A couple of years ago, my mom bought me a foreign object. Something brilliantly white with lots of cool buttons and lights. It even had a gas pedal. When I looked at her perplexed, she explained, “It’s a sewing machine!” Ohhhhh!

Obviously, sewing ain’t my forte. It’s not that my mom and grandma didn’t try to develop my domestic prowess. When most kids are getting sent to their rooms for bad behavior, this tomboy was sent to the kitchen. Suffice it to say, I spent most of my childhood there. Sewing is out of the question. A wave of nausea still comes over me whenever I get within 20 feet of a fabric store.

So when Sue came to visit last week, I knew I had to solicit her help. She has been sewing for more than 20 years and actually enjoys it. Imagine that! One of the few things that helped Haddie jump from 2 hours to a whopping 4-hour stretch of sleep was this little miracle blanket called a sleep sack. A friend gave it to me when Haddie was six months old and it did wonders. The only problem is no one sells this little fleece sleeping bag and Haddie already established there is NO WAY she is giving up her blankie for some new kid who’s going to draw Grandma’s attentions away from her.

Enter, Sue. I innocently brought up the subject shortly after her arrival and she looked at me suspiciously, “You don’t want me to sew it, do you?” “Ohhhhh no!” I generously told her I just needed “guidance.” Yeah, right.

And so I brought the sewing machine out of the catacombs and plugged it in. And then she warily watched me as I searched for the power button. When I finally located it after about five minutes, I did a victory dance. It was then that she knew just how bad off we were. And how long the process would inevitably take with my pedal to the metal so she reluctantly volunteered. Victory!

But then came regret. That’s all it took? Displaying my utter and complete incompetence upfront? If only I’d figured out this strategy years ago; it would’ve saved me countless hours of futile Domestic-Diva-in-Training sessions.

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

One year later: who’s harassing whom?

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

I will not be able to post pictures of Lucas and Hadley until Sue forwards some to me. The reason for this is because he was crying in every single picture I took during their three-day visit. This is not an exaggeration. In the bathtub. At the park. In our backyard after the meltdown that The Neighborhood heard alllllll about when we made him share Haddie’s car. There was lots ‘o crying. I have photographic evidence to prove it.

Don’t get me wrong: he has transformed from an ugly-man newborn into a cute toddler. But he has this unsettling habit of screeching at the top of his lungs. To his defense, he was off his schedule (according to Sue). But that didn’t stop her from going on the offense whenever he’d start freaking out with the most blood-curdling scream you’ve ever heard. Her tactic? Much to my amusement, she’d spray him in the face with a little water bottle, which always seemed to temporarily work. For about one-hundredth of a millisecond.

I don’t really blame the kid because he definitely had his sweet moments…I just look at his beloved mother. Part of our history has been of me dragging her up mountains and down ski-slopes as I endure a barrage of threats and complaints. Yesterday was no different. Due to my delicate condition, I merely took her for a walk around a beautiful park. A walk. And yet still the barrage of complaints came: “He’s too heavy to push.” [Oh really? He’s only 1 lb heavier than Hadley.] “My shoes hurt.” “My stroller is too short for my legs.” I finally intervened and observed that a 6-month pregnant Beluga Whale was creaming her slimmed-down behind. “Yeah, well, you do this more than I.” What? Walk? I finally started fake coughing and not-so subtly inserted the word “Blog” in there. “Nooooo, you can’t blog about this,” she pleaded. Why not? She was one of my favorite exploits during my travel-writing daze.

There were good times during her visit, too. Like when Haddie and Lucas were throwing fits at the same time. Or when they’d beat each other up as they fought over her toys. Or the blessed, blessed times-outs. Or when Haddie woke up about five times every night because she dropped her @#$#@$ pacifier. I have consequently begun prepping her that, like Daddy, her beloved Binky will be going on a “trip” this week. Only Binky’s extended vacation will be very, very different. Don’t think sandy beaches but rather compost and trash. Of course I hope to have her convinced that Binky is out sipping Pina Coladas with walks in the rain by week’s end.

