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I Predict Asshole

17 Feb

This past fall we took in an adorably fuzzy little monster, my niece could no longer care for. The puppy’s age and breed are still undetermined, aside from the guess of the vet. So far, we have had her for nearly five months. In that time we have had her spayed, house trained and kennel trained. Also, in that time she has weaselled her way into everyone’s hearts. Everyone she meets falls in love with her, oh but to know the real her. As wonderful as she is, and how amazing she is with our boys, and can stand up to our other, very dominant, female dog; she is a terror to be had. Or in other words, she is the devil. A most adorably, sweet She-Devil. She rivals Stephen King’s Thing of Terror. Sorry Stephen, my puppy is the real terror. She chews up shoes and toys, finds ways to dig in the garbage, and nip at your legs to get your attention. When she gets in trouble she will sometimes talk back.

Today I took a mouth swab to find out her breed. Once we get the DNA results back, we will know her breed, and I predict it will be asshole.


your charming Canadian housewife



TDSB School Asked My Austic Student Not to Attend Graduation

24 Jun

This discrimination makes me very sad for the little girl and her family. We are supposed to be teaching our children not to discriminate. These people are creating a bad example.

Heart Learning Centre & CampZone

14704200941_0002188237_zI woke up this morning to the word ‘freedom’ in my mind. How wonderful I thought this is a day to project freedom. I was asked by Priya’s dad (not her real name) if I could take care of her this morning and drop her to school at 10:30am rather than regular time at 8:40am. Priya my autistic student that attends my after school program and is absolutely beautiful. Hmmm- That’s a strange request I thought. I was happy to care for her however confused about why the school would ask  her to come late. He texted me that the teacher asked the JK students to come at 10:30 because the Senior kindergarten students were having graduation. So this morning I did have to pass by the school at 8:40am and noticed ALL the kids were on their way to school – as usual. The parents, students and teachers were dressed up, handing…

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Lego cares about your health, kinda.

30 Apr

If your kids are like my kids, then your kids have a shit-ton of Lego, and it’s all over the effing place. In the fridge, in the bathroom. EVERYWHERE. Someone once said sparkles are herpes of the craft world. I have no idea what one would categorize Lego as? I would say it should be categorized under torture devices because, seriously, stepping on a piece of Lego is the absolute worst thing ever. I wonder why Lego is not used to extort information from criminals? The police would get a lot of information from criminals by making them walk on those torture bricks.

Aside from being the evil nemesis of parent’s feet, the Lego brand really does care about the health of its customers. A couple of months ago, I took my youngest to the Lego store. While I was at the store I found Lego brick salt and pepper shakers, which I bought. My boys loved the new shakers. They are cute and are easy to find in my spice cupboard because male refrigerator blindness is not just limited to the fridge. The Lego brick salt and pepper shakers are great for the kids to use on their own because the salt and pepper don’t pour out too fast causing food to become over saturated with either. Unless atherosclerosis is a goal of yours, then I do not recommend you to buy these.


There is always a light, no matter how dark.

31 Jul

I haven’t blogged in a long while. There are several reasons for it. One of them being I didn’t want to. Another is I have been completely exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. I am writing today because there is something that needs to be written about. That maybe some of us don’t necessarily talk about.

Each of us, when we are born, are connected to everyone in our family who was born before us, by a thread. We are like a tapestry; and as our lives move along more threads are added to that tapestry. Every thread is interwoven and makes us who we are. In many ways our patterns are a reflection our parents, grandparents, anyone and everyone who has touched our lives, we will always be connected to them. No matter how insignificant a person or experience may be, it has helped woven ourselves into who we are, what our pattern has become.

I, myself, have a thread missing. Me and anyone who is, was related through family, or friendship to my cousin, C. That thread in the tapestry, who makes me who I am, is missing. You may not see it at first, but if you look a little closer it is gone. That ache and pain, which leaves my core shaking, threatens to leave me falling, drowning. It’s the only way to describe it. I can only imagine what it must be like for his mother, brothers, sister-in-law, nieces, and friends who knew him, loved him. I loved him. Even if I had forgotten I loved him because that is what we do. People we love sometimes drift out of our lives and we forget we love them. He was my family, like a brother. We were only a month apart. His birthday was this month. As a mother it pains me to know that his mother had to remember on the day he was born, the day he died. It kills me actually. Even though I hadn’t seen him in years, he is, was connected to me as a part of my very young childhood. I may not have many remembered memories, but there is still the feeling there, the memories from our aunts and uncles, our parents. The tales of us, which make up that part of our childhood because we were too young to remember. The memory of happier innocent times.

