The "Christmas Magic" Fail

My early years as a big sister have taught me some lessons about kids, one of which I am reminded of this Christmas.

My sister is just over 8 years younger than I, and I just loved seeing myself as her mentor, role model, camp counselor, activity planner and all-around mother hen, whether she liked it or not. Though some games we played were admittedly a bit manipulative on my part ("I know! Let's pretend I'm dead and you have to give me some of your Smarties to bring me back to life"), I think I generally took pretty good care of my little sis when she was small.

One Christmas, she was about six years old*, and I was right into helping create the magic of Santa Claus for her. Such fun to see the excitement in her eyes as she wondered where Santa might be at any given time on Christmas Eve.

I even helped her set out milk and cookies for Santa with a little note. How adorable is that. What a great big sister I was! If only someone had a camera.

Off she went to bed, beaming with anticipation. And then, you know, because it had to look like Santa had indeed been there when she got up, I proceeded to down the milk and eat the cookies as soon as she was nestled all snug in her bed... or so I thought...

So. That was the Christmas Eve she went to bed thinking her gluttonous sister tried to ruin Christmas and could barely wait five minutes before scarfing down poor Santa's snack that she'd so lovingly prepared. There I was, chipmunk cheeks full of cookie and unable to tell the truth, so I had to just hang my head and awkwardly agree to replenish the plate.

I meant well. I really did. It was supposed to be magical! And she wasn't supposed to come back downstairs!

Lesson learned. And now, as a parent, I'll know to wait a good long time before disposing of any 'snacks for Santa'. Let's not have some of my kids' earliest memories be of their MOM trying to ruin Christmas.

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* This story originally had her and me at 3 and 11 years old, respectively. She tells me, however, that I was probably more like 14 because "I still remember you lounging on the chair in your 'too cool for school' teenage way with your bigger hair when I caught you" (hence the above snazzy 6-inches-of-roots 'Elaine' 'do). Nice try making myself younger in the retelling so it doesn't look as bad, though, she added.

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I'm delighted to share that I have been shortlisted for the second year in a row in the Canadian Weblog awards! Cartoon-Coloured Glasses has made the Top 5 in the Humour Category. What an honour to be part of it! Thank you.                  

The Time We Lost a Shoe at IKEA

I guess I asked for it when I decided to take the kids to IKEA. By myself. On a Saturday afternoon.

It's not the most gripping tale, but the only thing that got me through it with a sense of humour was knowing I could cartoon it later. So, here it is.

The Ottawa IKEA, I think the second-biggest in Canada, is a 400 thousand-square-foot corn maze (with inspirational room vignettes instead of the corn). It takes four separate elevators to get through. Though it's kid-friendly, you don't want to be caught with a tantruming toddler mid-store if you like to make quick exits.

"Alright, mister; we're leaving rrrright now." *Storms Through Bathrooms to Home Organization to shortcut to Home Decoration to Wall Decoration to the warehouse to the cashes and down another elevator*... 

But that's not what this was about. No tantrums on this trip, yet.

So there we were in the Lighting area, near the end, shuffling through like cattle (I can't even remember what I was looking for; I keep having "cushion covers" on the list, but they're at the point of the store where the kids are nearly out of patience, so I have yet to actually stop and look at any). I was picking up the pace as Little Bro's patience tank was nearing empty.


Then this happened.

No. It can't be. You can't tell me that. Not when we're almost at the end. He would've said something if--

She must've seen the colour go from my face. These were his brand new, good-quality shoes that they sell you 2 sizes too big so they'll last for the year. IF THEY STAY ON THE FEET, I realize only now.



Big Bro wasn't any help in narrowing down where the shoe went.

This is like that time when I found out he'd taken my wedding rings off my night table, and he offered a theatrical sweep of the arm to show me where he'd put them. "Riiiight theeeerrrre," he'd said, narrowing it down to "somewhere in the house". I was sure I'd be wearing a twist-tie in their place for the rest of my life.



But I found them, and so, I also had faith I could find this shoe in this labyrinth the size of six football fields. Just retrace your steps, right?



The only problem is, you're not allowed to backtrack in IKEA. Everyone is to flow from third floor to cafeteria, then second floor to cashes, without exception. There are even big arrows, directing the shoppers downstream, to disobey at your peril.

Oh great. I could go out and down the elevator and back up a different elevator and then another elevator and then all through the third floor and down another elevator and through the second floor again. I'd probably find myself ordering meatballs in the middle, and none of us have any patience for that.



So instead I abandon the cart, tuck one kid under each arm like a football, and charge like you'd see in some sort of epic Braveheart-style battle scene through the crowd.

