Hey honey…do you remember when we talked about…HOLY SHIT IS THAT A RAINBOW?

I am really bad at follow through. I am great at starting things – not so great at keeping them going. I was the girl in school who would have a big exam or project due the next day, but instead of getting it done, I would catch myself at like 3:00 a.m. cleaning my oven or detailing my car. Or I am the girl who started a blog and was all committed to writing on it weekly….and the realized I hadn’t updated this thing in like three months.

I was complaining to Anders yesterday that we never seem to make a decision or move forward with anything when he pointed out a pretty big insight for me.
“When was the last time we actually finished a conversation? You always get distracted and then you head off in like four different directions and we don’t decide on anything other than the fact that you and Rusty have roughly the same attention span. You do it all – the – time (extra- long pauses and over enunciation was used here – which for the record, I did not appreciate). I am lucky to have your full attention for more than 30 seconds.” 

What the hell? At first I was all pissy and indignant, but then I started to notice it. I really am a totally spun-out ADD freak. I don’t think I have finished a conversation with anyone in the last 20 years. I have half-started projects everywhere in my house. I have one foot which has been filed, buffed, creamed and polished to perfection - the other one looks like an alligator claw (hoof? paddle? fin?) on the end of my leg. I started to learn Swedish – but once I mastered a few funny pick-up lines I figured I have what I need to survive if Anders ditches my ass in a back-alley on our next trip to Sweden. 

I also have like five blog posts started – but not finished. 

So I am finishing them all (in abbreviated form) and will post them momentarily. 

In the meantime, for my Swedish friends…Vill du ha något att dricka på mitt hus? Wink wink…grrroooowwwl.

 

 

Awesomely Awkward

My friend was telling me about a friend of hers who is a self-proclaimed “student of awkward.” Apparently this guy loves to do things that make people go a bit outside of their comfort zone and he tries to create that awkward feeling. He was looking for ideas and was asking her about her most awkward situations.

This guy should just follow me around for a few days. My life is a series of completely awkward and fucked up encounters. I have got a million ideas for this guy!

My most recent moment was just this morning. I was fixing my twisted nylons in the (what I thought was an empty) bathroom. My dress was hiked up around my hips and I was having a full-on conversation with myself about the guy smoking pot that I passed on the way into work. (To explain this whole situation - I hate paying for parking, so to save money I park in the sketchy end of downtown. I am paying a cheap monthly rate – but may get stabbed and regularly walk by some pretty weird shit to and from work.  And I actually talk out loud to myself a lot – like I should probably be worried and get that checked – a lot.) So anyway - right about this time is when a woman – a woman I actually have to interact with pretty regularly – walked out of one of the stalls and got a full view of me talking about some guy smoking pot with my dress hiked up and my hands in my nether regions.

And a good Tuesday morning to you as well. There is just no way to recover from that so I started to laugh and was like “I swear – I didn’t inhale!” I may be fired by the end of the week depending on how far that story goes or whether she was in a good mood.

I don’t think there has been a day in my life where something weird or awkward has not happened – and it is usually my fault. Lots are related to me talking to myself (or singing in the van at the top of my lungs) or sending emails that were meant in humor but ended up backfiring (you would think I would have learned by now to stop using email) but there are a few stand outs. And oddly enough two involve the bathroom – so if you are offended by potty humour – stop reading now.

Below is a quick list of the top five awkward moments in my life. 

5. I am an animal lover and have lots of empathy for people who are dealing with the loss of a pet. When I was about 25, I had a coworker whose dog had been sick for months. She finally made the tough decision to put the dog down and I knew she was taking the day off to have it done. When she came into work the following day she was telling me the story and we both got pretty teary. I leaned in to hug her – and here is where shit got weird – I kissed her on her neck. And there was no mistaking it – I full on kissed this woman’s neck. We sort of just parted and both stood there all uncomfortable and then I basically ran back to my office and she hauled ass out of the break room.  I have no idea what I was thinking or how it happened – but we never spoke about it.    

4. I was headed out for lunch with a coworker about two months ago and we were walking and talking. The main entrance/exit doors in the office building where I work are those big glass big revolving doors. So – as we walked up to the door - she got into one compartment of the revolving door - and then I just walked right into the same compartment. We started to spin around and it was pretty tight in there – our feet were hitting each other’s and I was right up on her back. She gives me a look over her shoulder like what the fuck woman? I again tried to laugh it off like “ohhh – this is weird right? Next time I guess I should get my own section of the revolving door. That would definitely be less weird…” To this day if we are leaving together she will be like “and you know to get your own compartment right?”

