Best Husband of the Year Award

dec 31 161, originally uploaded by red_canuck.

goes to...The Dude. Hands down.

Why, you ask? Prove it, you ask? Ship him to your house to borrow for a week, you ask?
ha.

My husband rocks. And He doesn't just rock rockband. he does that too. But he rocks everything. Get this: When this post, well, posts and while you are reading this hilarious funny, wonderfully written, engagingly fascinating blog post, I, the writer, will be fast asleep. Upstairs. In my King size bed. Alone.

ALONE!! Can you hear me world, ALONE!

My darling wonderful thoughtful sexy husband will get up with the kids tomorrow morning, feed them, change them, entertain them..while I sleep in.

Don't hate.

Ok, so he won't feed them both - Miss A won't accept anything less than boob, but if we time it right I'll feed her when she wakes up, and then get 3 blissed out hours in bed fast asleep before her next meal time.

But that doesn't matter. He will still take full non-boob control over the kids so his poor wife can sleep in, her most cherished activity in the world.

I love him.

And you can't have him. So there.

The Pied Piper

dec 31 249, originally uploaded by red_canuck.

This, my friends, is one of my best friends. Let's call her AJ. I don't know how I managed it, but both of my best friends are slim gorgeous blondes. Kill me now. ok, no, don't, but I *could* use some sympathy. Fluffy redheads can only take so much.

But I digress...

This wonderful lady above, who I will have the privilege of hanging out with tomorrow to chill, relax and fondle her growing baby belly is the pied piper of children. They flock to her without even knowing why.

Even my baby girl, Miss A herself, falls all over herself to get to her buddy, *my* best friend. Forget mommy, who cares about her when AJ is in the room, I mean REALLY! Priorities!


These two go way back, so I can't really fault my baby girl. And by way back, I mean to the very beginning. The VERY beginning, I kid you not. My best friend was the very first person to ever hold my daughter, after she had to stand in for the second midwife who didn't quite make it to my homebirth in time. Who knew that 10 minutes wasn't enough notice to give the midwives? Granted, I was a bit in denial that I was actually *in* labour, let alone progressed to the stage of imminent baby-hood, so saying that I delivered my girl so fast I beat the midwives is more a badge of honour than anything else.
And AJ, along with my other BFF who I have yet to introduce to you, were the best thing I could have ever hoped for during my homebirth. Sure the husband was great, that's why I married him, but to have these two lovely ladies with me was priceless. AJ's medical training set everyone's mind at ease from the *omg-she's-having-a-planed-homebirth* mindset I encountered through my pregnancy. She's one cool cucumber, and I can't thank her enough for being there. When it became apparent that I was NOT joking when I said "Ring of FIRE, the baby is coming NOW!", AJ shifted right to her medical side and was there with the midwife, checking to make sure my baby girl was as healthy as I knew she would be. I remember laying back against my headboard with such a feeling of peace knowing AJ was there with my girl.

But I digress (again, i'm sorry)...I think that Miss A knows AJ on some deep level. They seem to have this connection that even the other kids, as enamored as they are with AJ, don't have. My son, the crazy dude, pleads with me to go to their house. I'm sure if Miss A could talk, would plead as well.

So there you have it people...the Pied Piper of children is also the amazingly gorgeous best friend of yours truly.

I just hope she doesn't kill me for posting these pictures of her!

Tiara Tales

the cake that needed cutting, originally uploaded by red_canuck.

I have Friday night Fever. Basically, the kids are in bed, the husband is asleep on the couch, the cats are running a muck somewhere and I'm lounging in front of the TV avoiding the disaster that is my kitchen. So, I says to myself, what better time than to share a story with you, my lovely imaginary friends? Now is the time. Or, at least during the commercials for "Man vs. Wild", cause I have a thing for Bear and he's taking his clothes off right now. I've got my priorities!

ok, focus here. Focus. Right....omg, he just took off his shirt....gleaming chisselled pectorals....whoa, ok, what? Tiaras? ok. got it. I'm good.

I shall share the story about my obsessions with Tiaras.

The other day, I was scrubbing the heck outta one of the toilets (honest! Scout's honour!) when I glanced up and caught sight of something twinkling in the bathroom mirror. Having already spit shined it, I was caught by surprised. I stood up to get a better look, and as I stood, the twinkle moved too! The twinkled grew and focused and became identifiable as....

the tiara perched atop my red locks.

oups! right, i forgot i had it on, seeing as how it was nestled into the familiar groove in my head. This is when I knew I might have a problem. A problem, or maybe just a great blog post. Who knows!
So here I am, baring my tiara wearing soul for your inspection. I, your friendly neighborhood redcanuck, wear my tiara to clean toilets. And do the dishes. And vacuum. Aaaaand change diapers, pay the bills, cook, clean, procreate...oups, ok, not that one. lately. I didn't just say that. sorry.

