath of Daddy just laid on the floor and whined.
I have raised three children.
A chorus of whinny dogs, backed up with an equally large chorus of complaining teenagers isn't enough to even remotely budge my cold, cold heart.
I had the best sleep I've had in three years.
If Stephen hadn't been snoring, it would have been perfect.
That's the next mission.
Find something that will stop the so-loud-it-shifts-the-house-off-it's-foundations-snoring.
I have some ideas.
None of them legal.
All of them ending with my incarcerated for life.
I guess I'll have to keep working on that.
I am going to Newfoundland in June!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A couple of days ago I received an email confirming my conference abstract for the 2012 Qualitatives, being held in St. John's.
I have ALWAYS wanted to go to Newfoundland.
Of course, I have to write the paper.
This will be a solo journey.
Only a couple of those in my past.
Me, alone in St. John's.
Combing the streets of St. John's looking for Alan Hawco.
AKA Jake Doyle.
As in The Republic of Doyle
The end of January.
Meaning we are almost 31 days closer to warmer weather.
Not disgustingly hot, sticky, don't-touch-me-or-I'll-cut-your-hand-off-weather.
Rather oh-it's-nice-to-be-outside-without-dressing-like-we're-at-the-North-Pole-weather.
Of course, we're supposed to get another 15 cms of snow tomorrow.
But at this point, I'll cling to the hope of warmer weather in any capacity and/or form that hope chooses to manifest itself.
We broke down yesterday and bought dog beds.
Which are nicer and more comfortable than our living room furniture.
Frankie and Fynn just looked at us and we wrestled the behemoth beds to the upper floor of the house.
You think we're sleeping on those? they inquired, eyebrows twitching all the while.
Oh yeah, we replied.
No more pushing us out of bed, waking us up in the middle of the night as you change positions, growling when one gets too close to the other.
And that's just me and Stephen.
The boys, as I like to call them, are a whole other story.
No more sitting on my legs, leaning against my legs, pushing on my legs, rendering my knees stiff and useless while putting my legs asleep so that when I get up to go pee in the middle of the night I'm staggering around like a shit faced drunk, grabbing furniture, anything, to assist in remaining upright as I walk on legs that are more like drum sticks than legs.
It's the little things.
Not that there wasn't some negotiation about where to put said beds.
Stephen's side of the room is much less cluttered than mine.
Imagine.
I will have to sort through some books this weekend and make a stop to the Owl's Nest Used Book store.
Which will more than likely result in more books coming into the house than leaving it, but whatever.
Frankie's bed needs to be closer to Mummy and that means the teetering piles of books on the floor must be moved.
Last night we get into bed and two sets of deep brown eyes are staring at us.
Staring contest?
Bring it on!
Fynn making the bold move to actually jump on the bed only to be shooed off by Stephen and told to go sleep in the Fynn bed.
Frankie, much less willing to risk the wrath of Daddy just laid on the floor and whined.
I have raised three children.
A chorus of whinny dogs, backed up with an equally large chorus of complaining teenagers isn't enough to even remotely budge my cold, cold heart.
I had the best sleep I've had in three years.
If Stephen hadn't been snoring, it would have been perfect.
That's the next mission.
Find something that will stop the so-loud-it-shifts-the-house-off-it's-foundations-snoring.
I have some ideas.
None of them legal.
All of them ending with my incarcerated for life.
I guess I'll have to keep working on that.
I am going to Newfoundland in June!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A couple of days ago I received an email confirming my conference abstract for the 2012 Qualitatives, being held in St. John's.
I have ALWAYS wanted to go to Newfoundland.
Of course, I have to write the paper.
This will be a solo journey.
Only a couple of those in my past.
Me, alone in St. John's.
Combing the streets of St. John's looking for Alan Hawco.
AKA Jake Doyle.
As in The Republic of Doyle
At least if I'm arrested for stalking, there will be a reason.
Fynn FINALLY pooped in the yard this morning.
A mountainous mass of steaming hot poo with a stench that rivals that of the nearby dump on a humid day.
Hallelujah!
Title Lyric: Your New Twin Sized Bed by Death Cab for Cutie
Monday, January 30, 2012
Ciao Monday you break my heart. . . .
January 30, 2012
Monday morning.
4.00 am.
Wide awake.
Jasper snuggled in tight.
Stephen snoring loudly beside me.
Frankie at the end of the bed, on the bed.
Fynn at the foot of the bed, not on the bed.
Not for a lack of trying.
Or desire on my part.
He was offered the option of sleeping in Em's room, on her bed, stretched out luxuriously.
But no.
He insisted on coming into our room with Frankie.