3. I was getting frisky with a guy in a bathroom during a party. To try and class this story up – I will say that this is way back when I was in university, I was pretty drunk, and we were at an actual house party and we were in an actual bathroom with a locking door. We were not in a stall or some dirty gross public bathroom. I know – not much to help the cause. Anywhooo - people kept pounding on the door so we knew we had to get out. But since both of us were dating other people at the party (and there goes what little class this story had) we couldn’t be seen leaving the bathroom together after the door had been locked for like 15 minutes. So we made the decision I would hide in the tub with the curtain pulled until the line was finished and then I would sneak out. My partner in crime left and made a big deal about a bad burrito or something and I hunkered down in the tub to wait it out. I made the wrong call. I sat through about five people going “number two” before I finally snapped, flung back the curtain and jumped out of the tub – surprising a male friend mid-shit. I looked at him – he was looking back at me with a pretty worried look on his face and I panicked. I totally just bolted out of the bathroom. I didn’t say a word – I just ran. After that I pretty actively avoided him and for his part – he went out of his way to avoid me too. What do you say to each other after something like that?

2. I also seem to have a problem with escalators. There is an escalator in my office which goes to the food court area so I take it pretty much daily. I am not good with escalators to start with as my depth perception is bad so I am always really leery stepping onto one – scared I will either step on the split where the stairs bend and then fall or have my shoe and foot eaten by the machine (not possible I know – but still a fear). Anyway – because I am usually so freaked out about getting on the thing I am not looking at where people are and more often than not I lunge for a stair and end up standing on a step right behind someone. There is kind of an unwritten one step buffer on an escalator – but I totally mess that up pretty much every time. Then I am in the dilemma of do I step back down and make it even weirder or do I just ride up the whole escalator with my face in between the person’s shoulder blades. I generally go with the shoulder blades.

1. My curse in this life is that I always seem to go into a bathroom immediately after someone has done something pretty horrific. That in itself sucks – but then there is the weird and awkward moment that happens if someone else happens to come in while I am at the sink and they think that I have caused the smell. My problem is - do you acknowledge it and say – “listen – that wasn’t me and based on the smell – I am worried that the person who did do it may have died because they are pretty clearly rotting from the inside out” – OR – do you just not say anything and let them think it was you. I usually make a case by case decision on which way to go – and based on the reactions I have gotten – I have learned that you can’t win in this situation. If you try and explain - based on the childhood truth of “whoever smelled it – dealt it” – then you are just proving that it WAS you. But if you don’t say anything then it is like you are admitting to being the pooper and are in silent shame of your rotting guts.

Then a couple years ago - the problem moved outside the bathroom. I was grocery shopping in Safeway and needed something from the bulk section which is tucked in a back corner of the store. I headed back and promptly got bitch smacked across the face by the most disgusting, thick, cloying and dense fart I have ever smelled. I waded through it to get what I needed, but it was so bad I was actually gagging. If the sewer exploded in your face while you standing in the guts of a port-a-potty I think it would smell better. As I was trying to leave the area – this really sweet-looking and super old couple waded into the mess. I was like “listen – something really bad happened in there – you should just turn around and come back later when it is aired out.”  The old woman looked at me, shook her head and said “you should be ashamed of yourself young lady. And you should go to the doctor because something is not right with you. Not right at all.”  

Random Acts of Kindness

I just got a gift from a friend and it is one of the most thoughtful, kind and special gifts I have ever received.

She painted portraits of Max and Molly from some of my favorite pictures of them and it was totally unexpected. She did it as a thank you for an act that she didn’t need to say thank you for.

The portraits themselves are wonderful and I will be framing them. But along with the portraits – I am a bit overwhelmed by the act of her painting the portraits.

She didn’t have to take the time to paint them, but she did, and it is such an amazing gift – and it is one that will make me think of her and how special she is every time I look at them.

The kindness and generosity of spirit that she showed by taking the time to find the photos and then interpreting them into paintings makes me grateful not only for her friendship, but for the life we are building and the people we are including in it. 

Thank you Rida. You are a very talented artist and a good friend and these portraits will be special to us for a lot of reasons, including the memory of you that they will always carry.