See, back when I first started wedding planning, I knew one thing - I would wear a tiara. Forget the rest of the planning, I needed that tiara. Everywhere I went, it wasn't the shiny white dresses that drew me in, it was the glistening sparkling tiaras. *sigh* gorgeousness. So I bought one that I loved. Aaaand then another. And then I discovered ebay and the rest is history. On my wedding day oh so long ago, my tiara collection counted an astonishing 11 specimens, each with it's own personality. There's the bling, for when i'm feeling shiny, there's the beade done, for the classic look, the crown, for my monarchist moments, the subtle one, for those private moments, the big one, the little one, the flower one, the cutsie one, the gold one....Did you know they make a tiara for every dress AND occassion? Cause they do. And I own them all.
I had a big plan, to switch them out throughout my wedding day, thinking that that would be the very last day I would ever ever let myself wear a tiara. Because really, WHAT self-respecting married woman wears a tiara, am I right? A doe-eyed engaged young woman has a very valid and heart tugging reason. An old married house-frau? Not so much.

But then the wedding was over, the gifts put away, thank you cards written and the post-wedding blues set in. Don't look at me like that, lots of people get them! it's the truth! Look it up on wikipedia! It sucks 'yo. Now feel sorry for me. Thank you.

One day, in the midst of my self-wallowing, I unearthed my tiara collection, locked the doors, closed the curtains and spent a marvelous 2 hours prancing around my house cleaning while wearing my tiaras. Self-Help, I have arrived! I decided to let societal norms be damned, if I wanted to wear my tiaras, I would! So I did. And I cleaned, which made the husband happy and thus gained his support for my tiara wearing.

And there you have it folks. I stand before you, a proud tiara wearing old house-frau. My toilets are all the shinier for my love of cleaning while wearing a tiara.

Go out and get yourself one. I dare you. I double DOG dare you. Your toilets, and family, will thank you.

Love, me

who yes, is wearing a tiara as I type this. The flowery one.

What the....?

jan 16 018, originally uploaded by red_canuck.

Alternative titles for this picture, aka "Good advice from big brothers"

"When mom cooks, hide!"

"Quick, mom's not looking, RUN!"

"listen sista, let me tell you something - you do NOT want to eat solids, ok? trust me on this one. Stick to the boob"

"And this is where I put my bubble gum..."

"When dad farts, stay low - hot air rises"


Now it's your turn!

Like OMG Becky!!

Ain't she a beaut? New blog decor is up!! Come on in, make yourself comfy, plenty of elbow room! Leave the stinky shoes outside though, K?

Isn't it exciting? Isn't it, like, the most exciting things since sliced bread?! OK, ok, maybe not sliced bread, but it's up there 'yo.

I'm lurving it. I feel so special :D

Construction is a tough business

Just changing some things up, just bear with me for a bit while the the blog is being played with. I am lucky enough to have a professional working on it, yay!

Takin' one for the team

Motherhood is all about sacrifice. We sacrifice our youthful figures, our 8 hours of sleep a night, the ability to pee with the door closed, shower consistently, wear white clothes, possession over our bodies, over our minds...
It's a rough go sometimes, I tell you!
Today, in the vain of self sacrifice, I allowed myself a special indulgence. After staring out at this for a few hours



I decided I needed something warm and gooey to eat. Cookies it is! And to kill two birds with one stone, to help out Miss A's newest growth spurt, I decided to dig up the trusty ol' lactation cookie recipe.

whoa, what's that? huh?

yes, I said Lactation cookies. I know, not exactly starbucks brand, eh? lol. Rest assured, these will not induce lactation in just anyone. They just involve some key ingredients that can boost the gazungas a bit. So what if they make my butt spread even faster? It's good for the baby! I'm doing good for her! See, sacrifice. that's what I'm talking about.

First, you need some special stuff. Ground flaxseed and Brewer's yeast. Got that? BREWER'S YEAST. no substitutes baby. Only the real thing will do!
And hey, why not some chocolate chips and pecan chunks too, cause that's how I roll ;)


Cast of characters:
You need the thick cut oats. yum. brown sugar baby. butta. eggs. flour. vanilla. baking soda. the usual.


Don't use the baking soda in the fridge, please. Trust me on this one. Get a separate one for baking. Thank you.

Start by measuring out your flaxseed and water. Add 'em together, they need to get to know each other. They be friends. Lovers. soul mates.... or something.


Get yourselves a cup of butter. If you are smart and prepared, it would be at room temperature. If you are scatterbrained and unprepared like me, pop the cold butter into the microwave for 30 seconds and get this


which is actually kinda cool looking, i like it! 12x12 canvass, here we come!

or not.