Big Bro is all smiles, guessing maybe the shoe was in the bathroom section (where we never went) or maaaaybe with the couches (at the VERY START of the store). Maybe where he was pushing buttons on the microwaves? Or maybe someone thought it was for sale and BOUGHT it, Mama? Ha ha.


I'm all hot and sweaty, navigating the "you're going the wrong way, lady" hairy eyeballs while anticipating a toddler meltdown that wouldn't have happened if we were already out, as we were supposed to be by now. More than anything, though, I'm miffed and confused that he didn't let me know. He can talk the hind legs off a mule chatting about the temperatures of all the planets and what would happen if we ate a planet and how come planets aren't people, but it didn't occur to him to say, "wait! My shoe just came off"?!



I soon realize that this is a futile effort, and anyway, maybe someone found it and turned it in. Surely no one would swipe a lone preschooler sneaker. So we crowd-surf our way back to the exit and seek out the Lost and Found.


Exasperated, I ask a staff member if it was turned in, and she warned me I might have to wait until the night crew cleans up and come back another day if it shows up. Or, I can put a bag on my kid's foot for the rest of 2014, I'm thinking, just as she returns with the lost shoe.


I'm frazzled beyond frazzled, but Big Bro is as happy as a clam. Why worry when you have someone to do it for you? Then the best was when I asked him the silly question:

And then the following week we go to a grocery store, and he lets me know with great panic whenever he drops his precious parking lot rock. THEN he speaks up. Arrgh.

Scary Stuff

So Halloween is coming. A time when people have fun with ghosts and zombies and all things frightening.

Since we're on the topic of things that are frightening, let me tell you a tale.

I love taking pictures of the kids, and am delighted that today's smart phones means I always have a camera with me to capture my kids' precious moments... BUT...

sometimes I'll see a great picture opportunity...

take the phone out...

press the "camera" icon...

and instead of getting the anticipated view of my adorable boys, I get...



 ... an UP-THE-NOSE CLOSEUP OF MY 'THINKING' FACE!

Yikes.

The moral of the story is, Don't leave your camera in 'selfie' mode. "EEK! It's Death!... No wait, it's me. I just haven't had much sleep this week."

Now there's something that'll give you nightmares.

Happy Halloween!

Sibling TBT

I'm none too impressed with my one-cartoon-a-month maximum track record of late these days. Trying to get it into my regular routine. No one's allowed to get sick this week so I can work on my next one. ... said a mother of two small kids who frequent indoor play gyms in late October...

In the meantime, may I offer another Throwback Thursday cartoon I drew in grade 8 (depicting when I was about 12). This one is on the subject of the fights my brother and I could get into back in the day. I draw your attention to the large hoop earrings.

My brother and I played together lots and always looked out for each other. We had lots of laughs and he usually went along with my big-sister ideas (except the rad lip synch to David Lee Roth I had in mind for him. Said he "didn't want to" or something irrelevant like that).

But then, there were the tussles. There are three and a half years between my bro and me, and yet our age difference didn't prevent some impressive brawls now and then. Ah yes. I was such a model big sister.

He had the "little brother" characteristics down pat, though. I mean, he was so GOOD at it. He knew when to participate in a heated argument (with or without fisticuffs), and when to just smile a patronizing, smug smile, which made me EVEN MADDER. OOH, IT MADE ME SO MAD. Kind of like the "I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU" thing people do (with finger 3 mm from your eyeball). I would get worked up into such a lather that I'd literally bite my tongue, and then he'd do an impression of my "biting my tongue" face, and then I was REEEEALLY MAD!

I remember this being a real fight we had (with artistic license added). It started off talking about the dialogue in Home Alone and ended up with large objects being hurled.

Note: My conflict resolution skills have greatly improved since 1990.

Thankfully, the brawls were few and far between. We get along great now, too, my dear bro and I, and furniture stays put. He can still rock the smug smile if he wants, though. Grrr...

Siblings. Can't live with 'em, can't bring 'em back to the hospital even when you tell Mom you're done with them. Will the Brobeans get into it like my own brother and I could? Dust cloud with fists and stars and onomatopoeia coming out of it and all? I figure, as long as Little Bro goes along with all of Big Bro's ideas, we'll be fine...

Gotta Move

Once I came across Big Bro at the table, working on an activity page like this.

I'm sure he started out seated. He was focused on his activity, but it looks like the rest of him was trying to take off (that's my guess, at least).


Big Bro enjoys many sedentary activities such as dot-to-dots, jigsaw puzzles and avoiding getting dressed in the morning. But even then, they're often done hanging over the arm of the couch, upside down or maybe in some sort of yoga pose. That can't be comfortable, I think to myself, even if kids are pretty bendy.

