This picture was taken after he tripped on the mat and clipped the balance beam. (He said he is glad it is not among the men’s events.)

==================================================

Bode and Daddy went to a hockey game on Friday night (he fit right in) while it was a Girl’s Night Out to The Nutcracker with my little sugarplum.

Come on over to Mile High Mamas to read all about it. Oh, and to download your favorite holiday picture of your little elves!

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

I am published today.

Then again, I do that every day. I write a post on my blog and click “Publish.” Voila, published!

But I’m in the newspaper today. Last week, I wrote a review for a local bistro on a “Citizen Journalist” site. The next day, I was contacted by the editor telling me they were going to publish it in the print edition. What makes me qualified to be a food critic, you might ask?

I have a palate.

This means that everyone could do it. And all those highbrow restaurant critics are nothing more than palate snobs. Very well-fed palate snobs.

I’ll take it.

*******************************

I am really enjoying my calling as pianist for the Primary children at church. I mean, what’s not to love? I hide behind the piano, can pick my nose all I want and nobody pays attention to me unless I royally screw up. Which only happens about 15 times a day.

Recently, we sang my favorite childhood song, “My Heavenly Father Loves Me.” It is a touching song about the beauty of nature and the miracle of our bodies. As I played, I got a bit teary-eyed (again, it was good to be hiding behind the piano). I decided I would love to have sweet, innocent children sing that song at my funeral someday.

In a rare serious moment during our drive home, I decided to impart my wishes upon my loving husband.

“Jamie, I know what I want sung at my funeral.”

“Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead?”

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

One year, my beloved sister-in-law was too lazy to take down the artificial Christmas tree on her front porch. It then became her Valentine’s Day tree with little hearts, Easter tree with eggs and, well you get the picture. My husband and I teased her that it was the ultimate in white trash.

Until I resorted to this:

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

I am unsure how Black Friday even got started. It was probably some raging psychopath who thought it would be fun to use bargain hunters and desperate toy-seeking parents as puppets. Plan a shopping spree in the middle of the night after people have devoured inordinate amounts of sleep-inducing hormones from their turkey? Sounds like fun!

My hubby was among them. The insane, that is.

The reason he went shopping was not because of any particular sale but because we cannot sleep past 6 a.m. (an illness exasperated by the recent time change). Even though I was awake at 4:45 a.m., I let him brave the crowds while I stayed home to watch the kids and obsessively write my Christmas cards.

Because the world will come to an end if my Christmas newsletter is not post-marked by December 1st.

Jamie finally limped in the door 2.5 hours later. “So, what did you buy?” He had hit Best Buy and some of the biggies so I knew his loot would be impressive.

“I bought deer.”

I refrained from making a John Deer query because last I checked, we were City Folk. I gave him a blank stare.

“You know, Amber. Christmas deer for the front lawn. I got a great deal at Big Lots.”

Christmas deer? Last I checked, baby Jesus was surrounded by lowing cattle but somehow you don’t see livestock making their way to people’s lawns.

I smiled encouragingly but thought of those tacky T-shirts that bemoan, “My grandma went to Mexico and all she bought me was this dumb T-shirt.”

Only substitute husband for grandma, Black Friday for Mexico and deer for T-shirt.

Better luck next year. Only there won’t be a next year for my deer sweet hubby.

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

I have refrained from jumping on the giveaway bandwagon…until now. You see, PR professionals have been soliciting their wares and I finally decided they were just too good to pass up. For your sake, of course.

At Mile High Mamas, we are beginning five month’s worth of top-of-the-line giveaways. Some are locally-based such as tickets to Disney on Ice and the Nutcracker. Most are not so I’m opening them up to anyone who wants to enter. So, head on over and press your luck!

Read on

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

Thank you for all the sweet notes I received yesterday. My friends in the blogosphere are sure swell!

But I have something to admit: I am the Bah Humbug! of Thanksgiving. I am not sure why I am unable to get excited about this holiday. It could be because in Canada we celebrate it in October and I have always preferred that it is not piggy-backed with Christmas.

Errr…and by piggy, I don’t mean ham.

Or that when I was in college, I always tried to volunteer to serve Thanksgiving dinner at the local food bank because I didn’t have family in the area. And I was rejected. Every. Stinkin’. Year. Imagine that. Rejected by the food bank.

In years past, the division of labor has been clear in Jamie’s family: the women cook and clean, the men watch football. So, when Jamie’s mom informed us she was going to Utah for a wedding over the holiday, I shut down completely and there was some ingratitude over my impending slavery. So much ingratitude that my dear hubby made food assignments to everyone else so as to advert a turkey-induced nervous breakdown.

It would not have been pretty.

