Is Pantene flammable? And other questions

So, yesterday started out like any other Sunday. The weather was fantastic, Molly wasn't home yet from a sleep-over, Max was just hanging out, and Anders was at work.

I took the dogs for a nice long walk, and when I got home, I decided it was too nice out to be inside, so I kicked Max outside and I started getting ready to do some spring cleaning in the yard.

While I was raking and pruning, Max asked if he could have his buddy over to play basketball. I told him that was a great idea, and that I would start up the fire pit for a hot dog roast for lunch.

All good, clean, innocent, safe fun up until this point.

Before I go on with the story, I just want to provide a little background, and justification for my actions.

We have a neighbor on one side of us that has some pretty different views than us. On Halloween 2016, during the US election (we live in Canada), we - like the rest of the world - were horrified watching the Trump train shit show. Our neighbor on the other hand, hung a life-size doll, dressed in a women's pant suit and a Hillary Clinton rubber face mask, by the neck from his tree. His social media is covered in anti-government, pro-Trump propaganda - with a few gems like "ever noticed all feminists are fat and ugly?" thrown in just to really let us know his point of view. Long-story short, I am not a fan. We have a six foot high solid fence and really high trees/shrubs between our backyards so I feel like we can co-exists so long as the fence remains.

Last week, Max and I decided to have a fire one night after dinner. While we were setting up, we could hear that the neighbor and his kids were also doing the same on their side of the fence. I heard one of the neighbor’s kids say something along the lines of "oh it sounds like our neighbors are having a fire too", when the gem of a dad threw in a comment like "don't worry - it is the woman, she wont get it going."

At that point my fire actually was looking a little sad, but after hearing that - I was going to get that fucker burning no matter what it took. I ran to the shed, grabbed the lawnmower gas and gave the fire a little splash of liquid encouragement. It would have been an awesome rebuttal to the comment, but Max freaked out and took off running and screaming that I was going to set the whole yard on fire.

Not cool you little narc - not cool!

Which brings us back to the present day...

So I am trying to get the fire going so we can eventually roast some hot dogs - and I am having the same difficulties as last week.

Max and his friend - let’s call him Huck to protect the identities of the innocent - are hanging out around the fire, leafing through the magazines and newspapers I was using to try and get the wood burning. Huck pulls a Pantene sample out of a magazine and asks if he can take it for his mom. How adorable is that? So cute and sweet coming from this little 10 year-old guy.

Anyway, back to this fire that is going nowhere fast when I finally admit defeat, go to my red neck roots, and grab the jerry can.

I have done this like a hundred times. I have done it sober. I have done it drunk. I have done it in the winter - lighting huge slash piles of logging waste for my dad. I have done it in the summer while camping. I have done it with green eggs and ham. I have done it on the beach with a guy named Sam. And up until yesterday, I could have said it always went smoothly. Yesterday however, shit look a hard left.

The fire, which I wouldn't have even believed was possible until seeing it with my own eyes, traveled up the stream of splashing gas, turning my little plastic red jerry can into a potential neighborhood leveling explosion (in my head at that point anyway). I started to yell at the kids to get back but Max was way ahead of me. Sprinting across our yard in a classic "every man for himself get the fuck out of my way" kind of move. When he reached the fence - he switched it up and started screaming for everyone to get down. Since it was such a lovely day and everyone was outside - and there was now black smoke billowing from our yard - there we plenty of people outside to hear and see this. I actually did see a neighbor on her deck get down. In fairness to her, she was smoking a cig, so really, that was just a smart call by her after witnessing the shit I had just pulled.

Huck ran to the top of the yard and proudly yelled back at me that he still had the Pantene so not to worry about that adding fuel to the fire. Again - seriously, this kid is adorable.

For my part - I totally lost my shit, dropped the atomic jerry can and ran to get the hose. I started spraying the can and the burning gravel when Huck - still holding the Pantene samples God bless him - came back to let me know that the water wouldn't help, you had to smother it.

We eventually got it out by throwing towels on it and my neighbor slowly got back up on her knees to peek over at just what the fuck we had done.

I am happy to report that no one was hurt, nothing burned, and Huck got those god damned Pantene samples safely home to his mom. My neighbors will also be happy to know that Anders has revoked my fire pit privileges.