To Be Continued in the Lucas/Sue Series: The Revenge of the Sewing Machine, Jesus’ Bathroom Habits and What Hadley Really Thinks of Sue Revealed

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

My friend, Sue, is flying in for a few days from Utah today to keep me company while Jamie is gone. Sue and I go waaaaay back to our missionary days in Geneva, Switzerland. We only served together for a month but got to know each other really well. Something about living in a shoebox (due to astronomical rent) and surviving her funny but sharp tongue (she’s one of those folks who always tells it like it is.) I.e. the last time I saw her, she delightfully announced, “Ewww, you have grey in your hair!” Yeah, nice to see you, too. I am sure it will not escape her that, for the first time, I am fatter than her (she just dropped 60 pounds). Of course, the Michelin Man is skinnier than I these days.

Sue will be bringing her little boy, Lucas, in tow. He’s a couple of months younger than Hadley and I’m excited to have a playmate for her. Sue came to visit when he was a couple of months old and was still in that I’m-an-old-man-newborn-with-an-ugly-mullet-and-bald-spot-stage. Now, now, before I start getting comments that “All babies are precious blah blah blah,” yes I agree. But the vast majority of newborns are not cute. I’d even go as far as to say the are ugly. Even Gerber model Hadley had mottled skin and scrawny legs upon birth. Oh, and she cried most of her waking moments. Crying is not cute in my book.
The funny thing is that Sue was in denial. She had already given birth to a beautiful baby girl a couple of years prior but had it in her head that Lucas was, well, cute. He was not. We were driving somewhere with her when she mentioned she’d had a bunch of pictures taken of Lucas. Perplexed, she said, “I just can’t figure out why they didn’t turn out. I guess he’s just not very photogenic.” Jamie and I coughed back our laughter and bit our sarcastic tongues on that one.

I am happy to announce that now at 20 months old, Lucas has allegedly foregone all heretofore ugliness. Of course, I haven’t actually seen him in over a year but she’s sent me some cute pictures.

Of course, there’s always the possiblity of being Photoshopped….

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

Jamie’s on a roll these days. The latest installment of “What Not to Say to your Pregnant Wife When She’s Stuck at Home in the Snow with a Moody Toddler While You’re Sunning Yourself at an All-Inclusive Florida Beach for ‘Business.'”

“Hey, you guys would LOVE this place. If I’d known just how amazing it would be, I’d have just gone ahead and sprung for the extra plane ticket.”

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

“Haaaalp! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
Happy Spring! Or is it? In Colorado, we received a huge ol’ dump of snow and it’s still coming down. Haddie and I had storytime at the library yesterday and then decided to play outside. My little half-breed definitely has cold Canadiandumness coursing through her [frozen] blue veins; I’m usually the first to call it quits when it comes to inclement temps!

I helped bundle my little Hurricane in her pretty pink Dora snowsuit. Upon completion, the kid could barely stand up and looked like the abominable snowman…on steroids. But then she spotted something…something essential for any steroid-induced snowman: her “pretties.”

Now, to let you know just how high-maintenance Haddie truly is, she simply can’t live without her necklaces and play makeup. One look at her tomboy mother makes you wonder where she gets it from; perhaps Jamie is a closet cross-dresser? Hmmmm….

High-maintenance case in point: last week at storytime, the librarian was animatedly reading a book to the kids when Haddie made a huge show-stopping production. She jumped out of my lap, rushed up to the librarian, and motioned for her to lean over, which she did. Haddie then pointed to her gaudy, pink earrings and loudly squealed “Pretttttttttty!” (So the kid has no fashion sense yet).

Back to the impeccably-accessorized snowman. Before I knew it, she had dive-bombed towards her necklace in an attempt to complete her outfit. Only problem was, my normally-agile toddler couldn’t get up due to her many layers. She’d curl up like a little snail, and try to pull herself forward and up. Each time, she’d slip and do an illustrious belly flop, like a drunken inchworm.

I would’ve helped her if I could; if I wasn’t being an unsupportive mother by laying on the floor doubled over in laughter. By this time, she was half crying in protest, half laughing at her predicament. The satisfaction I gained over my little comedy show was almost payback for those sleepless nights. Almost. Of course, I’ll always be in the hole because should I survive the toddler years, there’s always the teen-aged ones. I guess the only true payback will be several years down the line when she has to change my diaper.

Photos:
#1 [My, how The Great haven fallen] Abominable Snowman 2006 (with a death-grip on those pretties)
#2 Abominable Snowman 2005 (one of my favorite all-time pictures of her last year)

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

Happy Spring! Or is it? In Colorado, we received a huge ol’ dump of snow and it’s still coming down. Haddie and I had storytime at the library yesterday and then decided to play outside. My little half-breed definitely has cold Canadiandumness coursing through her [frozen] blue veins; I’m usually the first to call it quits when it comes to inclement temps!

