And I’m not talking about the hour The Hurricane now wakes up thanks to that #$&#* time change. You know, that one I used to look forward to because I’d get an extra hour of sleep. Now, it only means The Hurricane wakes up at 5 instead of 6 a.m. Whoever dreamed up the whole thing obviously didn’t have young children.

No, my Halloween Twilight Zone is regarding my favorite pair of pants and shirt I found yesterday. Y’see, they’ve been MIA for months now and they mysteriously showed up on the floor of my closet yesterday. Even after I thoroughly searched the entire thing months ago.

My only solutions? We really are living in the Twilight Zone

OR

Hunky Hubby has taken to cross-dressing.

You decide.

Photo caption: Hadley gives the top three reasons why she LOVES Halloween. Have a good one!

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

My 3 1/2-month-old Slug has become an Insomniac Slug. I didn’t even know they made that particular species but he assures me he’s highly evolved. At least that’s why he claims he no longer needs sleep. He says it’s much more fun for mollusks to wake up every one to two hours. All. Night. Long. Funny, I didn’t know they woke up much at all (hence the name “slug…”)

After life with The Hurricane, I knew I had it good when Bode was born. He has always slept a five-hour block until the last few weeks. Nothing has changed with his daytime schedule besides he’s spitting up a bit more lately but not enough for me to be alarmed. So, I’m stumped and am looking for suggestions. All I know is that I’m tired. Oh so very tired.

We’ve had some fun plans the last few days. Friday was Haddie’s big Halloween bash and that night was YMCA’s party. Saturday, we planned to spend the morning playing at a beautiful park and then hit our church’s trunk-or-treat that evening.

Friday was one of my worst all-nighters with the Insomniac Slug. So, imagine how thrilled I was when I finally dragged myself up that morning to have my normally-sensitive husband announce that our park plans had changed because he had booked a massage. For himself. And to think he’s still trying to figure out why I was P-I-S-S-Y all day long.

In other news: Haddie’s party was the social event of the season. We had tons of cute kids with darling costumes and fun games. Well, I at least thought they were fun, though oftentimes I could’ve sworn those toddlers were teens because they looked at me skeptically as if to say “You want me to do what?” Foreshadowing, my friends.

And yes, Bode does have orange and blue hair. If you can’t find a helmet that fits, use spray paint (isn’t that what the good book says?) I figure his subsequent therapy will rival the cost I spend on the psych ward in order to get three consecutive hours of sleep.

And then there’s The Hurricane. Not only have I taught her to cheer “Like, GO TEAM,” but she has also mastered the accompanying head bob. I’m afraid I have created a monster. Or worse: a cheerleader.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Maybe it’s just me but have customer service and common courtesy gone to pot lately? I’m usually tight-lipped about such frustrations and rarely say anything the majority of the time. Until lately.

Case Study #1

McDonald’s. Not my favorite place in the world but it’s definitely one of Hadley’s. During a snowstorm and one of Jamie’s late nights, I had to get out of the house and was simply shocked Haddie suggested it since she only does that ten times a day.

I don’t like their food so decided to try their new Asian Salad (bleh…hate pre-packaged) and ordered Haddie a Happy Meal with chicken nuggets. A nice kid was helping me but it was a second man who rudely shoved it in my direction, which provoked the following discussion.

“Is there sauce in there?”
“No, you didn’t ask for it.”
“Well, you didn’t ask me if I wanted any. And you didn’t even give me the chance.”
“Well, it’s a little late for that. What are you saying–you want sauce now?”
“Yes.”

And I then proceeded to bawl him out for being so unbelievably lazy and rude. Do you wanna know the best of it? He was the manager.

Case Study #2

JoAnn’s. As many of you know, fabric stores are my worst nemesis but they were having a sale on sucker-making kits and I made an exception for the sake of making them for Haddie’s party. When I arrived at the checkout, there were two cashiers and only two people in front of me. So tell me why it took 20 minutes to get through?

Because of incompetence, folks. Because one of the cashiers was having a customer issue and a manager came to help. Problem was the other available cashier stopped for about 10 minutes to eavesdrop. Oh, and did I mention my kids were screaming?

The other cashier ( you know, the one who wasn’t doing anything) called for backup and do you know who she decided to help first? An employee who was standing at the back of the line. Fuming, I took the high road of all us crazy Christians by asking What Would Jesus Do and said nothing.

Case Study #3

I said something. A lot of something (evil am I). I had to make a quick stop into one final store to buy little Bode a winter jacket and when I arrived at the checkout, once again there were two cashiers and about 10 people waiting in a single line and then dispatching to whatever cashier became available.

Again, I waited. Again, the children screamed. And though frustrated, I was doing just fine until people started forming a second line and cutting in front after I’d already been waiting for some time. Call me crazy but I thought we all learned anti-line-cutting etiquette back in kindergarten.