How to survive a bear spray attack

I LOVE spray painting shit. LOVE. IT. If I am reading any kind of home improvement or decorating do-it-yourself article, or like a life hack tip and it involves spray paint – shit is getting painted. TooooDaaaay.

We have more shit that has been spray painted per square foot in our house than any other house in Canada. Just ask Anders. He can tell you all about my spray painted garden gnome Oskar (I agree - garden gnomes are a train wreck in normal situations but a soon as you give them a solid coat of, in my case deep red, those fuckers are CUTE!). My greyhound Buzz (painted deep green – so fucking sassy!), my fairy-tale looking tree stump (painted white – I know when will the sassy end right?) and a bunch of other random odds and ends. 

Anyway – the one project Anders is actually supportive of is my annual spring spray painting of our deck furniture. And this is only because a) it saves him money, and b) it saves him from having to go shopping with me. 

So anyway – off I head to Home Depot to get my annual five cans of satin finish black Tremclad and wire brush/scraper. This is when I notice that the Home Depot in Campbell River doesn’t quite have the same selection of spray paint as the Home Depot on Calgary. All they have is Tremclad matte black. Who the fuck wants a deck set that looks like a chalk board? NEXT! So then I spy another brand in gloss. Oh damn – shit is about to get shiny! 

Flash forward three hours. Scraping is done, brushing complete and I am super jazzed and ready to paint.

Now, I know I am not going to be getting an invite to Mensa anytime soon, but I am also pretty sure that Anders hasn’t had to hire me a handler yet either. That all being said - damned if I can work a fucking spray can. 

I had the Tremclad all worked out. There were no bells or whistles but it was solid and together we got shit done. Then along comes fancy-ass Krylon with it’s weird spray nozzle lever thing. After checking it out and making a specific mental note that you push on the back of the lever - I turned to the freshly prepped table and sprayed my finger, shirt and neck. 

Simple right? Look at the table just
mocking me in the background.

Son of a bitch! What the fuck is wrong with this thing? Go in for a closer look, confirm the whole lever nozzle thing and then SPRAY MYSELF IN THE FACE AGAIN.

My face and shirt were worse,
but I think this gives you the jist.

That is a special kind of something right there. Third time was the charm and I did manage to get the set painted, but it got me thinking about how bad I am at spray cans.

In the early 1990s I was out for a hike with my mom and our two dogs. We decided it would be a good idea to test out how to use our bear spray so that in case the real thing happened and we stumbled across a bear, we would be ready. 

I was up first. I checked the wind direction and made sure the dogs and mom were well upwind of me. I chose a target (a big tree like 15 feet from me) and then studied the can and read the instructions. It was one of those pull the pin, then aim and pull the trigger deals – so I am thinking how can you fuck this up? Your finger only goes in a trigger one way right? 

WRONG.

I pulled that trigger and basically napalmed myself. It was this thick, red foam and it felt like I had about 1,000 angry bees twerking on my face, neck, chest and forearms. 

I screamed at my mom to run – and let me tell you - Eva did not hesitate. I think she may have been running before I even said anything as when I squinted in her direction, all I saw was her and the two dogs hauling ass down the trail towards home.  

Do you know what is stronger than a mother’s love? Fucking bear spray.

And man’s best friend? Yeah all that is fine and dandy until shit takes a hard left then apparently is it every man for his fucking self.  I didn’t see the dogs again until the next day. Assholes. 

My mom finally did stop and shout back at me something along the lines of, “You okay honey?”.

I did the zombie lurch all the home as I didn’t want to spread that shit any further and walking while holding my upper body still seemed to be the only option. 

Anyway – all this leads me to a life hack of my own which I am happy to be able to share.

If/when you are ever bear sprayed (which if you hike with me, lets be honest, that shit is probably going to happen) or pepper sprayed (which if you drink with me, may happen), you are going to think the best way to soothe the pain is to soak the burning skin in water. WRONG! Rookie move! When I got home I filled both kitchen sinks with water and put my face in and out of one side while dunking my forearms in the other side. After a while, I noticed that my chest, which wasn’t in water, was no longer burning but my face and arms still felt like I was wearing a matching hat and dinner glove set made of really pissed off bees. 

