A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
Welcome to the new (and hopefully improved) Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck!
In honor of a new year, my blog is getting a facelift. I am still working through some bugs but I’d love your feedback thus far.
Regular blogging will resume next week.
Though my naughtiness is nothing compared to what we discovered our reindeer doing in broad daylight.
This takes the phrase “reindeer games” to a whole new level.
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Child No. 1: Bode.
I hate swimming.
OK, let me qualify that. I don’t actually hate being in the water. When I did a study abroad in the Middle East, I relished my early-morning swims in the Sea of Galilee. But due to two failed operations on my nasal passages, I just hate getting my face wet.
Kind of an important factor when you’re swimming.
When we went to Mexico a couple of years ago, Haddie became an excellent swimmer. Three-year-old Bode takes after me. He enjoys the water but hates to be submerged. Swim lessons last summer didn’t help help his aversion so I was recently determined to conquer it on a Saturday morning trip to the pool.
“I’m going to dunk you.”
“Nooooooo. You can’t dunk me, Mommy.”
“Sure, it’s fun. Mommy will even do it with you.”
And I did. Don’t tell him but there was nothing fun about it.
We let him get used to the water for a while and then did the deed. And shocker: he did not die. I can’t say he liked it but it definitely overcame his fear. So much so that he brazenly went on the large water slide on the tube with Jamie multiple times, each time getting his face wet.
As we were driving home, we praised him. He relished in his glory but then pointed out that Mommy didn’t go on the waterslide.
Traitor.
I hemmed and hawed about it but nothing worked. Finally, Jamie interjected:
“Bode, Mommy isn’t a fish like you!”
“Dat’s right. She’s a whale.”
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Child No. 2: Hadley.
My 5-year-old daughter Hadley and I were recently sitting at the kitchen table. She was deeply engrossed in coloring when we heard a strange sound, likely the wind blowing our Christmas door hanging. Without looking up, Hadley caustically queried, “What the hell was that?”
My sentiments exactly.
I have received several inquiries about the outcome of the Microsoft Office Winter Games Contest. They still have not decided upon a winner and will publicly announce their choice on January 7. Fingers are still crossed several times over that I win and thanks again for your support!
In the interim, we are busy following all the Olympic hopefuls, implementing social media strategies for several Colorado and Utah ski resorts, and enrolling Haddie in skating lessons.
Oh, and Jamie and I have been practicing superior parenting strategies. To illustrate:
The Mother Teaching About Family Bonding
As Haddie and I were crossing the street, I told her to hold my hand.
“Why do we hold hands when crossing the street, Mommy?
Me: “So when we get hit we can go down together.”
The Father Expounding Upon Bad Words
Our neighbor Steve was hanging out at our house today. Jamie said something like:
“I’d kill for that. The whole thing is just stupid.”
Bode: “Daddy. Dat’s a BAD WORD.”
Steve: “What? Kill?”
Jamie: “No, killing is just fine. He’s talking about ‘stupid.”
The Children Demonstrating Our Superior Parenting Skills
We have had an unusual amount of snow in Colorado this fall. The kids and I had cabin fever so we hit the playground this afternoon. At one point, Hadley declared she wanted to race her 3-year-old brother. I approved but told her to be careful not to knock him over.
Not even 1 second into the race, she walloped him. He crumbled like a pathetic heap on the pavement.
“Hadley, what do you say to your poor little brother??!!!”
“Bode, YOU WERE IN MY WAY!”
It was March 2006 when I first made The Big Announcement at my MSN Spaces blog about our new addition to the family:
(Note: Babywearing advocates wouldn’t want to get anywhere near this beast).
Almost four years later, a finally-finished basement, and the drama of scraping together enough funds to buy the counter top after our original granite contractor stole our money, our old-fashioned soda fountain is finished.
Couple that with Jamie’s 84-inch HDTV and I may never be able to drag him out of his Man Cave again.
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Like many of you, we are in the throes of Christmas preparations. But unlike many of you, I am not stressed out in the least. In fact, this will be one of my least frenzied holidays because we aren’t throwing our annual Christmas Eve shindig due to Jamie’s parents recent move to Utah.
Being family-less and friendless has its advantages.
We’re starting a new tradition and are skiing Loveland on December 24th. We are also guilting Jamie’s sister into spending Christmas day with us. This process involves bribery because she’d rather sleep in than spend the morning with my sugar-induced children jumping all over her, slurring Santa praises.
I just can’t figure out the swingin’ single folks these days.
Something we will have in abundance is fine food. My Christmas baking has already been distributed.
On this year’s menu: gingerbread cookies, sugar cookies, pumpkin fudge, Almond Roca and whipped shortbread.
My beloved husband sampled all the spoils and offered his honest opinion.
“This is the best maple fudge I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s pumpkin.”
I’m thinking the man should just stick to old-fashioned soda.
Warning to men everywhere: this post’s contents will make you extremely uncomfortable. Proceed with caution.
My husband Jamie underwent the “snip-snip” on Friday. We have two beautiful kids and had always planned to have three so did not take this decision lightly. But after a couple of failed attempts at getting pregnant and much prayer, we knew we were done. We both feel strongly we are to bring another child into our home under circumstances other than giving birth.
Can’t say I’ll miss it one bit.
Jamie sent me an email when he scheduled a consultation with the doctor and said “what a great sacrifice” this was for him.