The way we lost C was through the darkness of depression and suicide. I don’t know what his last days were like, but I can only imagine. People don’t talk about wanting to die. Why would you? Depression is a terrible thing. It lies and tells us we are not good enough, that there is no way out of the darkness that threatens to consume us whole, threatening to spit us out and leave us nothing but a shell. I’m guessing that is what C may have thought, when he thought that there was no other way out. I wish I had been with him in those days to tell him it going to be O.K., that it is just a moment, and he can get through it. I wish I could have been there and hold his hand, to let him know, when that moment tries to take him over, he has family who loves him and is willing hold his hand and walk through the trenches with him to escape the darkness. I wish I could have let him know he wasn’t alone, that he’s not the only one who knows what that dark feels like. That darkness that threatens to take down everything you love and have worked hard to keep safe. So many wishes.

What I wish for now is peace for his family, our family, to cherish his memory. To love him as we remember him. What I also wish is for others who have those moments of darkness, who feel like they can’t hold on, to find that light, to know there is someone’s hand which is willing to hold on to yours and walk you through that hellish darkness, towards the light that is hope. I wish for those who feel that way, to get help, talk about it to someone. There is always someone to listen, hold your hand. I can hold your hand, C, I can hold your hand.

I Swear, You Swear, Crap We Need a Swear Jar

1 Feb

Before kids I swore, swore like a sailor. I still swear but not like I used to. Sometimes it’s needed. For example:  When you hit your head really, really hard at the library. Sometimes certain words cannot be withheld. Like the “F” word. I’m just saying.

So having a baby didn’t help my “potty mouth”. I figured I had time before he was old enough to understand to kick my dirty verbal habit. With certain things I’m not very disciplined so trying to stop swearing wasn’t easy. This proved so one morning when my oldest was about 2 years old. I remember that morning like it was just this morning.

Chris and I were getting ready for the day. I was sending our son off to daycare and myself to work.  I had given him some Cheerios with strawberries for breakfast. As I was getting his lunch ready I heard his little voice from the table say, “Too many fucking Cheerios.” Chris and I stopped what we were doing and looked at one another. Did we hear right? Did he just say what we thought he did?

I went over to the table to see what was up with his Cheerios. I sat down beside him and peered into his bowl as he was eating.  Apparently all those fucking Cheerios were getting in the way of his strawberries. At that point I probably thought I should be a little more careful with the words I use.

As I was trying to not swear as much around our son we had another incident. Chris had said something one day as we were heading out and because he had I made a point to tell our son to tell Chris not to say that. Well of course he says, “Don’t say shit-focks Daddy.” After that we were told by him that shit-focks was a bad word.

As I had mentioned before I still swear. Or should I say we, Chris and I. You’d think we would have improved with this not swearing thing by the time the second one came along. Well maybe just a little bit. Only because our son at this point was starting preschool and I didn’t want to have his teacher calling me due to my 3 year olds choice of language.

Our oldest son, thankfully, has learned not to copy us. But our youngest well that is another story. He decided that shitballs was a normal phrase especially when you put it together with Madagascar. Don’t ask me why, he just says it that way. In my defence he learned it from his father. Not the Madagascar part the shitballs part. Chris says it a lot when he plays video games.

It was recently that he picked up this phrase. We first heard it while he was jumping around, as usual, shouting: “Shitballs Madagascar! Shitballs! Madagascar!” While we try not to laugh, we try to deter him from saying it. Yet when we swear he comments that we are saying a bad word. But somehow, “Shitballs Madagascar” isn’t? This was especially true when he opened up his birthday card from his Aunt. He said, “Hey it’s Shitballs Madagascar!”

Maybe we need a swear jar.

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