So lesson learned – when/if you get bear or pepper sprayed, you just have to fucking nut up, wash it off the best you can and wait for the pain to end. Or read the instructions on the can.

This is what high looks like

Just in case you forgot how awesome we all looked at house parties in the 90s - this is pretty much it. Us Cranbrook folks just had bigger hair and were sporting MC Hammer pants from Au Cotton. 

Poor Rusty. Bet he regrets not flossing.

The poor little bugger. He had David Caruso along with three of David's friends pulled today and is now at home recuperating. I did ask if I could take David and his friends home in a jar but the vet was not amused so unfortunately, I will not be including any bromance photos of Rusty and David. I do keep singing "because I got high" over and over again - which I think is wearing thin with the audience. I may have to switch it up.


In other news, apparently his mouth is so rotten he needs like another 13 teeth pulled on top of the four he lost today, and the eight he had pulled three years ago. So, at the end of all of this the poor bastard will be down to 17 teeth. How the hell is a dog supposed to eat with 17 random teeth dotted around their mouths? I am thinking I could be sitting on a gold mine - dog dentures. Stand by for prototype.

PJs at noon aren’t normal and other good advice

I think the kids and I are officially on Island time – or just total lazy asshole time. They are probably different but Island time sounds quaint and not like you are just a total sad sack eating cereal off the ledge your boobs create when you hunch down to watch Netflix in your PJs at 1:00 in the afternoon while your kids run around on their way to becoming totally feral.

 

Our days used to be all about action and getting things done. Alarm at 5 a.m./get up/get showered and dressed/get the kids up and ready/get to work and school/get shit done at said job and school/get in the car to get the kids/get groceries/get dinner/get the dogs out for a walk/get to various sport practices/get the kids in the shower/get some cleaning done/make lunches/get my ass to bed.

 

And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Bleecchh.

 

The first few days here, we were still pretty geared up and wired for action. We were up by 7, ready by 8 and looking for adventure and shit to do by 9. 

 

But then a funny thing happened. Aside from going to the beach daily , hitting some indoor pools here and there and doing all the local touristy type stuff, we started to notice there is kind of fuck all to do here really. And once you go to the ocean like 17 days in row, you are kind of just like, “Meeeh – I kind of feel like I have the jist of the daily action down here. I’m good. What else is there to do?”

 

So, knowing we have limited activities to fill the summer, our days have gotten a lot more chill. Like I am still in my PJs at 12:30 – p.m. (not a.m.) kind of chill. 

 

A few days ago – on garbage and recycling day - I saw the garbage truck pull away from our curb so I headed out like a responsible neighbor to bring the cans in. I should add I did this in my PJs with crazy ass bed hair. And it was early afternoon. And my PJs are not what you would call pretty. I have been known to paint in them, clean with bleach in them, shrink them in the dryer, catch them on shit and rip them – and still keep them in my nightly rotation. So picture that vision stomping up the driveway to get her garbage cans. 

 

My neighbor got to see it. And I actually waved and started to go towards her like we could strike up a conversation. Forgetting that I looked – for all intents and purposes – like an escaped mental patient. It was a pretty awkward and short conversation during which she worked really hard to not let her eyes drop below my neck.

 

The conversation did however make me rethink some of my recent life choices, and ponder on whether living basically a feral lifestyle with no awareness of time was my best option. Knowing this – I have set some new goals for myself for the week.  

1. Netflix until midnight = bad.
2. Not showering because there is a pretty good chance you did this morning, but your memory is a bit hazy as the days are blending into an endless string of Netflix and dog walking = bad.
3. PJs past 9am = bad.
4. Not shaving your legs for like 10 days in a row (and still going to the beach) = bad.
5. Eating anything while resting the plate or bowl on your boobs = bad.
6. Feeding the kids breakfast cereal for all meals = bad.
7. Smelling anything before deciding if it is okay to wear = bad.
8. Leaving your front door – unless shit is seriously on fire or someone is losing blood – in your PJs = bad. 

Stay tuned, hoping to turn back into a semi-functional human by the end of July. Headed out to by some razors and a fucking newspaper. Fingers crossed!