Really, the only thing I look forward to is our annual hike on The Turkey Trot trail to offset the pending gluttony. This is the first year we will likely get rained/snowed out and so we did a trek on Saturday with the kids. Haddie has been on the trail since she was six weeks old and is quite the intrepid hiker.

Upon reaching the summit, there was an out-of-breath Californian blubbering around the “brutal 1-mile hike.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her my 3-year-old just kicked her butt. It wouldn’t be good for the tourism industry, you know.

Part of hiking in Colorado is ensuring you look stylish on the trail.

Well, at least for Haddie it is.

As we were rifling through her closet, I suggested, “Let’s try on your new velour-looking Nike sweatsuit that Grandma bought.”

She obliged and spun around.

Haddie: “How does it look, Mommy?”

Me: “Wow, you look spiffy. Do you know what spiffy means, Haddie?”

Jamie: “That you were born in the 70s.”

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

Jamie and I were out hiking last Saturday when he spotted a flash of fluorescent orange about 5,000 miles away.

“Either that is one of those orange balls hanging from a power line or there is a hunter over there,” he observed.

I squinted, I strained but I saw nothin’. Now, I have had crummy eyesight my whole life. I was diagnosed with a lazy eye in elementary school, got contact lenses in junior high, and Lasik as an adult.

After having spent much of my life behind some kind of lens, the surgery was liberating. But it was not entirely effective because I had it done during a visit to Canada and was unable to have any follow-up appointments (it is kind of a bad commute, y’know). The result is great eyesight during the day but evenings have turned into a spiritual experience with a lovely halo draping everything.

Jamie never ceases to rub in the fact that he has perfect vision but during the hike, he sank to a new level.

“You see, this is why I need a new high-definition TV. On our current television, everything is blurry because of my superior eyesight.”

It did not stop there and he proceeded to give me long-winded discourse on HDTVs, rebates blah blah blah.

Finally, I turned to him.

“Jamie, you know that stuff about my crappy eyesight?”

“Why, yes.”

“Well, your little discourse is just falling on deaf ears.”

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

Note: By popular demand, this post has been edited to include a picture of the crappy craft in question.

I have that decided that 365 days is a long time. It is long enough for a child to grow a few inches and learn to go on the potty (well, all children except for mine).

And long enough for me to forget that I despise doing crafts. That I have never liked doing crafts. That I will never like doing crafts.

Yet for some reason, I still persist in attending Super Saturday’s craft extravaganza at the church every year. I had snubbed my ward’s efforts to recruit me and was almost free of SS Bond*age…until I saw another congregation’s display. A display with loads of cute crafts. And before I could control that blasted pen, it signed my life away.

As instructed last year, Jamie shook his head in vehement disagreement when I informed him of my latest ambition because he knows it is he who receives my wrath. Just like every year, I ignored him by reasoning that, “Just maybe this time will be different.”

It wasn’t.

Unlike last year, I signed up for only two crafts. The first was a pair of decorative Christmas skis and the second must remain secret because the unfortunate recipient reads this blog. Oh, and because it turned out ugly and may just end up in the dumpster.

The skis were simple. The leader’s husband had cut, sanded and painted them red. All that was required was to stencil a few snowflakes, flick some fake snow, sand again and tie a decorative wreath around them. Sounds like a no-brainer?

Evidently I do not have a brain.

Everything went wrong from the start. As it turns out, I am not a stenciller and produced Hanz and Franz snowflakes on steroids. They were so disastrous the leader had to go home and retrieve the red paint so I could start over. I felt horribly but she consoled me, “Don’t worry. There will probably be other people who mess up so it is good I have this.”

There weren’t.

As I repainted the skis, the leader warned, “Make sure not to stencil until they are dry.”

In any other setting where I am actually in my element, I may have had a sarcastic retort such as, “What, do you think I’m completely clueless?” But I kept my mouth shut. Best not to confirm the obvious.

For my other project, my first paint layer went on marvelously. But when it came time to apply the second coat, the teacher was nowhere to be found. I saw the paint and brush and thought, “Hey, I can do this on my own.”

As it turns out, I couldn’t because I was supposed to delicately apply the paint with a rag. When the teacher returned (after being so inconsiderate as to think she could take a bathroom break), she systematically collapsed and started vigorously rubbing the paint off. She eventually made it presentable but sadly that was not the end of my mistakes.

As she toured around the tables she made comments to the other women such as, “Oh, Sally. I love the blend of colors you used.” Or “Joelle, that turned out just marvelously.”

But to me? “Don’t worry. It is all very fixable.”

I have decided I may just go into business for it all. But instead of those product lines that profess to be Gifts from the Heart? Mine would be Gifts from the Gut.

Do you think I have a market out there?

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