I helped bundle my little Hurricane in her pretty pink Dora snowsuit. Upon completion, the kid could barely stand up and looked like the abominable snowman…on steroids. But then she spotted something…something essential for any steroid-induced snowman: her “pretties.”

Now, to let you know just how high-maintenance Haddie truly is, she simply can’t live without her necklaces and play makeup. One look at her tomboy mother makes you wonder where she gets it from; perhaps Jamie is a closet cross-dresser? Hmmmm….

High-maintenance case in point: last week at storytime, the librarian was animatedly reading a book to the kids when Haddie made a huge show-stopping production. She jumped out of my lap, rushed up to the librarian, and motioned for her to lean over, which she did. Haddie then pointed to her gaudy, pink earrings and loudly squealed “Pretttttttttty!” (So the kid has no fashion sense yet).

Back to the impeccably-accessorized snowman. Before I knew it, she had dive-bombed towards her necklace in an attempt to complete her outfit. Only problem was, my normally-agile toddler couldn’t get up due to her many layers. She’d curl up like a little snail, and try to pull herself forward and up. Each time, she’d slip and do an illustrious belly flop, like a drunken inchworm.

I would’ve helped her if I could; if I wasn’t being an unsupportive mother by laying on the floor doubled over in laughter. By this time, she was half crying in protest, half laughing at her predicament. The satisfaction I gained over my little comedy show was almost payback for those sleepless nights. Almost. Of course, I’ll always be in the hole because should I survive the toddler years, there’s always the teen-aged ones. I guess the only true payback will be several years down the line when she has to change my diaper.

Photos:
#1 [My, how The Great haven fallen] Abominable Snowman 2006 (with a death-grip on those pretties)
#2 Abominable Snowman 2005 (one of my favorite all-time pictures of her last year)

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

“Jamie, where on earth did you put the big box of Tide I bought last month? I have been tearing my hair out, looking EVERYWHERE in the storage room, basement and I even checked the bathrooms.”

“Errrrr, did you check the shelf in the laundry room?”

“Why ON EARTH would you put it in such a stupid place?”

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

“Excuse me, but can you tell me where Lutheran Hospital is?”
[Panicked] “You’re kidding me, right? Is your heart OK?”
“Actually, I broke my arm.”
“Are you serious?”
“No. Hah Hah Hah. I’m just calling to tell you we won the game. Hah hah hah hah hah.”

And the guy is wondering why he is getting tough love over his alleged bruised rib he acquired at the game.

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

I have been dreading this day for a long time: the day Jamie starts his basketball league. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those overbearing women who doesn’t let her husband do anything fun. It’s just there’s something else factored in there: near-death experiences. Yep, in the past when Jamie has played, he’s been rushed to the ER for a heart arrhythmia.

He’s had a long history with his heart. Shortly after we got married, Jamie’s dad found an old video tape of Jamie playing basketball in high school. Jamie eagerly watched the footage and proudly announced: “Do you see me out there?” Thinking he was trying to show off to his new bride, I scanned the floor, looking for his sexy high-school chicken legs but couldn’t find him. Finally, he let me in on the suspense, pointing to a guy passed out in front of the bench: “There–that’s me having an arrhythmia after playing!” Gee. I couldn’t have been more proud.

It’s only in the past few years that it’s gotten really bad. When I was pregnant with Hadley, he nearly passed out after a game and we had to call an ambulance for him. His resting heart-rate? A whopping 210. He had a repeat performance of this last year, only this time Haddie was able to accompany us to the ER. She had just learned to wave and spent the duration spreading good cheer to all the ER patients. I’m sure she thought it was “Wude” that none of them waved back. Go figure.

After his episode last year, he finally caved and went to see a heart specialist–one who wasn’t part of the “Just let your husband play basketball and quit nagging him club,” like the first doctor he saw. This guy recommended an out-patient surgery, which Jamie opted for versus his other option: never playing basketball again. The surgery was pretty non-invasive. Basically, they went into his heart via four arteries (two in his groin) and simply burned out the bad cells that were causing the arrhythmia.
His recovery was pretty smooth, minus a grotesque and painful bruise he had on his groin for a long time. One day during this process, my dear, sweet husband said to me, “This surgery actually confirmed what we have long suspected about men.” I eagerly awaited profundities and I got ’em with his mischievous answer:

“The Way to a Man’s Heart is Through His Groin.”

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