The tale of five houses and how I almost (accidentally) killed Rusty …again

We have been house shopping in Campbell River on and off for almost two years and we have bought exactly zero houses. Our friends have bought houses. My one friend and her partner have actually bought three properties. I should also mention that over this period, we have also been dumped by two realtors. Yeah – apparently that is a thing. Apparently we have made not one, but two realtors so frazzled and pissed off that they were like “Fuck it – you fucking Jonsson’s (pun intended) are making me so insane you can take your commission and shove it up your ass.” 

I don’t even know how it happened as I was thinking we were a pretty nice and laid back family, but that being said, most assholes I have ever met have thought they were nice people too. Man – realizing you may be an actual asshole is a jagged little pill to swallow. 

But then along came Lynda. And she hung with us through some weird shit. We had one seller come back on us with her own subject - subject to her finding a house to buy. I didn't know real estate worked that way. I thought you put your house on the market, took an agreed upon amount of money and then got the fuck out. Guess not always. And we also had some tough negotiations where I can admit I probably did act like an asshole. But damn – Lynda stayed strong and as of like 30 minutes ago, we finally bought a house. Sweet baby Jesus and all the fucking disciples. We did it Lynda! We did it! 

Possession on August 5^th – deck party on Aug 6th. At which we can try out the roulette drinking game my friend and I bought at a garage sale last weekend. Yes you read that right. My friend and I went garage saleing. You can judge me all you want but do you have a brand new, never opened roulette wheel drinking game that you got for $3? Yeah – I didn’t think so!  (I need a job.) 

Which brings me to topic number two – how I almost killed Rusty. 

Ever since I have had Rusty, (aka Reno, Rusta-Reno, Krinkles, Krinklenator, The Krinks, Stinkachino, Stinks and Fuzzbutt) one of the first question people usually ask is along the lines of what is that and my usual response is, “Yeah – good question. I am thinking dog for sure. And maybe some feral cat? A Faggle Rock maybe? Possibly some Falcor (flying dragon from NeverEnding Story). Meerkat may be an option, and I am also pretty confident there is some possum somewhere in there.”

But now – with the miracle of modern science - we will officially know in less than a week just exactly what makes up the fuzzy little weirdo.  

We ordered two of those DNA my dog kits to test both Rusty and his sidekick Nina. We went in to this super excited and thinking this was going to be like a hair, blood, urine collection super sciencey thing. Like CSI Miami style with the clear computer touch screen everywhere and Anders turning to me and dropping his shades and slamming out something super awesome and David Caruso-ish like, “All this science is making me dog tired.” 

Not so much. We opened the kit and were both like what the fuck? The kit contained a (not even glossy – like some asshole printed it off his Dell InkJet 5100 in his basement) brochure and a couple “sterile wrapped” Q-tips. And I use sterile wrapped very loosely. 

We swallowed our disappointment, turned off The Who and plowed on following the instructions to the letter. We took the Q-tips and rubbed them around on their gums and inner cheeks for 20 seconds each to grab some cells, then slipped them into the provided (paper, not even a ziploc - again – WTF!) envelope and mailed them back for testing. 


The next day when Rusty woke up I was like, “Whoa Rusty – get your shit together man – you look like hell! Your weird third frog eyelid is all stuck up on your eye and you look kind of like a dog needing to be put down due to rabies. I just read an article about a rabies riddled hitchhiking raccoon in Ontario. Don't play with me Reno - I wont hesitate to put your diseased ass down.”

Mr. Rabies. Yikes.

As the day went on – the crazy rabies eye kept getting worse. And then I noticed his face was swelling as well so I packed Mr. Rabies up and off we went to the vet.

Turns out that he has a massive root abscess infection that broke through the bone and up into his eye cavity. Next stop if not caught would have been the brain followed by Rusty croaking. Due to timing – I think my overly enthusiastic cheek swabbing while humming the CSI theme song may be to blame. The vet says it was probably a rogue kibble but my money is on the God damn Q-tip and David Caruso.