Mmm, butter and brown sugah. hello my lovers. I've missed you. Please, come join me. There's room on my right butt cheek.

I said butt.

Add your flaxseed mush, then crack your eggs. It's crackalacking! huh, why yes, I have been watching too much madagascar, i'm so sorry


oh vanilla. How I love you, let me count the ways. Mmm, ohhh, yeaaaaah.

ok, i'm done.

please, for all that is good and holy in this world, don't use artificial vanilla. Please, please buy the real stuff. thank you.

You *could* sift together all the dry ingredients. You probably should. But I'm too much of a rebel for my own good, and just add all the dry ingredients in. Don't hate me.


Don't be like me and make a huge mess. You shoulda SEEN my floors. Ugh. I need a dog. Husband? k? a dog?


Add your oats. mix mix mix. Add the glorious chocolate chips. pecans. or whatever else floats your boat and makes your butt spread.

Now be like me and mix it all together with your wedding rings on so we can all spend 2 hours tonight with a toothbrush cleaning gunk out. You know you want to.


Since your hands are already gunked up, just grab chunks of dough and roll into balls.



Set your kitchen timer for 8 minutes. Or, if you are old school like me and don't have a kitchen timer, use the timer on your microwave. And then take 13 seconds to find your camera, get the right settings, and take the picture


Yes, that's superman. In my defense that microwave is circa 1997 from my husband's University years. It's served us well. It will be retired on April 15th when we move into the NEW HOUSE (!) with it's fancy schmancy microwave stove hood. Oooooh, Aaaaaaah. pant pant. groan. I lurve it.

sorry.

Now look outside and cry


And then eat. Yum



The recipe:
1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1 cup brown sugar
4 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons flaxseed meal*
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
3 cups oats, thick cut if you can get them
1 cup or more chocolate chips
2 tablespoons of brewers yeast** (be generous)

Directions:
Preheat oven at 375 degrees F.
Mix together 2 tablespoons of flaxseed meal and water, set aside for 3-5 minutes.

Beat together butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, mix well. Add flaxseed mixture, vanilla. Mix until blended.

Sift together dry ingredients, except oats and chips. Add to wet ingredients.
Stir in oats then chips.

Scoop or drop onto baking sheet, preferably lined with parchment or silpat.




Want more oat-y goodness? Check out these two recipes. They won't make your butt spread as much. Just a little. And they are worth it.

oupsies, oh dear!

A post about booze and a post about babies in a row, haha, not the blog look I thought I was going for, i tell ya!

Well, I guess in my defense, putting booze and babies in separate posts is much better than putting them in the same one! Especially considering that we are a lactating family...

Or rather I am and my son pretends to be. His dolls are mightily well fed!

Peek-a-boo!

What's behind door number one....




baby girl!!! I'll take it!

Why, yes please

yum.

Why, yes please

yum.

T-75 days

Until this monstrocity is once again parked in front of our house and we have to lug the various and sundry material possessions we own into it and out of it.


I am so freaking tired just thinking about it.


Not to mention the trauma my right hand is substaining. It is a permanent claw from signing my name over and over and over. Why is there SO MUCH FREAKING paperwork when you buy a new house?! I mean, really! Initial this, sign here, date this, initial, sign, date, intial, sign, date, initial sign, AHHHHHH! One week into this and I am already tired of jumping through the various hoops. I just want to live there already!

Soul fulfilling words

Ever have one of those moments when one kid is screaming over a stolen toy, the other kid is whining for more milk, the tv is blaring some obnoxious drugged up neon children's show, the phone is shrilling impatiently, the doorbell is peeling, the dog is barking, the cats are fighting, random electronic toys are beeping and OMG JUST SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!

yeah, that was me today.

In the midst of the chaos, just as the dreaded "shut up" word was about to escape my lips, some slice of rational thought broke through and poked my eyeball as if to remind me that once that "shut up" word is out of my mouth for that first time, my almost-three year old would hear it for the first time, and as any almost-three year old is bound to do, start parroting it right back to me. That, my friends, was enough of a poke in the eyeball to change the "SHUT UP!!" groaning to burst forth from my frothing lips into a frustrated grunt and a foot stamp.

yes, I said foot stamp. Not my most glrious motherhood moment, granted. While I am not proud of my foot stamp, it stopped me from uttering a phrase I really didn't want to. I did not want to go there, and I do not want my son, my almost-three year old, to go there either.

Later, after the kids had been sorted out, dog let out, cats separated, door answered, phone hung up, TV turned off and the toys silenced, I pondered my emotional reaction. While the foot stamp had worked just enough to stop the dreaded "shut up", it was not nearly as soul fulfilling. So why, I asked myself, would "shut up" have been so much more....fulfilling?