This time, I loudly queried what the order of the procession was and man, did I stir up the cutter-inners (their official title, I’m sure). In the end, nothing was rectified because they stubbornly remained in place as my children screamed for 15 minutes longer than was requisite.

And the next time this happens? Believe me, I’ll ask myself that same question: What Would Jesus Do. Only my future response will be more along the lines of smiting them and calling them to repentance. After all, isn’t that what all those WWJD stickers are all about?…

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Last weekend was one of releasing pent-up aggressions as Jamie fought chiseled black men. Where we strengthened this country’s homeland security by killing off The Enemy. And where we crashed and burned umpteen times on the race track. And lived to tell about it.

Y’see, Jamie knew the moment he limped in the door at 9 p.m. on Friday–after two consecutive weeks of late nights–that I was in need of a break. And not of the nervous breakdown variety for once. Within moments he was on the phone with his sister, arranging her babysitting services for Saturday night.

The next morning, we woke up to a blanket of snow. Strange as it may sound, running after it has snowed is my favorite running condition in the world. Jamie graciously watched the kids while I set out to explore a nearby trail.

Funny thing was that when I left, Jamie was arguing with Hadley about putting her pants back on. And when I returned, after running through a winter postcard of snow-laden trees that festooned my path, she was still pant-less. Even after three marathon time-outs. And knowing I wasn’t there for it was almost as good as my run.

We eventually made our way outside to play in the snow and terrorize the neighbors with snowballs. Because we’re just those kind of people. It could be worse: we could burn swastikas on their lawn. Oh, wait. My brother was the one who did that….

That night, we hit Dave and Buster’s. Without children. I’m not much of an arcade person but always enjoy the occasional excursion, especially when I get front-row seats of Jamie competing.
I knew he’d had a bad week when the first thing he said was “I need to find something to shoot,” which was followed by a stint in a virtual boxing ring where he went head-to-head with some heavy weights.

I would have cheered for him but 1) I couldn’t stop laughing and 2) this flash of testosterone reminded me of our first Christmas together when my mom bought him a homeboy-esque Nike hat and he made me call him “G” for the rest of the holiday. Don’t ask me where “G” came from. When I tried to convince him he should be “J,” he grunted there was no reasoning with The Hood. My mistake.

Through his little boxing stint, he did prove that he’d hold his own in The Hood. Then again, jabbing and crossing in mid-air doesn’t exactly constitute a gang war. Especially when good ol’ “G” somehow woke up sore from it the next morning….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

It’s been our family tradition to all snuggle up in our king-sized bed, play, say prayers and read before bedtime. Lately, Jamie and I started integrating stories about Jesus into our conversation and Haddie absolutely loves learning about him.

Jamie recently shared the story of the woman with the blood condition who touched Jesus’ cloak through the crowd and was healed. Hadley was fascinated and had him repeat it over and over again.

Then it was my turn. I tried to share a story that was closer to home and her age. I told her of when Jesus went up to Passover as a young boy. You know: the one where they found him after three days teaching the great minds of Jerusalem in the temple.

To the adult, this is a powerful story of Jesus’ teaching power and of the vision he already had for his ministry.

To the child, welp, it’s just a bit different. For a few days after I told that story, Haddie acted weird if she lost sight of me even for a moment whenever we’d go out in public. She’s not the clingy type (to say the least) so I finally got to the bottom of it when she queried me in a worried little voice:

“Mommy no forget Haddie like Jesus. Yes?”

Nice to know my Jesus stories really hit home for the kid.

For next week’s traumatize-the-kid-with-Jesus-stories-family theatre: If you choose to follow Jesus like the disciples of old, you too can be homeless.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

We’re almost two weeks into my life as a work widow and I’m still waiting for things to get easier. Oh, and to see my husband on occasion. That would be nice. As tough as my life is right now, his is even tougher as he tries to rebuild his battered department. I’ve tried to be empathetic but guess what: his employees don’t crap, puke and scream at him all day long. Well, at least not the good ones.

On the home battlefront,The Slug rolled over for the first time but has stopped sleeping at night. And The Hurricane, welp, at least she’s consistent with her name. To add a Dead-Sea-sized dose of salt to my wounds, my mother-in-law announced a couple of weeks ago that she’s no longer taking Haddie on Wednesdays. You know. The one day I actually had to clean, shop, shower and blog.

Knowing that no breaks and no husband would surely send me over the edge, I marched down to our local YMCA and signed on. I was not motivated by their newly-renovated facilities or long list of programs, but by two blessed words: CHILD WATCH.

I didn’t have any issues with leaving obsessively social Hadley in the care of someone else because her first words to us were, “Don’t let the door hit your butt on the way out.” It was sweet Bode I worried about because he’s still so little and needy.

Turns out I was worried about the wrong person. In a matter of minutes, Bode wooed all the ladies and they absolutely dote on him. The Hurricane, on the other hand, is having a tougher time. Maybe it’s because she’s in the pre-school class where they are supposed to be 2 1/2 and potty training (she’s neither) and the peer pressure to go to the bathroom has almost sent her over the edge. But unfortunately not to the bathroom.