Resulting in a small conflict over who was going to sleep where.
Which resulted in a proclamation from Stephen that we were going to Costco tomorrow to buy dog beds for the boys.
Who won't use them, but at least they'll be there for them to snub and ignore.
At this moment, they are both in our room, happily snuggling with Daddy, having ousted Mummy out.
Something is so wrong with this picture.
Not that I can see the picture very well.
In an attempt to gently wake Stephen Friday morning, I received an unintended but gentle blow to the side of my glasses.
Rendering them bigger than they should be.
Making the weekend one of my pushing up my glasses every few seconds and complaining about it.
Hence a trip to the optometrists' office after Simply for Life to have them adjusted.
That should take an hour or so.
Yippppeeeee.
Next time, I'll stand at the bedroom door and throw potatoes at Stephen to wake him up.
Fynnigan met my mother yesterday.
After a blustery, yet satisfying walk at the farm, we returned home long enough for me to use the bathroom (as I am not going pee outside in the snow) and it was back in the car to visit Nanny.
And deliver her underwear.
Saturday evening, after beans and bread and visiting, Stephen needed to go to Canadian Tire for driveway dirt.
So I went to Pennington's for underwear for Mum.
Six pairs for the price of four.
A bargain anyway you slice it.
Me hoping that unlike the last time, I wouldn't have to make three trips back and forth between Mum and the store.
Acquainting Stephen with the underwear department at Sears far more than he ever wanted.
Knowing more about the differences between bikini briefs and full briefs, thongs and granny panties than he ever expected.
Or wanted.
I was on the edge while she took them out of the bag, inspected them. . . .
. . . .carefully.
Very carefully.
With her keen eye for detail and knowledge of size.
Luckily, the half dozen pair of panties in the bag passed inspection.
Fynn was a big hit with the residents and staff at the nursing home.
Not that I expected anything less.
Besides, with the underwear passing inspection, I could have come in with a Bengal tiger and been the daughter of the year.
Title Lyric: Ciao Monday by Emm Gryner
Monday morning.
4.00 am.
Wide awake.
Jasper snuggled in tight.
Stephen snoring loudly beside me.
Frankie at the end of the bed, on the bed.
Fynn at the foot of the bed, not on the bed.
Not for a lack of trying.
Or desire on my part.
He was offered the option of sleeping in Em's room, on her bed, stretched out luxuriously.
But no.
He insisted on coming into our room with Frankie.
Resulting in a small conflict over who was going to sleep where.
Which resulted in a proclamation from Stephen that we were going to Costco tomorrow to buy dog beds for the boys.
Who won't use them, but at least they'll be there for them to snub and ignore.
At this moment, they are both in our room, happily snuggling with Daddy, having ousted Mummy out.
Something is so wrong with this picture.
Not that I can see the picture very well.
In an attempt to gently wake Stephen Friday morning, I received an unintended but gentle blow to the side of my glasses.
Rendering them bigger than they should be.
Making the weekend one of my pushing up my glasses every few seconds and complaining about it.
Hence a trip to the optometrists' office after Simply for Life to have them adjusted.
That should take an hour or so.
Yippppeeeee.
Next time, I'll stand at the bedroom door and throw potatoes at Stephen to wake him up.
Fynnigan met my mother yesterday.
After a blustery, yet satisfying walk at the farm, we returned home long enough for me to use the bathroom (as I am not going pee outside in the snow) and it was back in the car to visit Nanny.
And deliver her underwear.
Saturday evening, after beans and bread and visiting, Stephen needed to go to Canadian Tire for driveway dirt.
So I went to Pennington's for underwear for Mum.
Six pairs for the price of four.
A bargain anyway you slice it.
Me hoping that unlike the last time, I wouldn't have to make three trips back and forth between Mum and the store.
Acquainting Stephen with the underwear department at Sears far more than he ever wanted.
Knowing more about the differences between bikini briefs and full briefs, thongs and granny panties than he ever expected.
Or wanted.
I was on the edge while she took them out of the bag, inspected them. . . .
. . . .carefully.
Very carefully.
With her keen eye for detail and knowledge of size.
Luckily, the half dozen pair of panties in the bag passed inspection.
Fynn was a big hit with the residents and staff at the nursing home.
Not that I expected anything less.
Besides, with the underwear passing inspection, I could have come in with a Bengal tiger and been the daughter of the year.
Title Lyric: Ciao Monday by Emm Gryner
Sunday, January 29, 2012
You pick your nose while I'm watching. . .
January 29, 2012
Stephen + Dawne + Jasper + Frankie + Fynnigan + one queen sized bed = a piss poor night's sleep.