I mean, you read all the time about how kids need to move. Run, jump, climb trees and all that. You can see that need in them. Even mellow kids like mine. It seems like, once the wiggles kick in, they can't be avoided.
(Reminds me of my old Kindergartners; once they started pulling their pants up and looking at their knees, you know someone was going to be inchworm-crawling across the floor in a minute, so the assembly better wrap up).

One day, Big Bro excitedly set a goal of reading twenty books in a row with me. Brought in the big pile with great anticipation about how awesome this would be. He was determined to reach that goal, even if things were going awry after about four books:

During Skype calls, my parents could be cardboard cut-outs compared to the scene on our end; one of squirmy boys climbing on the couch and off the couch and on the couch and off the couch and a flip over my shoulder and a few laps with the wagon and then a backward somersault off the couch again. Not hyper, but always on the go, even if they're not going anywhere. I can't believe how little they stay in one spot. 

It's some sort of life irony that the ones with the least responsibility have the most energy. Kids are just not meant to sit very long, even if they plan on it. They just gotta move... so even when they're colouring, it might have to be in a downward dog pose.  

Throwback Thursday: Teaching Days

I thought I'd do a "Throwback Thursday" post for my blog this week. Seeing as how it's Back to School season, today I'm sharing a cartoon from my early teaching days; specifically, how hard it was at times to be serious when it was time to be serious, now that I was 'the adult'.

Funny stuff happens. Kids are funny, and often, I still feel like I have the sense of humour of one. But sometimes, as teachers (or now, as parents), it's our job to take the high ground and emphasize the impropriety of whatever hilarious event is unfolding. I got myself in trouble a few times over the years trying to keep a straight face.

Picture it: Halifax, 2001, supply teaching in Grade 5 Science:

Me: Name the parts of the urinary system. (I think the teacher left these lessons for me on purpose)
Student: The urethra, the urea, and... the URANUS!
(Laughter ensues)
Another student: No, that's the DIGESTIVE system, Kyle. Ugh. *rolls eyes*

After a minute with my face turned toward the wall, shoulders shaking, I regain my composure and turn around to clarify with calm maturity that it's actually the solar system, but 2 out of 3 was pretty good.

I'm still like that now. I've had to fake a coughing fit so as not to lose face during one of Big Bro's antics.

But, you know, whether teaching or parenting, you have to have a sense of humour. And, when kids are involved, it's impossible not to. Most of the time.

And it's great for the kids to see you laugh, too-- except for situations such as the one below drawn from my student teaching days, when I was being observed and evaluated for my classroom management skills. It was not the time to be giggling with the six-year-olds.

It wasn't funny that the kids were wasting food or making work for the custodian . But it was a riot how solemn the teacher was informing the kids that egg rolls are not for toilets.

(Hmm, that sounds like a name for a children's book.)

The Netflix Date Night Hangover

Sorry I haven't been posting as often lately. I'd say it's because I'm so busy with the kids (which is true), but truth be told, it's more because we finally got ... dun dun dun... Netflix.

I'd be there at the computer after the tykes were in bed, about to get my cartoon on, only to have Hubs show up in the doorway with a telltale raised eyebrow that can only mean one thing: House of Cards.

Aww yeah. Twist my rubber arm. I decide that I'll cartoon tomorrow.

I read a Today's Parent article lately saying that the modern-day "date night" for parents of young kids is binge-watching series on Netflix. Man, that sounds horrribly lame, and so very accurate. Many weekends, anyway. What! Don't judge! They can't all be sushi-and-babysitter Saturday nights!

It's getting us in trouble, though. Before Netflix, we'd watch our one measly episode of Big Bang Theory and turn in at a sensible hour. Now, this is what happens:

Thanks to that genius countdown-to-the-next-episode approach they have, you don't even have to press a button to keep watching. You just have to not act fast enough, or at all, which is easy when you sit down for the first time all day and get fused to the couch. That, plus the intriguing synopsis of the next episode, makes it near impossible to have any sort of discipline.

So then, before we know it, it's after midnight. Again. Dammit.

What were we thinking? We love sleep! We know what it's like to go without it, and kids have more energy than us on a good day! And the first one will be up in five hours! At least one of us will suffer!

So there we are the next day; kids full of beans, parents full of regret.

Gone are the days when all it took was an Egg McMuffin and a coffee to recover after a big night. And also, gone are the days when 'big night' meant a bit more of a wild time than 4 episodes of Orange is the New Black with chips and guacamole.

Oh man, that sounds awesome. Is it Friday yet?

We recently decided with some fellow parent-friends that someone needs to invent a parental control that automatically kicks us parents off at a certain time and sends us to bed for our own good, to avoid the binge-watching hangover. A Netflix Nanny, if you will, for grown-ups.

OK, I think I've made my 20-year-old self die of embarrassment enough for now. Time to catch up on our programs.