Happy birthday to my two little munchkins

Max and Molly are turning four tomorrow and I am a total wreck.

I have no idea what is wrong with me. If you were to ask my friends and family to describe me - emotional or “easy-crier” would come right after introverted and sensitive. It just isn’t me.

But, somehow, I found myself sitting at my desk today welling up and starting to cry every time I thought about their birthday. I blamed my red eyes and sniffly nose on a cold – but in truth I am an emotional wreck.

It all started in Wal-Mart on Sunday. Max and I were standing in line getting some birthday party supplies and he was happily talking away. One thing I absolutely love about Max is that he never stops talking. And it is never a continuous stream of thought. It is all over the map and sounds more like, “Hey Momma, look at that gum – there is a strawberry on it. I wonder what it tastes like. Where is Pappa? My pants are the same color as that lady so that means we match. Hey do you see that magazine? There is a cake on it. Hey Momma, I had a good idea, maybe we can have that cake for our birthday? Are we in Wal-Mart Momma? Are we going home next? Maybe for my birthday I can get the big dinosaur with the mask on? I don’t have that one yet. I bet Nina would like to chew gum and she has stinky breath so maybe she should.”

I noticed that the woman ahead of us in line kept stealing glances at Max and smiling. She caught my eye and leaned over and whispered, “You should enjoy this. It goes way too quickly. Mine are 18 and 22 and I miss this every day.”

Right then it hit me full force like a punch to the gut. My babies are about to turn four and nothing remains of the babies they were. Before I know it, they are going to be off to school and will start building an entire life that doesn’t involve me.

1459 days ago today Max and Molly came into the world. They were born at 8:29 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. respectively and every minute since has been filled with them in some wonderful way. They have rocked our world and shifted my thinking and priorities in ways I would have never imagined. 

Max and Molly - one day old

Max is almost 120 cm tall (just shy of four feet for my imperial friends) and comes up to the middle of my rib cage. He is on-course to become a giant at this rate.  He can name about 20 different dinosaurs, every type of heavy equipment imaginable and has one of the best imaginations in the world. Molly is already writing words and can spell her name, Max’s name and mine. She knows that an elephant is a pachyderm, that sloths can give birth while upside down and that tigers are carnivores.  

Max and my dad

I just keep remembering how Max used to pat his little chest with a closed fist and say “I Mack” because he couldn’t say the “x” sound on Max, and how Molly used to kick frantically like a little frog in the tub and then giggle and giggle at herself.

Molly - seven months old

Having twins is hard - and I will admit that during those first overwhelming months I spent a lot of the time wishing the days away. “I can’t wait until you guys can crawl – life will be so much easier!” “I can’t wait until you guys can feed yourselves.” “I can’t wait until you guys can talk.”

They can do all of those things now and more and instead of relishing it – I find myself wishing the days backwards. “I wish you were small enough again for me to cuddle you in my arms until you fall asleep.” “I wish you still had that baby smell.” “I wish you still did that funny walk were you looked like a little a drunk wobbling down the hall on bowed legs.”

Being a parent is a funny thing. I have never loved anything harder than these two little munchkins and being a parent to them has filled me with more pride and joy than I could have ever imagined. But part of your job as a parent is also ensuring that they have the skills and abilities to leave you and flourish on their own. What a weird concept. You pour your heart and soul into these beings so they can eventually leave you.

Max and Mo - 18 months old

All I can hope is that we don’t mess up too much and interfere with the path already set in motion for them. I hope that we prepare them with the knowledge and strength that they will need to develop into fantastic and amazing adults I know they will become. I also hope we give them the confidence required so that they never feel the need to conform or hide the distinctive and quirky personality traits that make them so special.    

My biggest wish for Molly is that she never stops being so outspoken and strong. I hope she has the confidence and courage to keep to doing her “move” and continue to be the white butterfly with rainbow sparkles amid a sea of pink and purple. She is such a powerhouse and force to be reckoned with that I think the biggest gift we can give her is the strength to remain true to herself and see just where life leads her. The saddest thing I could imagine for Molly is seeing that inner spark and fire go out or dim.

Max is my gentle giant. That kid is all heart and is so sensitive and attuned to the feelings of others around him. He has such a soft and kind soul that we worry about him constantly. I worry that the world may turn and bend him - and harden his natural empathy, curiosity and openness. I hope he can learn by the examples in his life – Anders and my dad, two of the strongest, kindest and gentlest men I have ever known – that men do show compassion, love and tenderness. That real strength is not about being the toughest, or loudest, or meanest – but about being strong enough to stand up and remain true to yourself and what you believe in.

I am staying home from work tomorrow and Ruby and I are taking the kids out for a special birthday outing. I am apologizing to you now Ruby as I am pretty sure I will have some totally inappropriate crying outbursts. For Christ’s sake I am crying right now! On second thought – you may want to bail on us altogether. I am going to be a mess!

Happy fourth birthday to my Maxey–Doodle and Molly-Mo. You both are truly the best of everything in your dad and I, and I couldn’t be prouder or happier to be your Momma. 

Max and Molly - three years, 11 months

The name game

In retrospect, we probably should have done a bit more homework on the kid's names before signing off on the birth certificates.

During the first few months of the twin’s life, we didn’t venture out too far or too often. When we did, there was always lots of interest in them and questions about them…Are they identical? What did we name them? How old were they? Are they good sleepers? Glad it is you and not me! (People would seriously – and more often than not – actually say that. What the hell people?) 

This one particular day – we had the twins out for a grocery run at the local Safeway. They were probably only about a month old, and let me tell you, if you think one newborn gets a lot of attention, picture the frenzy around two newborns.  

When we finally got to the checkout, a woman ahead of us in line started asking about the babies. When I mentioned that we named them Max and Molly - she shrieked, “Oh my God! Growing up I had a dog and cat named Max and Molly! Molly was the cat! Isn’t that funny?”

The woman behind me piped in with, “That is super cute – I am totally going to tell my daughter to name the hamsters she just got Max and Molly.”

Yeah – isn’t that just super cute. Hope your hamsters enjoy my children’s names!

This was sort of just the cherry on top of our name troubles – which started way back when we first found out we were having twins. When we thought we were only having one baby it was hard enough - we couldn’t agree on one name, let alone two.  The only thing we could agree on is that we weren’t going to do the whole matchy-matchy cutesy twin name thing. Nope, there would be no Michael and Michaela, or Patrick and Patricia’s here.

I was convinced we were having twin girls (in BC, there is an actual law that the ultrasound techs can’t tell you what you are having, so it was left to maternal hunch – which I clearly suck at) and I had decided they were going to be called Ava Louise and Grace Elizabeth.

Anders wasn’t a fan of either name and was pulling for Linnea or Molly. I used to know a Linnea in school (and to be honest – I wasn’t a super fan as, just for an example, she would get into fist fights at parties - JUST FOR FUN) so that name was clearly out, and I wasn’t sure about Molly.

Then, at about seven months pregnant, I had some complications and was airlifted to a larger hospital in Vancouver. During one of my dozen or so ultrasounds over the few weeks I was there, a doctor who happened to be attending the ultrasound, casually dropped that I was having a BOY and a girl. That fucked everything up! I was seven and a half months pregnant and we hadn’t picked any boy names (due to my previously mentioned super awesome maternal hunch skills). We hadn’t been able to agree on even one girl name in 30 or so weeks, so there was a very real chance this poor little boy would be going home with a name like “Baby A” Jonsson.

We started to brainstorm names, and I was getting pretty nervous as all the boy names Anders was suggesting were total crap. I was not going to be the mother calling across a playground for a Bjorn, or a Maximus or a Steele. Really? Steele?  Do you want him to grow up to be a gigolo or male dancer? Because that is what you are condemning him to with a name like that!

I was pulling for boy names like Finn, Oskar (which in hindsight – good call on the veto Anders!) and Erik. I was still pretty solid on the girl name – it was going to be Ava Elizabeth Grace (just combine them into one) or a new name I had heard and really liked - Mette.

Anders vetoed them all and was insistent on the name Molly for a girl, and a shortened version of Maximus – just Max – for a boy.  

Then the day finally came and Baby A and Baby B entered the world. And that made it even harder. They were now little people, with little faces and the start of little personalities. How could I give this little seven and half pound ball of easy-going chub a huge name like Oskar? And how can you name this watchful and alert little baby girl a name like Mette when she already seemed too old and wise for it on her first day of life?

To be honest - the day they were born was a blur. I was higher than a kite (jacked up on some really good meds) and crazy with hormones. Long story short (and to be honest I am not really sure of the details or how it happened so I couldn’t expand even if I wanted to!) the babies were officially named Max and Molly.

So much for our first and only rule of not having matchey matching cutesy twin names!

I wanted to do the middle names though and Anders agreed. I was looking for some family names, and I wanted them to have three names like me, so I started working on names that flowed together.

First up was Molly and that was easy as I had been thinking of girl names for nine months. We picked Anne (my grandma was Anna, my sister’s middle name is Ann) and Catherine (both Anders mom’s and sister’s middle name is Katrina – Hungarian for Catherine). So Molly Anne Catherine was officially named.   

But for Max’s middle names, I was totally stumped. Nothing really rolls with Max. I wanted something from my family, and my dad’s middle name – Wilfred (which was also his father’s middle name) seemed like a good pick and Anders middle name, Mikael, kind of works with that, so we had ourselves a Max Wilfred Mikael.

We filled in the paperwork and handed it in. We had finally picked some names and I was more relieved than anything that we had finished this huge job. Who knew that naming your babies was such a stressful thing?

Then a nurse pointed out that my doctor’s name was Anne and the doctor who assisted the delivery was Catherine and wasn’t that sweet of us to name Molly after them. Uummm – yeah – wasn’t that super nice and not at all like a weird homage to them from us….super nice and not creepy at all!   

First weird name thing.

Then, my friend had these wonderful keepsake blankets (with their names embroderied on them)made for the twins. Shortly after the blankets arrived - my parents came over for a visit. As I was showing them the new soft and cuddly blankets, my Dad did a double take and was like “Who is Wilfred? My middle name, and my dad’s middle, name is WilFORD.”

Son of a BITCH! Second problem with the names.

In the last (almost) four years of their life, I have had a shockingly high number of people tell me they have had pets named Max and Molly. Everything from goldfish to cats and dogs.

And then I had a friend send me an email letting me know that when she searches for this blog, she gets all kinds of blogs about animals. I was not surprised after the Safeway line-up incident, but I was curious, so I Googled “Max and Molly”.

Apparently there are thousands of cat/dog combos out there named Max and Molly. And dozens of owners who love these pets enough to write blogs about them.

There is a Max and Molly animal photography, there are Max and Molly films (scared to click that link. I have no idea what kind of movies they are but you can’t un-see porn made in your children’s names) and there is also apparently a Max and Molly app for the iPhone which turns your words into meows and barks. It has also been rated as one of the most annoying apps.

Come on! Really?

Well, I guess thousands of golden retriever/tabby cat combos can’t be wrong. The two names do sound cute together, and eventually they will start their own lives and not be known as “MaxandMolly.” Molly can even start to use Anne as her first name if she wants.

And, when the kids get older and ask me why they are named after a popular dog/cat name combo - I will let them know to ask their father since I was pretty high when that happened and don’t recall all the details. 

Evil Geniuses

So – Saturday was cruising along pretty good. Anders made pancakes for breakfast, Nina had been to the groomers and back and we had gone for a walk in the sunshine. We had just finished lunch, Anders was on the laptop, I was reading and the kids were upstairs playing. Christmas was really busy so we were enjoying a lazy day of no real plans and nothing which had to be done.

When the kids are upstairs playing and neither of us is up there with them, we can always count on Max to give us a running commentary on what Molly is doing.

“Hey mom - Molly put her pajamas on!”
“Hey mom - Molly just spilled her toys out!”
“Hey mom – is this your blue sparkly nail-polish and can Molly open it?”

Without looking up – or realizing how bad this situation could get – I absent mindedly replied back that no it was Molly’s nail-polish, and that no, she couldn’t use it unless I was there to help.

It took a good 10 minutes for me to fully digest that sentence and clue in that shit had probably taken a hard left upstairs. It was too quiet – no running updates from my favourite little narc – and there was the trace of paint fumes in the air.

Anders must have clued in at about the same time as we met at the bottom of the stairs and ran up together.

The two of them were sitting square in the middle of the tan carpet in the bonus room – surrounded by about 15 open nail-polish bottles – having a great time painting each other, their clothes, the carpet, their hair and Molly’s backpack. 