The poor bugger is now resting comfortably with a shit-tonne of pain killers racing through his veins along with some serious antibiotics. He goes in next week to have the bad tooth – nicknamed David Caruso - pulled and will hopefully be good as new. I will post a pic of Rusty and David next week.

Stank towel, and other very real problems.

Hi there. There has been a bit of a gap in the blog here – over two years to be exact. To bring you up to speed, the twins are now seven. Rusty and Nina are still kicking. I turned 40 this year and Anders got older too. And I am not any better at spelling, and my language is just as bad.


I guess the big news is that we now live in Campbell River, BC. Anders is working on a large hydro-dam rebuild project here and has been since the summer of 2014. We tried commuting (he would come home to Calgary every weekend, but between Monday and Friday it was just me and the kids holding down the fort) but that got really old pretty quickly.

When my employer offered the opportunity for employees to take an extended leave – it was the final kick in the ass I needed to take the plunge into unemployment and put the family back together on the island. And here we are.


I have only been here a week, and it still mainly feels like I am on vacation. When I start to think about how this is my new reality and there is no going back now, I usually end up in a full-on panic attack. I have never done this before and this shit is terrifying!


You mean this is it? Endless days of entertaining the kids, cleaning, groceries and errands? Just as I was on the verge of a seriously fantastic freak out yesterday – I had an Oprah god damn Winfrey "light bulb" breakthrough. I have to think of this as my new job. Presentations and meetings are now vacuuming and time with the kids. Okay – I can roll with this Oprah. It is all about perspective right? I am helping to develop humans rather than projects. Jesus Christ that sounds super noble! The reality of it though is that the development of these humans has looked a lot like me telling the kids to get back on the trampoline and stop sneaking junk food while I sit on the deck and drink beer and Clamato and work on my tan. 


Which brings me to stank towel. My new J.O.B.


Anders and I have been secretly whispering in shame about this problem for months. How come all of our towels smell fantastic in Calgary, but as soon as they make the journey to Vancouver Island, they turn into a gross pile of moldy, body odour reeking, disgusting rags? I have tried everything – scented Tide, Tide with febreeze, in-wash scent boosters, fabric softener, bleach, dryer sheets – and all of the above at the same time. No matter what we do – our secret shame continues to be our reeking towels. 


Earlier this year, the kids and came to the Island for a visit. While we were here, a friend had a large group of us over for dinner. At the party I heard another friend mutter something in a low and ashamed voice about her ‘stank towel' problem. I was like, “What now? You guys have this gross problem too? Don’t mutter – be proud woman! We also have this affliction - and together we will conquer stank towel!”


So yeah, that was like two months ago now, and stank towel has not been conquered, but as my new J.O.B., I feel like I can now dedicate the resources to figure this shit out.


Plus – I have some ideas brewing. I like to think that I am crafty as hell. I know I am not, but feel like if I could apply myself, I would be the next home crafty design shit mogul. So stand by for plenty of crafty shit type updates. Some of my craft ideas require power tools, like chainsaws and band saws. When I shared this with Anders he was like. ”Yeah, as full disclosure here…I feel like this is going to end with you having weird fingerless stump hands, and me and the kids will probably have to leave at that point…so yeah…” (voice trailing off at the end….)  


Also – I think I would be an awesome bee keeper. I could keep a hive or two and SELL THE HONEY! Win win! Help the global bee crisis and sell some delish honey goodness and make some money on the side. When I shared this plan with Anders he was like “Have you met yourself? Are you aware of the level of your spaziness? Do you really feel like you – and thousands of annoyed bees – in a shared space is a good idea in any way?” 


Well played Jonsson. The bee dream is on hold, but I got a few more little chestnuts rolling around in this beer and Clamato soaked brain.


I also need to train for a marathon in September so stand by for that because I know how much everyone loves hearing a person talk about their workouts. Riveting right? It would normally be all pretty okay, but I broke my foot in April by falling off a sidewalk curb (see above spaz reference) ironically enough while yelling at the kids to watch their step. I bought these crazy looking cushion shoes which are supposed to help runners come back from injury (my friend said it looked like I was running with tiny mattresses strapped to my feet) and guess what – they don’t help. I just look like an asshole with giant mattress shoes on.