I get it. Messing with Man’s Most Prized Possession is bound to cause extreme angst. But men somehow forget the 40 weeks of misery we undergo, only to be rewarded by pushing out a screaming watermelon. Follow that up with sleepless nights, exploding boobs and Jekll and Hyde hormones. Then, multiply that by multiple children.
I think it’s safe to say women have the far worse deal.
I would liken a vasectomy unto maybe 1 or 2 contractions.
When I explained this to Jamie, he agreed but asserted, “Yes, but you get a beautiful baby out of everything. I don’t get anything.”
And that is exactly why we’re doing it.
The night prior to the procedure, the phone rang and Jamie picked it up.
“Who was that, Jamie?”
“The doctor’s office reminding me about my appointment. Like a guy could forget something like that.”
The next day, I was the supportive wife and hung out in the waiting room. A mere half an hour later, he was done. I received the royal summons to go see him.
Not to belabor my point but did I mention the 13,440 hours of pregnancy I endured?
The nurse explained that tenderness and mild swelling are not unusual. Men are still considered fertile until two specimens have been evaluated, the first is to be brought in six weeks following the vasectomy. In order to flush out the old sperm, the man needs to have 15 err…”cleansing sessions” prior.
When the nurse told Jamie that, he asked “Can I get a doctor’s note about that for my wife?”
I’m guessing that’s all Jamie wants for Christmas.
It’s Jamie’s 39th birthday today.
If you’re looking for some sappy post about how wonderful, amazing and perfect the love of my life is, look elsewhere.
He is, after all, the man who ditched me post-childbirth because he was sicker than a dog.
OK, so maybe I might have said, “You’re useless to me. Go home and get better.”
His work, after all, was done after the “difficult” task of conception.
Almost seven years into our marriage, I am continually amazed and humbled to be married to such a great guy. In this tough economy, he launched his own web development company and works his butt off to make it profitable. He is the king of the one-liners and makes me laugh every day. He’s had more medical issues than Job and often lives in chronic pain but rarely complains. He is always loving and supportive of my dreams. He likes The Children when I do not. And most importantly, he makes the world a lot brighter just by living in it.
Even if it is a blinding shade of orange.
His college buddy Todd recently told me that Jamie has a heart of gold and that I am married to one of his favorite people in the world.
I couldn’t agree with him more.
Happy birthday to my very own Lord of the Gourds!
Bring on winter! Colorado has already received an unprecedented amount of snow and I went snowshoeing on Friday.
Well, “snowshoeing” is a bit of a misnomer. More like I carried my snowshoes to the top of Dinosaur Ridge to find deep powder, got lazy about putting them on and ended up just hiking through it.
But my snowshoes were present in the process, which still counts as snowshoeing, right?
I’m skiing Breckenridge today (and yes, skis will be firmly attached). Ski destinations this winter will include Park City Mountain Resort (where I am one of their official “Snowmamas“), Loveland, Aspen/Snowmass, Durango Mountain Resort and possibly Keystone.
After a long ski drought of pregnancies, childbirth and babies, this mama is back in the saddle.
Or rather, the chairlift!
We’ll just have to remember to put skis on him, too.
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Confused, I looked around until I spotted the focus of her attention. There, on the Frosted Flake box, was my smiling face.
OK, so maybe it was Lindsey Jacobellis’ but the resemblance was uncanny.
Haddie grabbed the box, yelled “Mommy” again and then her focus turned to Tony the Tiger. Still mesmerized, Haddie queried “Tigger?” as if to say, “How could you not tell me you knew Tigger?”
Just think how impressed the kid will be if I win my own Olympic bid and blog from the 2010 Vancouver Olympic Games.
Note: Tigger not included.
My 3-year-old son Bode has the answer to every single person’s relationship drama.
Whenever someone (OK, mostly his sister Hadley) ticks him off, like clockwork Bode chimes in: “I don’t wike dat.”
Which, in Bode speak, loosely means “GET THE CRAP OUT OF MY FACE AND STOP BUGGING ME.”
I really didn’t think anything of it until my parent-teacher conference with his preschool teachers. They mentioned they have been instructing the children how to voice their discontent instead of just physically lashing out. They said Bode in particular is very good about telling people exactly what he is thinking.
Not surprising with a mother like me.
“I don’t like that” has become a staple of our everyday life. My children and I were recently in Canada for 12 days, during which time my husband Jamie had some difficulty getting along with our new kitty.
And remembering to feed him. Remy the Fat Cat came out of the whole experience a few pounds lighter.
The crux of the problem, however, is that Remy is a snuggler. Jamie does not like anyone touching him while he sleeps. And evidently my dear husband also doesn’t like getting jumped on in the middle of the night.
At least not by the cat. He has been begging me to do it for years.
Jamie told me one night he got so fed up with Remy that he wouldn’t allow him to sleep in the bedroom. When I told the kids this, you’d think I had told them Daddy had roasted the cat like a pig on a spit. Bode prayed for “Daddy to say sorry to Remy” and that night, Bode gave him a piece of his mind when they talked on the phone.
I heard Jamie defending himself, explaining that Remy wakes him up by jumping on him in the middle of the night. Bode thoughtfully listened and the tone of the conversation changed.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Bode?”
“Just tell Remy: ‘I DON’T WIKE DAT.’”
Dr. Phil in the making.
Some people look worse as they grow older.
I would like to think I have improved with age.
**Photo courtesy of my father who obviously thinks the 80s were funny. As you can see, there is nothing humorous about them.
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. Learn More