I remained calm enough to tell them to both go into the bathroom and not to touch anything until I came in. Anders herded them onto the safety of an old towel in the bathroom while I surveyed the damage. Apparently the favourite colours had been a hot pink, and sparkly teal, and a glittery navy. All of which looked really awesome on the tan carpet.



At this point I didn't know whether to cry or go totally bat-shit crazy. 

Those little buggers couldn’t have picked a worse spot for their little mani-pedi party. The main damage is in an area which is pretty much in the middle of the room, with a trail into the hallway. So it isn’t like we can put furniture over it or hide it in anyway.

Anders was handling the situation a lot better than I was. He was calmly explaining to the kids why putting nail-polish on each other and the carpet isn’t a good idea. I was still in the crazy-angry zone, and as I made trips by the bathroom door in my desperate search for cleaning products which could remove paint from fabric, I shouted various helpful pearls of wisdom at them. “You know – I was really hoping that you guys would be smarter than me, but I guess we can confirm that dumb-ass-ness does not skip a generation!” “Why didn’t you guys use the nude nail polish or the clear stuff…glittery teal? REALLY?”

Anders came out to see how the cleaning was going. It was not going well. I had basically created a big blob of swirled colour. I was calming down a bit, and Anders reminded me that we had been talking about replacing the carpet with hardwood anyway, so really, this was just the final deciding vote. We will be getting new hardwood. What is done - is done right?

We figured we mind’s well try and see the humour.

I followed Anders into the bathroom – camera in hand – and Anders started explaining that we couldn’t clean the nail-polish out of the carpet. That didn’t seem to faze them much – they just kind of stared back like “and your point on why we should give a shit is….”

Max is doing a pretty good Mick Jagger, and Molly is the picture of innocence.
Note the legs, face and clothing. Yup - that is nail-polish.

And then Anders - in a moment of sheer genius - dropped the hammer. He stated that maybe we wouldn't be able to go the Disney Land like we had planned, as we now had to buy new hardwood or carpet. Their reaction was awesome - and probably secured Anders’ and my seat in hell.

I love the fact you can actually see the news sinking in...

After we calmed them down, we threw them in the tub to try and soak the polish off. Anders went to the local drug store to get some stuff to take it off their skin, while I went back out to try and cut the nail polish stained tops of the carpet strands off with manicure scissors (this didnt work too well, and just sort of cemented my position as leader of the dumb-asses.)  

During my misguided clipping, I could hear them whispering in the tub so I moved in a bit closer. Max was telling Molly that when I came back in, she should tell me that I am a party pooper (nice Max - already smart enough to make Molly do it). Molly for her part was all for it and eagerly agreed – adding “yeah – and Max, I have a good idea. We should push mom out of the door when she comes in.”

What the hell? They are THREE! If this is any indication of their teen years, it is not going to be pretty.

When I called my mom and dad to tell them, mom quickly replied with “remember when you were like 12 and spilled red nail-polish on the grey Berber rug in the family room and then removed it with bleach thinking we wouldn’t notice a three foot circle of bleached out carpet in the middle of the room?”

So, we can 100 per cent confirm that dumb-ass-ness does not skip a generation. But what is concerning to me is that they have accelerated the dumb-ass stunts, and they have an accomplice. I had to work solo and could only get into as much trouble as I could cook up by myself. These two little criminal geniuses have someone to help them take it to the next level.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, or in our case, shattered Christmas tree stands.

The saying “the older you are – the quicker it goes” is absolutely true. 

Christmas is 12 days away. How in the holy hell did that happen? I started planning and shopping in like August so how am I still not ready? And what in the hell happened to October? Did we even have October? 

I was talking to Ruby last Thursday and we were going through the calendar for the next few weeks trying to figure out schedules and events.  We throw a Christmas party every year and this year we are holding it on the 22nd. Then we have  Swedish Christmas on the 24th followed by Canadian Christmas on the 25th – so we have three big things to plan for…on top of all the normal shit (getting gifts, baking, decorating, wrapping, visiting, etc.)

We do this every year – but somehow (and I am starting to suspect early onset Alzheimer’s) I am still surprised at how much stuff there is to do, and how quickly Christmas seems to sneak up on me. (I can totally see about 35 years down the road and I can say with pretty high confidence that yes, I will absolutely be the crazy old lady standing in the gift wrap aisle with no pants on and a live squirrel in my purse.)

So – knowing what had to get done – and knowing (as of last Thursday) we really only had two weekends to get it together, I kind of started to lose my shit and go into a full-blown Type-A freak out. I made lists and had both weekends scheduled to the minute. What I did not schedule was me getting the stomach flu. Saturday was a blur of hot baths, naps and waking up to little faces planted three inches from mine asking if I was okay.

I bounced back a bit on Sunday,  so we ventured out to get a tree only to discover that apparently everyone else in Calgary had as well…on Saturday. All that was left were these sad-ass looking, short, mostly dead, spindly trees.  We drove around to a few places before we finally ended up at a local grocery store that had some okay looking trees left. We grabbed the tallest thing we could find and Anders ran in to pay while I waited with the tree and the kids.

By this point in the day, patience was thin and the kids were at their limit so I decided to haul the nine foot tree – by myself with three-year-old twins in tow – across a busy parking lot to the van. Not one part of that plan was well thought out. Three steps into it Molly fell and started to cry at full Molly volume (which is on par with a standing next to a police car with the siren on full blast) and Max ran off the sidewalk straight in front of a Suburban. 

We were such a mess and making such a scene that some nice guy actually came up and offered to take the tree for me. I am programed to decline help for some reason so without even thinking I went into my normal “oh thanks – but no…I am good. It is fine, I got this, but thanks!” followed by (what I am guessing was) a slightly crazy looking smile, and an even crazier was sounding laugh. The guy was probably like “yeah lady – you look like you got this alright! One kid was almost a grill ornament and the other is frozen to the sidewalk in a pool of her own blood - yup – super great job!”

We finally made it back to the van and I managed to throw the kids, the tree and most of Molly’s shredded pants into the van. Anders got caught in the line-up that never ends so when he finally made it back to the van, we had all had enough and basically peeled out of there on two wheels.

Once we got home – and determined to somehow still salvage this and make some great family memories – we started to put the tree up.

We wrestled that bitch of a tree for a good forty minutes. Pretty quickly into the process we figured out that the tree has a pretty serious bend about halfway up the trunk. No matter how we positioned it - it  looked cock-eyed and like it was about to go over at any minute. At this point, Anders and I were speaking to each other in one syllable words only, and tension was pretty high. We finally admitted defeat and agreed that no matter what we did the tree was going to look a little bit like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

The whole time this is going on, the kids kept running in and out of the room to check on our progress and see if the tree was ready to decorate. They were so excited, we knew that even though we wanted to set the tree on fire in the yard, we had to suck it up and pull it together for the kids. So - we threw on some Christmas music, poured straight rum into our glasses, gave the eggnog to the kids and started to decorate.

Here she is...with a heavy lean to the right.

We actually had fun for the next two hours or so as we slowly made the tree look pretty decent for what we were working with. Max was so cute – he followed me around with the vacuum asking over and over again, “you make enough mess now for me to clean up Momma?” as he sucked up every last needle on the floor, possibly some ornaments and definitely most of the dog’s kibble. Molly hung about thirty ornaments in a two foot square area but was thrilled with herself and thought it looked beautiful.

With the tree finally done, we headed upstairs to get the kids cleaned up and ready for bed.  About 20 minutes into the bath we heard a big crash from downstairs. You guessed it…the fucking tree fell over. I am not even kidding. The weight of the tree along with the angle must have been too much for the piece of crap $15 stand as it total cracked and blew apart sending the tree onto our coffee table and couch.

The whole Normal Rockwell vision of a perfect Christmas is quickly dying at the Jonsson household. I really wanted this year to be perfect for the kids since it is the first year that they really truly seem to get the whole Christmas thing and they are both so excited. But between the piece of shit tree, the scary-ass elf who despite bringing a gift every morning still manages to have a bad reputation, and the lack of completed baking – this is not shaping up to be the most successful Christmas.

Here is Tomte...trying his damnedest to get back in the good books. As you can see from the size of the calendar it isn't like he is bringing craptastic shit from the dollar store - he is bringing some quality stuff. Short of a real pony for Molly and an actual monster truck for Max I don't really know what else he could do. I think Tomte may have to be retired for 2013.

I did book Santa to come and attend our Christmas party – and no pressure here, but pretty much everything is riding on him. And based on the way Christmas has been going so far, my expectations are low. I am going to predict that he will be someone who is unemployed the other 11 months of the year, possibly homeless, has some sort of dependency problem and most likely has visible tattoos.