Her latest meltdown yesterday was over one of the child watch providers who dared to prop her injured foot up on a chair. When I came to pick Haddie up, one of the ladies pulled me aside.

“Do you have a rule in your house about putting your feet up on chairs?”

What I wanted to say:
“Sure we do. Haddie’s rule is to find every chair, couch and countertop upon which to put her feet.”

What I did say:
“Why, yes! How did you know?!”

“Well, that explains why your daughter was having such a tough time with Melanie putting her foot up. You have quite the little rule abider in your house, don’t you?”

“You pegged her. That Hadley. Always, always, always following those rules.”

Yeah, right. “Rule abider?” The Hurricane? Obviously they know nothing about living in the anarchy of a natural disaster….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

“Wordless Wednesday” is a misnomer for me because I am physically unable to post something without extensive verbage. Welcome to poor Hunky Hubby’s life.

Anyhew, my original plan was to include a picture of one of my creations during my descent into domesticity. Until trying to capture a photo of said creation broke my camera. Just one more reason to be bitter about the whole experience.

And so I shall include some pictures from a recent trip to the pumpkin patch. Any ideas on a caption for the third photo?….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

1. Attend numerous Halloween trunk-or-treat parties at the local high schools. Ensure kids’ costumes look extra cute to guarantee more freebies. Status: in progress.

2. Go to the pumpkin patch with Haddie’s playgroup. Come home stuffed to the brim with free candy. Status: mission accomplished.

3. Attend trunk-or-treat at the church. Status: in progress.

4. Grandma. Status: Operation Suck-Up always in progress.

5. Pretend we have not been BOOed. Status: in progress.

Translation: our neighborhood is currently doing a little secret Halloween treat exchange where you stuff a bag full of candy with a little poem, ring and run. Everyone is supposed to then distribute it to two additional people and then hang the sign in the window to let people know they’ve already been “BOOed.”

The other night, I took the kids to [where else?] Super Target to get some BOOed treats to distribute. When we walked in the door, Hunky Hubby was jumping for joy. The reason? I had yet to put our sign in the window and someone unknowingly BOOed us for the second time in two days.

Just a couple more days with no sign in the window and we should be stocked to the brim for Halloween….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

It’s that time of year again that Jamie dreads. That time when I have a brain aneurysm and somehow forget over a 48-hour period that I cannot do crafts. That I have never been able to do crafts and I never will be able to do crafts.

Yes, it’s Super Saturday Season, folks. For those unaware, Super Saturday occurs once a year for those crazy Mormons who actually relish in this stuff. Those same people I should just stick to paying to do it for me.

I get pressured into it every year and out of guilt, I go. I vowed after last year’s nightmare wherein it took weeks for me to recover that I would boycott it all together. And it was easy because our ward’s leader is about as lacking in domesticity as yours truly and had “crafts” such as “101 Things to Do with Wheat” and “How to Make a Pinewood Derby Car.” This is no lie.

My plan was going well until, unfortunately, other people started boycotting and they decided to combine with some other wards and hold a two-day extravaganza. Other wards that had the most cute and affordable crafts that would make darling Christmas gifts. And so I signed up for pretty much everything I could get my hot little signup pen on. Again, a result of the brain aneurysm, folks.

When I arrived on Friday at 6 p.m., I meant business. I had five sets of four different crafts to crank out in a matter of hours. I set up shop and just dared anyone to even try to converse with me. I sat next to a chirpy, sweet girl who is soooooo unbelievably happy all the time. Especially when doing crafts.

I blocked her out and stayed focused. Unfortunately after a couple of hours I realized how astronomical it was for me to try to crank out 20 complicated crafts in one evening. Then panic set in. Mishap after mishap then occurred when my resolve became shattered and at 11 p.m., I was the last one there and still unfinished. They sent me home with one completed set of each and I need to do the rest on my own.

But it doesn’t end there. I still had to do the other gazillion things for which I signed up. And so I dragged myself back to the den of iniquity on Saturday, my normal day of play. But this time with The Hurricane and The Slug because Mr. Promotion now works weekends. It just kept getting better and better.

But the real kicker came at the end. When I was FINALLY done I went to settle the account for my cute and affordable gifts and came to realize they weren’t quite as cute (my fault) and affordable (theirs) as anticipated. Call me crazy but when I registered for $6.50 a set, I assumed by the syntax of the wording that a set meant more than one. Nope. I guess in their Domestic Diva Dictionary, a set means just one item, which meant my tab did not come out to the $40 I had roughly calculated but rather, almost $200.

Moody and spewing, I stormed home and fumed to Jamie about my harrowing descent into domesticity. And made the avowal that never again will I submit myself to the anguish and torment of Super Saturday.

Unless they do something really cute again next year.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog