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.  

Tomte the thieving Christmas elf

My parents bought Max and Molly an Elf on the Shelf this year. We were at their house just after Halloween, and they decided to give it to them as an early Christmas surprise. Super early I know, but at the time it was fun and sounded like a good idea so I was all “what the hell” and let them open it.  

The idea of the elf is really cute. You get this little box which has an elf in it along with a book to read to the kids about how the elf works. The story goes that each night the elf flies back to the North Pole and reports back to Santa on all of the good – or bad – things the kids did that day. The rule is that the elf can’t talk to the kids, and the kids can’t touch the elf or the magic will get “broken” and the elf won’t be able to fly to the North Pole each night. The book explains that if this happens the kids won’t get bugger all on Christmas morning because Santa will think the kids forgot about Santa.

Every night after the kids go to bed, you (the parents) have to move the elf around the house to a new spot so that is looks like the elf made his round-trip, and found a new resting spot. The game is for the kids to try and find where the elf is every morning.
 
My mom got the idea from her hairdresser who had told my mom all about how they had an elf for their kids last year and they did all this cute and witty stuff with the elf. One morning the elf was on the shelf in the bathroom and the toilet paper was all off the roll, and another morning they put the elf in the kitchen and spilled some flour and made little prints like the elf had run through the flour.

So – not wanting to be outdone – we knew we had to take this shit to the next level.

The first thing you have to do is give the elf a name. We went with Tomte – which is the Swedish name for Santa.  

We maybe should have thought about that a bit more as it turns out Tomte is pretty fucking terrifying. I Googled him and according to Wikipedia if you don’t leave oatmeal out for him, or if you curse, or take a whiz on the floor - he will go bat-shit crazy and do everything from kill your cow to burn your house down. He also apparently beat a Norwegian chick to death after she ate his porridge. I am not even kidding.  He beat the shit out of some poor little ‘Weege for eating some god-damned porridge. What in the hell kind of messed up Santa does that? Anywhooo -  I think you get the picture. Tomte is anything but super charming and after seeing how the kids reacted to him – it turns out that maybe it was a pretty appropriate name choice.

This is a drawing on Tomte from the 1600s. If I woke up and saw this dude sweeping my floors
with his chicken feet and  troll face I think the odds of me having a stroke would be pretty high.
I do not want any part of anything this guy would leave behind as a "gift."



SWEET JESUS! Run kitty run! YIKES!

 So – I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s back it all up and bring it back to the first morning after Tomte arrived…

For the first morning (and keep in mind it is like November 2 at this point) we thought it would be cute to have a piece a Halloween candy stuck to Tomte’s face. Kind of like Tomte had stolen it and hadn’t finished eating it yet.  We thought it was pretty witty and were excited to see how the kids reacted.

When the kids got up in the morning – my dad asked if they could find Tomte. They raced around until Max spotted Tomte sitting on the fireplace – with a marshmallow ghost stuck to his smiling, perky little face.

Max looked at me – looked back at Tomte – looked at his Halloween candy sack and was like “what in the what Tomte? Is this how you are going to play me?” He tried not to let on - but I could tell he was pissed. Max grabbed the candy off Tomte’s face (rule number one already broken) and shoved it into his mouth. The whole time he chewed he never took his eyes off Tomte.

Shortly after that we loaded up the van and headed back to Calgary. About an hour into the drive – and totally out of nowhere – Max stated that Tomte is a jerk, and if Tomte touches his candy again, he (Max) would eat all the elf food.  Okay – fair is fair. I have no idea what Max thinks elf food is - but so long as Max doesn’t think it is the dog’s kibble, or my beer, we should be all good.

That afternoon when we got home the kids were a bit whiny and were not listening. I yelled a bit and then remembered I had an ace up my sleeve – Tomte! So I pulled the trump card out and let them know that Tomte would be telling Santa all about how they were acting and if it keeps up, they may end up on the naughty list.

If looks could kill – Tomte would have gone off like a tiny nuke on the mantle. Max and Molly both gave Tomte a look of pure hate and stomped off upstairs. But they did start to listen, so in my book, it was a total win.

That night, I moved Tomte to the ledge on the chalkboard in the kitchen and in keeping with theme of making him real, I put one of the Christmas ornaments the kids had just painted into his lap and put his arms around it like he was hugging it.

The next morning as the kids were finishing getting dressed, I told them that Tomte should be back from his trip to the North Pole and that we should go find him. They both raced downstairs and started to look.

Max spotted Tomte first and started to shriek like he had spotted the devil himself perched on the chalkboard ledge. He started yelling at Molly that Tomte was stealing all the ornaments they made. Molly came barreling around the corner was started yelling at Tomte to stop being a jerk and get his own stuff.

I do not think that this is what the book – or the hairdresser – had in mind. Our kids were starting to see Tomte as the enemy – a thieving little snitch who was basically there to steal their shit and narc them out to Santa. 

That night, before going upstairs to bed, Molly looked at Tomte and gave him a stern pointing to and told him to leave her stuff alone. Max looked at me – and with genuine worry on his face - asked me to tell Tomte to not touch his stuff and not to keep moving to a new spot.  “He should stay there…right there…on that bear,” he specified.

This little Tomte project had clearly come off the rails and Tomte was in need of some reputation management and damage control. So that night we didn’t move Tomte at all. We left him exactly where he was – no new props, no clever actions, nothing. I did however write a “note” from Tomte to Max telling him he was sorry.

The next morning Max came down and checked to see where Tomte was. When he saw that Tomte hadn’t moved he was visibly relieved. I made a pretty big deal about the note and explained what it said. That did not go according to plan either. Max gave Tomte a look like “what is your game dude?” and walked sideways out of the room so that he could keep his eyes on the thieving little asshole on the mantle.

Here is Tomte...riding a weird rusted metal bear and his poorly written note in crayon.
I am starting to understand why the plan may have backfired...

For the rest of the day I noticed Max and Molly kept watching Tomte and sort of backing away without ever turning their backs to him.

Tomte went back in the box that night and we told the kids the next morning that Tomte got called back to Santa’s workshop to help him make all the toys for Christmas. They still (like three weeks later) ask if he is back, but they do it with a look of fear and worry. Kind of like a face you would make when someone tells you there is a spider on you. 

We are bringing Tomte back on Saturday and are going to have him bring the daily advent calendar present. So here is hoping that because he will be connected with delivering fun stuff daily we will be able to turn Tomte’s reputation around.

I heart Ruby

We took the kids out of the day home just over a month and a half ago and I am pretty sure that it was the best decision we have ever made.

I think I have told this story to anyone who will listen – but what the hell – one more time for the cheap seats in the back:
• We had been unhappy with the day home we were using for quite a while. 
• Max started telling us that the day home owner's son was bullying the heck out of him – to the point Max was peeing his pants (sorry Max)  and begging not to go to daycare. We did talk to the day home women about it - LOTS – and they “resolved” it by asking Max, in front of the bully, if he liked the bully.  When Max said yes – they looked at me like “Problem solved!”
• They started applying special rules to their kids – kind of like a Lord of the Flies scenario expect instead of except for Piggy dying and everyone getting rescued – all the kids who went to the day home got to sit and watch while the day home owner’s kids got treated like royalty. The day home owner’s kids had special toys only they could play with and they had special rules. The day home owner’s kids also got to go on all kinds of special outings while the day home kids got to stay at the day home. The owners were also really great in telling the day home kids about just what a special and fun day their kids would be having and really making sure to rub it in and point out that the rest of the kids did not get to go. Okay – so maybe that is nothing like Lord of the Flies – I haven’t read it in a long time.

So – unfortunately it ended up getting super ugly and the daycare people took a hard left from Sanity Street. They threatened to sue us for slander and told the other day home parents that we had accused them of physically abusing our kids (WTF?). They went one step further and asked all the other parents to be character witnesses for when we go to court. They also threw in that since Molly loved their dog we were wrong about everything and that as I had changed jobs a few times they should have seen this coming.

Seriously. That all happened. You can’t make this shit up.

Anyway – it was a messy and ugly thing but it totally restored my faith in karma because out of the whole thing we got Ruby. 

Ruby and the kids

Ruby has been a nanny for my friend for over a year, and my friend and her family really love Ruby. So when my friend saw what we were going through – she talked to Ruby and they asked if I wanted to have Ruby as a nanny as well.

We have been taking the kids to Ruby since the ugly break-up and Ruby is beyond fantastic with them. Since the kids have been staying with her and my friend’s two children – the changes in Max and Molly are almost unbelievable.

Molly at the zoo with Ruby and Max

Anders and I have both noticed how much the kids have seemed to develop right before our eyes. Their maturity is pulling ahead by leaps and bounds and both have had an explosion in their vocabulary. They are blossoming and growing every day. They are smiling again, and are eager and happy to start their days.

Ruby takes Max and Molly places, makes up songs and signs with them, does crafts and makes them feel loved and secure. She thinks of creative ways to engage them, and takes them on little daily adventures out in the woods, or to local parks. 

Max crashed out after another adventure with Ruby

Every night when we are getting the kids dressed for bed we ask them what the best part of their day was. A few nights again Molly told me that playing with Ruby was the best part of her day, and Max said that hugging Ruby was the best part of his. 

Nina the Beana, or Girl Reno, or just "the new dog." Turns out – it doesn’t really matter since she is stone-cold deaf. Or just really good at ignoring us.

Nina has been with us for almost three weeks now and we (and by that I mean Rusty, the kids and I) totally love her. She is really sweet, loves to cuddle and is pretty smart.

The problem is I am pretty sure that Nina is not loving us all that much. 

She has been doing a lot of slinking along the walls, and hiding under shit since she has come to live with us. At first, I wrote it off as her getting used to her new home, a new schedule and bunch of new people in her face. Then, as the days went on, I noticed that she was only hiding and slinking when the kids were around.

Holy shit Rusty - is that them coming? I can't hear a god-damn thing here...

I totally get it. Trust me – there are plenty of times I have pulled the same type of things.

I used to be a heavy sleeper, and was one of those people who woke up by throwing the covers off and jumping up with a stunned look and crazy hair. Since having kids, I have managed to train myself to wake up from a dead sleep and not open my eyes or move a muscle. It all started as a sort of fucked up game of chicken between Anders and I when the kids were born, since the first one who “woke up” (which meant visible movement or breathing pattern change) had to get up with whichever baby was screaming. It was like Jedi training - both of trying to zone out the wailing baby and outlast the other and see who would snap first.

But I have to say I have really perfected this skill over the past few months. The kids have started stumbling into our room in the middle of the night and basically putting their mouths directly on my eye sockets and whispering “Momma….are you awake….Momma…can you hear me…Momma?” If I flinch or open my eyes – it is game over. I am up doing Lego and making waffles. But – by lying dead still, I have learned that they eventually give up and go try their luck on Anders side of the bed.

Anyway – bad parenting aside, I get the slinking thing Nina is doing.

We have tried getting the kids to calm down around her (good luck!) and have tried redirecting the kids attention to Rusty or something else – but Nina is so damn cute you just can’t not hug and squeeze her. So really – it is her own cute-ass fault!

How can you not squeeze that face? She brings it on herself really.

And – I am not sure how deaf she actually is. The rescue group thought she was almost completely deaf but I am not so sure about that. She is pretty clever and – much like my fake sleeping – I am starting to have suspicions that she has just mastered selective hearing.  I have been watching her when we are around and her little ears are constantly moving. And – unless she can read lips – she can somehow - and pretty miraculously - hear the words “treat” and “walk”. But when she is standing at the fence barking at people and we are yelling at her to stop - apparently she can’t hear a damn thing. 

There are signs she is starting to come around. Mainly the fact she doesn’t haul ass for under the table when the kids appear – but also the fact we found her sleeping curled up with Molly this morning. Plus, the kids are getting a bit calmer around her so that is helping. Anders - for all his grumbling - is actually starting to pet her when he thinks no one is looking.

I should also look at this whole thing from her side. One day – she is a puppy, cruising all feral and free up in Northern BC, and then BAM! She gets thrown in a crate, loaded on a plane and shipped to a place where she was thrown into an enclosed space with two wild and free three-year-olds.  I can imagine that shit is terrifying!

Poor Rusty - they look like a before and after ad.