Times two.
Stephen woke up this morning convinced he was going to be permanently crippled from a night of clinging to the edge of the bed, as if the floor below was a yawning precipice waiting to swallow him up.
How come we were inundated with more furry creatures than usual?
Emily.
That's right.
Emily.
As soon as Fynnigan moved into this house, Em proclaimed that he was sleeping in her room, on her bed, because she always wanted a dog to sleep on her bed and Frankie is SUCH a Mamma's Boy that he wouldn't even contemplate sleeping anywhere other than with me.
Well.
It was a good solution.
Until we encountered the dreaded sleep over.
Where Em is absent from the house for the evening.
Or at least until we go to bed.
Friday night was the longest running game of Musical Sleeping Spots ever played in the Western hemisphere.
Fynn confused because he was in our room, not Em's.
Frankie confused because Fynn was in our room, not Em's.
Frankie making it clear that this was a bed for three, and Fynn was just going to have to be content to sleep on the dog pillow on the floor.
Currently inhabited by Goblet.
I shut the light off figuring that whatever was going to happen would happen.
And hopefully I could sleep through all of it.
Yeah, right.
As soon as the lights were out, Fynn was on our bed faster than flies on shit.
The trauma was minimal as Stephen had yet to come to bed, Frankie was in his spot, and Fynn was just happy to be on the bed with us.
(I think Frankie may be jealous because Fynn can actually get on our bed without having to take a running leap from the hallway.)
Jasper snuggled up beside me, his little motor purring just loudly enough to put me to sleep.
And then Stephen came to bed and the fun began.
Stephen is a nice guy.
Not wanting Fynn to feel left out, he moved said critters until he was able to get himself into bed comfortably.
Our comfort is not of any importance to the boys.
And the night's shuffling and moving and relocating and pushing and shoving and crying and whining (Frankie) finally became more than I could manage and at 4.14 am, that's right, 4.14 because I looked at the clock, I got out of bed, ordered BOTH dogs off the bed, much to Frankie's dismay, and then settled into now what you could consider a HUGE bed and immediately fell into slumber, content with the knowledge that my legs and knees would repose pain free.
I suspect that they waited just long enough for me to fall asleep because when I woke up at 6.30 to go pee, they were both back on the bed.
By this time, I gave up.
Got up.
Took them out for their pees and poos.
Fed them.
And started working.
Until about 8.30 am when, exhausted from the night's activities, I crawled back into bed and fell asleep.
This time too tired to care about who was where and how they got there.
Stephen's solution: a king sized bed.
My solution: not letting Em out of the house over night again until she is ready to move out and then turning her room into a bedroom for the dogs.
And I am tired.
Who wouldn't be?
Work this week has been it's usual insanity as reference letter deadlines draw nearer, escalating panic among those students who have accepted that they will need to continue in their education of they want a shot at a decent paying job.
Two snowdays.
Only one of which I was allowed to enjoy.
And the Saturday night beans and homemade bread fare at the nursing home.
We were in the dining room early because several of the residents have colds, and are dining in their rooms.
When we were directed to a table with space for three, where one resident was just finishing her dinner, Stephen started wheeling Mum into the dining room when she planted her feet on the floor and made a face.
What's wrong, I asked.
I don't want to sit there, she replied.
How come?
Because, she said.
Well, if we don't sit there we'll have to wait for another table to open up. Do you want to wait?
No. I guess not.
But she still hadn't been forthcoming about how come she didn't want to sit at that table, with that resident.
I could imagine all sorts of reasons, knowing my mother as I do, but I didn't want to get into with her, so I just wheeled her to a spot at the table.
And then proceeded to the kitchen counter to get meals for the three of us.
While I was standing there looking at pictures of the cook's grandchildren, I heard a voice I knew as my mother's, yelling:
ELVA!!! GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF YOUR NOSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT'S DIRTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And then I realized why Mum didn't want to sit at that table.
I have heard more than one tale of Elva and her nose picking, but had never witnessed it.
I go to Mum with her coffee, Stephen behind me with her dinner, and she says, Dawne, ask June to take Elva out of here. She's finished eating. And I can't eat with her FINGER UP HER NOSE ALL THE TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ever the dutiful daughter, I asked June (somewhat apologetically I admit) if it was possible to move Elva.
June laughs.
Clearly this behaviour of Elva's and my mother's response to it is a well known issue around the nursing home.
Sure. No problem. It's the easiest solution.
My mother.
Don Janet of the nursing home.
Title Lyric: Nosepicker by Millencolin
Stephen + Dawne + Jasper + Frankie + Fynnigan + one queen sized bed = a piss poor night's sleep.