I left in the coffee cup for size comparison - normal size mug, giant foot with
even bigger giant mattress shoes. What an asshole.

Okay – so here we go – boldly into unemployment, or as Oprah would call it - "the department of human development and skill exploration".

Milestones

The twins turned five on February 12 and I always get a bit reflective around their birthday. I use it as an opportunity to look back on how far we have come as a family (which is very reaffirming since the popular belief way back when they were two-weeks old was that neither Anders or I were going to make it out of this alive) but also a chance to measure our lives against theirs – and compare how much better and easier our life has become with each new milestone.

For instance – they started kindergarten in September – and although that milestone came with certain logistical nightmares (buses, after-care, school closure days, etc.), we also have the joy of watching their minds grow and expand to the possibilities, excitement and vastness of the world that lies outside of our four walls.

For every victory of independence for the twins, Anders and I feel like we have gotten small pieces of our former lives back.

We can leave them with babysitters now, we can finally sleep through the night (most of the time), we can use booster seats instead of those giant five-point car seats and we can leave them alone for the odd weekend at my parent’s house.

It feels a bit like finally coming up for air, or coming out of a long coma. We are getting small tastes of freedom and glimpses of what our lives will soon be returning to. The problem is, we don’t have the same energy we used to. When we are making plans - it all looks great on paper - but when we get down to brass tacks, both of us always bail.  

Tuesday at 6pm

Me: “Mom and dad have the kids this weekend – want to go out for dinner and maybe to the movie this weekend?”
Anders: “Sure! Sounds great – let’s make a reservation downtown, ask some friends and plan for a taxi.”

Friday at 6pm

Me: “Shit – how do we get out the plans for tomorrow night? Why the fuck did I go and invite people? I am exhausted and the thought of going downtown again makes me want to shove forks in my eyes.”
Anders: “I told you not to make plans! I say we cancel, order take-out and watch a movie.”

Saturday at 6 pm

Me: “I am too tired to dial the phone. Can we just eat whatever we can find in the couch while we watch Netflix??”
Anders: “ZZzzzz…Hurch...What? Huh? Yeah whatever…Zzzzzzz”

It has also made me realize that I have aged a good 10 years since they were born. My hands are now “crepe-y” and are covered in small (for now) liver-spots. I have the starts of crowfeet and my abdomen can best be described as the scarred earth of a past battleground – streaked by stretchmarks and surgical scars. My legs have the starts of varicose veins, and even if the kids aren’t waking me up in the night, my bladder is.

The only bad side so far of the kids starting school is that now we can compare our kids to the other kids in their class.

I have no idea why women (and maybe men too – but for me it has always been the women) have to always turn things into a competition. Right after the twins were born, I learned that you could count on four questions from every other mom you met:

1.    How much weight did you gain? Trick question - if you lie and say a small number you will get the lecture on starving your baby. If you tell the truth you will get told how you should have had some self-control and they are shocked you didn’t get gestational diabetes.

2.    Did you nurse? If you didn’t – you will get the “look” followed by a lecture on the many reasons you are a horrible, selfish person and that you are probably going straight to hell. If you did nurse - for how long did you nurse? Another trick question – no matter what you answer – it will be wrong. You didn’t nurse enough and the baby is lacking that bond and immunity, or the reply will be that you nursed too long and the baby will have messed up mommy issues for life.  

3.    How long before you went back to work? Another lose-lose question. If you went back before mat leave was up – you are a horrible human. If you waited the full mat leave before you returned, are are also super horrible, maybe even the anti-Christ, as how could you leave that poor baby at the daycare and watch that tiny baby face as you drive away. Only correct answer in this situation: “Why I haven’t gone back to work and have chosen to be a stay-at-home mom.”

4.    Vaginal or cesarean birth? Again – trick question – and trust me – don’t answer as you be locked in a horrific game of one-upmanship like you have never known. You will get ALL the gory details of how their vag actually turned inside out, they shit themselves on the table, they ripped from sternum to tailbone and the room looked like a scene from a war movie with all the blood and gore. Their story will ALWAYS be worse that your story and will be filled with such graphic and horrible details that you will be haunted and will drink to forget. To avoid this question – I have come up with my own strategy. I tell them that the twins ate their way out in a death battle for food – that they erupted alien-style out of the side of my belly. If they laugh – I know we will be friends. If they give me the “face” – I know I am good and we can go our separate ways.

