The first day of my holidays. Spent most of it helping my brother move, and, as far as moves goes, it went very smoothly. Seems I impressed the socks off my sister-in-law’s dad (my brother’s father-in-law, too!) with my lifting prowess. See my muscles??
Not what they used to be, really, at all. I gave up going to the gym – all you dedicated parents will understand this – because it took too much time away from being with my daughter. I need one that opens EARLY in the morning. If I can’t do it before work, I have to go in the evenings, and my youngest, who just turned twelve, is at that oh, so delightful stage where she craves mummy time. I know this stage is fleeting. In another year or so her focus will shift outside the house, and I don’t want to miss these last precious months: “Just a minute, dear…not right now, dear…later on, sweetie…hang on a sec, love…” and then, when I have that spare minute, she’ll be gone. Can’t let that happen.
So I’m spending time with my sweet daughter and losing my muscle tone. A friend suggested I find a gym she can go to as well. Great idea!! I discovered that any gym that offers weight training, which is what I do, has a standard policy against children under the age of fifteen or so entering the premises. Insurance issues, I’m sure. That leaves me with aerobics, which I hate, hate, hate, and besides, since my son was born (4400 grams/ 9 lb 10 – in 87 minutes of labour) I can’t bounce, jump, or even jiggle too strenuously without peeing myself. *Sigh*. I’m considering surgery for this one. All the Kegels in the world haven’t fixed it.
So, scratch the aerobics. (Yay!)
Can’t go to weight gym for a while. (Boo!)
I can work out with the free weights I have at home, and go for long walks. It’s a compromise. It’s even a sacrifice, but Emma is worth it!
And tomorrow I’ll start my archive posting.
I’m on holiday, I’m on holiday!! Last day of work today, out with a girlfriend tonight, three tangy lime margaritas into my holiday, and I’m having SUCH a great holiday!! And see what a good girl I am? I’m home and it’s only 10:30 p.m.
Naptime. George and Zach sleep on cots in the kitchen. I hear rumblings and rustlings as I type in the basement. Go upstairs to check. Zach is sound asleep. George is faking it, eyes squinched shut and twitching, body tight.
I stand very still for a moment. George holds his pose.
“Hmmm…” I muse out loud to myself. “Zach is asleep. George is asleep, too.” George smiles. “I wonder who could have made that noise up here?”
George doesn’t move, his eyes stay tightly shut, but his voice slips between his almost-closed lips.
We generally make a Tim Horton’s run when Liam is with us. He loves to go – as do the rest – so why not? A coffee for me, a box of Timbits to share, and all for less than $4.00. Can’t beat that for an outing!
We assemble ourselves around the table, Alice on my lap. I dole out the timbits. Two each, your choice of sour cream or chocolate. The older boys, predictably, wolf theirs and look for more. Being in the business of civilizing them, I tell them they will have to wait until everyone is finished their first helping before we get seconds. They subside, and mournfully watch the slower chewers.
A reasonable interval later, I begin to pass round their third and final timbit. But what is this? I’m two short! How can this be? The answer is right under my nose.
Alice beams up at me – as much as any girl can beam with a face smeared with chocolate, dusted with sugar, and cheeks bulging with doughnut contraband, one timbit on each side!
Good thing extra timbits only cost 12 cents apiece!
Liam: You can’t hitch-hike to Alberta because there are tornadoes there, and there won’t be any TV.
It’s nap/quiet time. Some of the boys are too old for naps, and thus play quietly in the livingroom. The babies are in cribs upstairs. The middlers sleep or lay quietly with books and soft toys on low cots in the kitchen, out of sight of the livingroom, until quiet time is over.
Arthur is one of the middlers. Some days he naps, others he doesn’t. Today looks to be a no-nap day, though he has managed “quiet” relatively well thus far. But he’s bored and wants to be with the big boys in the livingroom. I’m still hoping he’ll drop off.
A voice comes from the cot behind me as I type.
“Mary, c’n I get up now?”
“No, Arthur. It’s still quiet time. Shush.”
I hear him shuffle, his feet drum a bit, he starts to hum.
“Arthur!” I intone warningly.
Quiet descends. For maybe 90 seconds. The voice resumes.
“Is it still quiet time?”
“Yes. I will tell you when quiet time is over. Meantime, Be Quiet.”
I can see Arthur trying to see the boys in the other room, but he can’t from where he lays. Nonetheless, they are the inspiration for his next attempt.
“Mary? Mary, there’s a big mess out there, and it’s too much for them to clean up. I need to go help.”
Nice to see such altruism at such a young age.
Sometimes there’s another whole story behind what they think they’re telling you…
Arthur is admiring a flower in my front yard.
“Mary, may I sniff your plant?”
“Well, of course you can, sweetie.”
He positions himself carefully, leans over, closes his eye, and takes a deep and audible snort. Straightens and smiles, very pleased with his little self.
“There. I didn’t eat it. I just sniffed it.”