Times two.
Stephen woke up this morning convinced he was going to be permanently crippled from a night of clinging to the edge of the bed, as if the floor below was a yawning precipice waiting to swallow him up.
How come we were inundated with more furry creatures than usual?
Emily.
That's right.
Emily.
As soon as Fynnigan moved into this house, Em proclaimed that he was sleeping in her room, on her bed, because she always wanted a dog to sleep on her bed and Frankie is SUCH a Mamma's Boy that he wouldn't even contemplate sleeping anywhere other than with me.
Well.
It was a good solution.
Until we encountered the dreaded sleep over.
Where Em is absent from the house for the evening.
Or at least until we go to bed.
Friday night was the longest running game of Musical Sleeping Spots ever played in the Western hemisphere.
Fynn confused because he was in our room, not Em's.
Frankie confused because Fynn was in our room, not Em's.
Frankie making it clear that this was a bed for three, and Fynn was just going to have to be content to sleep on the dog pillow on the floor.
Currently inhabited by Goblet.
I shut the light off figuring that whatever was going to happen would happen.
And hopefully I could sleep through all of it.
Yeah, right.
As soon as the lights were out, Fynn was on our bed faster than flies on shit.
The trauma was minimal as Stephen had yet to come to bed, Frankie was in his spot, and Fynn was just happy to be on the bed with us.
(I think Frankie may be jealous because Fynn can actually get on our bed without having to take a running leap from the hallway.)
Jasper snuggled up beside me, his little motor purring just loudly enough to put me to sleep.
And then Stephen came to bed and the fun began.
Stephen is a nice guy.
Not wanting Fynn to feel left out, he moved said critters until he was able to get himself into bed comfortably.
Our comfort is not of any importance to the boys.
And the night's shuffling and moving and relocating and pushing and shoving and crying and whining (Frankie) finally became more than I could manage and at 4.14 am, that's right, 4.14 because I looked at the clock, I got out of bed, ordered BOTH dogs off the bed, much to Frankie's dismay, and then settled into now what you could consider a HUGE bed and immediately fell into slumber, content with the knowledge that my legs and knees would repose pain free.
I suspect that they waited just long enough for me to fall asleep because when I woke up at 6.30 to go pee, they were both back on the bed.
By this time, I gave up.
Got up.
Took them out for their pees and poos.
Fed them.
And started working.
Until about 8.30 am when, exhausted from the night's activities, I crawled back into bed and fell asleep.
This time too tired to care about who was where and how they got there.
Stephen's solution: a king sized bed.
My solution: not letting Em out of the house over night again until she is ready to move out and then turning her room into a bedroom for the dogs.
And I am tired.
Who wouldn't be?
Work this week has been it's usual insanity as reference letter deadlines draw nearer, escalating panic among those students who have accepted that they will need to continue in their education of they want a shot at a decent paying job.
Two snowdays.
Only one of which I was allowed to enjoy.
And the Saturday night beans and homemade bread fare at the nursing home.
We were in the dining room early because several of the residents have colds, and are dining in their rooms.
When we were directed to a table with space for three, where one resident was just finishing her dinner, Stephen started wheeling Mum into the dining room when she planted her feet on the floor and made a face.
What's wrong, I asked.
I don't want to sit there, she replied.
How come?
Because, she said.
Well, if we don't sit there we'll have to wait for another table to open up. Do you want to wait?
No. I guess not.
But she still hadn't been forthcoming about how come she didn't want to sit at that table, with that resident.
I could imagine all sorts of reasons, knowing my mother as I do, but I didn't want to get into with her, so I just wheeled her to a spot at the table.
And then proceeded to the kitchen counter to get meals for the three of us.
While I was standing there looking at pictures of the cook's grandchildren, I heard a voice I knew as my mother's, yelling:
ELVA!!! GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF YOUR NOSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THAT'S DIRTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And then I realized why Mum didn't want to sit at that table.
I have heard more than one tale of Elva and her nose picking, but had never witnessed it.
I go to Mum with her coffee, Stephen behind me with her dinner, and she says, Dawne, ask June to take Elva out of here. She's finished eating. And I can't eat with her FINGER UP HER NOSE ALL THE TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ever the dutiful daughter, I asked June (somewhat apologetically I admit) if it was possible to move Elva.
June laughs.
Clearly this behaviour of Elva's and my mother's response to it is a well known issue around the nursing home.
Sure. No problem. It's the easiest solution.
My mother.
Don Janet of the nursing home.
Title Lyric: Nosepicker by Millencolin
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