But now that they are in school – this game has gone to whole new level. Anders and I are constantly worrying that Max isn’t writing as well as some of the other kids, and Molly seems to be a bit more immature then some of the girls. But – luckily the Mom-brigade is one step ahead of me and has a whole new series of questions designed to make me feel like I am clearly a shitty parent - and that my kids are suffering becasue if my sheer shittiness. 

The new round of questions we have been receiving:

1.    Home many sports is your child involved in? Haha! Don’t be fooled! This is simply an intro for them to talk about how AMAZING their kids are and to highlight the fact that will definitely be in the Olympics. Probably both the summer and winter since their kids are so super-dee-dupertity awesome. And then they will let you know your kid is a spaz since he/she isn’t in any sports, or not the right sport. 

2.    What level is your child reading at? Again – trick question. If your kid is reading above the level of the questioner’s kid - it is because you are a slave driver pushing the kid too hard, and you are probably fucking them up for life. If they are reading below their kid’s level – then hahaha! You suck again! Your kid is the town idiot and you will get the pity face and all kinds of half-ass reassurances of “oh you don’t worry yourself, I am sure it isn’t because of anything YOU did…they will catch up…probably…”

3.    How tall is your kid? This is the one and only area where I can say we kick all the competitions ass since our kids are just shy of being giants. I would never have guessed that height would become something parents use as a competition. Growing up, I was always made to feel like a freak because I was so tall. Where were all these assholes when I was 5’9” in grade four and trying to slump down as much as possible to fit in with all my 5’ tall friends?  

4.    How old was your kid when they (INSERT ANYTHING)? You are always going to feel like an asshole at the end of this conversation as the question is engineered to make you feel bad as a parent. They are asking this because they can reply that their kid did whatever it was at a freaky early age. Timmy potty trained himself at two-weeks old! Jennie rode a bike with no training wheel at six-months! Braxton has failed kindergarten three times but has been downhill skiing for four seasons already! 

I don’t know why we are so hard on ourselves and why we as women have to be so competitive amongst each other - especially when it comes to working moms versus stay-at-home moms.

I get that it is a choice to work (for some women it isn’t – I also understand that) versus staying at home. Why do these differences make us so hateful towards each other? My theory is guilt and jealousy. Each group wants what the other group has. From my perspective, I wish I had more time at home with the kids, but also so that I could stay on top of the house related stuff. I am not sure why stay-at-home moms are so hateful towards working moms, but can guess it may be tied to perceptions that we have freedom from the house all day and spend our time interacting with other grown-ups.

The other week I was at the bus stop when this particular mom (who to be honest I am not a big fan of - she is loud, rude, opinionated and tries to parent my kids while I am standing right there) starts in with how tired and stressed she is since she has to drive her daughter to playschool AND get groceries AND clean the house that day.

I gave her a look. Took a deep breath and replied with, “That is a busy day. I got up at 4am this morning to clean our four bathrooms and then after working all day, I get to throw something that resembles dinner onto the table and try and spend time with these maniacs before wrestling them into bed at around 8 p.m. After that, I will be going to get groceries. When I get back from that I will be vacuuming. I should be in bed by like 10 or 10:30.”  

I actually felt bad about saying that and apologized to her the next day. She said a rude reply and hasn’t spoken to me since. I don’t know what will make us all stop judging each other and our choices and I know I am not innocent.

So, for my part, I am not going to participate in the one-upmanship game anymore. So here it is – all the shame inducing replies to the questions:

-      My kids still cannot ride their bikes
-      My kids still need help showering and drying off
-      My kids have trouble writing words and some numbers
-      My kids aren’t reading yet
-      My kids can’t tie their own shoes
-      My kids haven’t tried skiing yet

And do you know what? I don’t give a shit. They are smart, funny, loving and outgoing kids who have a ton to offer and the next 70 or 80 years to figure that shit out. And they are pretty bright so I know they will.

If they dont, then I guess the mom from the bus stop will have the last laugh and they really will end up living in my basement until I croak.