Is it the illicit nature of the beast? I grew up in a household where "shut up" was verboten, spoken on threat of death, and really, it is the epitomy of disrespect. Yes, it could have been the illicit nature. Yet, that's not all.
I think, and maybe it's just me and my weird brain, but the very nature of the sounds of "shut up" are just glorious in the heat of anger and frustration. The grinding teeth of the "shhhhh", the head shake, eye glaring, tongue thrust of the "t", the chin thrust, lip twist of the "uuuuu" and the spit ejection of the "p". Put together, the physical process of saying "shut up" with passion is just wonderful. Fulfilling. Soul singing. good.

It is inevitable that my kids will learn to say "shut up". They won't be home with me forever, and as perfect as I am (HA!) the TV teaches them things I would prefer them to not know. One day, hopefully not soon, they will respond to one of my request for information, or an insistence that they clean with a well timed, and well executed "shut up".

I wonder what they would do if I responded by dropping to the floor in a fit of giggles while choking back my mirth.

What does your 7:58pm look like?

I like 7:58pm. It's a good time of day. My youngest is long in bed and my oldest is trudging up the stairs to brush his teeth and will soon pay a visit to Mr. Sandman. If I've planned it right, I've got a cold beer or a chilled glass of white wine in my right hand and the TV remote in my left, with my butt mere inches from the divine feel of my leather couch. Ahhh yes, boy do I love 7:58pm.

I also like 2:40 pm. It's a good time of day. I have one or more children visiting Mr. Sandman. If I'm lucky I've got dinner in the crockpot or the ingredients assembled and ready to go. I've got a tidy kitchen and no laundry monster ready to pounce on me....or not, haha, mostly not, who am I trying to kid.

I've also got this


Gorgeous sunlight streaming in my window. It may be the dead of winter, but this makes me happy.

Help

Can someone please come pack this for me? Pretty please, oh please with a cherry on top? And sprinkles? And chocolate syrup? And chocolate chips? And some rum glaze? For the love of...PLEASE!



I don't do kitchens.

*shudders*

Find Waldo!

Nothing spectacular, just your run of the mill normal parental shot of one's offspring. Nothing to see, here, mosey on by. But wait...huh?
What's that?

Let's take a second and ponder this snapshot, k?

Sure you've got the cute kid. Check! More than cute really, but I'm biased. As this is my blog though, I get the final say, and daaaaamn she's cute.

But behind her, there's something that shouldn't be there. Anyone, anyone? Bueller, Bueller?



That's right, little boy underwear. Lightening McQueen underwear for those of you in-the-know.

And you wanna know why the underwear are there?

Because, my dear imaginary friends, my son refuses to wear clothes on his bottom half. And it is driving me bonkers.

It is also why out of the 15 or so different shots I took of this next scene, this is the only one fit to upload to a public domain. I cannot tell you how many darn photos are stuck on my hardrive never to see the light of day because someone's boy bits are not covered. And darn it, it's getting annoying!

Canadian Eh!

Brrr, it's cold in here, there must be some canucks in the atmosphere!


Not to beat a dead horse or anything, but damn it's cold. This is beyond snot freezing cold. This is beyond frozen tongue on metal pole cold (not that yours truly ever.ever did that. nuh-uh, not me. I would not know from experience that a pot of very hot water fixes that unfortunate adhesive problem. Nope.). This is, well, damn it, this is CANADIAN cold! lol, har har, I so funny.

The problem with this cold is that a few days ago, we had one bright beautiful edge of freezing day, that wrecked havoc on the feet anf feet of accumulated snow. You see, some melted. And then frozen again. Slippery with a capital S. Thank god for strong inner thighs, a welcome leftover form my ballet days, because I've almost yardsaled a good half dozen times. And when you're carrying 17.5 pounds of your most precious cargo, yardsaling just ain't cool 'yo. Right homies? Right? Can I get a wut wut? No? oh. Ok. sorry.

The BabyHawk strikes again...

Babyhawk - 1,098
Miss A - 0

D'oh

"I'll never do..."

I will never say "I'll never do..." with regards to parenting ever ever again. today. No, seriously, everyday.

A good friend of mine, Heather over at Pittsburg mom recently wrote about her food struggles with her sons. After vowing she's never be a "short order cook", she finds herself as...their short order cook. Damn.

I think every parent has one of these. And if they don't, their child just isn't old enough yet. Every single parent I know has to eat some kind of crow pie. Myself included.

WHOA! I'm not perfect?! What? Who? How? oh.right. Did I just admit that on the great world wide webz?! It seems I did. huh. damn.

But alas, tis true. My own parental Kryptonite at this moment is chocolate milk. While my son was potty training, I got so.freaking.gosh.darn.crazy.tired of cleaning you.know.what off the floor. And I've got carpet people. It's not pretty. I've got other things to do than scrub brown stains off my floor! Other very important, earth shattering things!! Like...like...ok, I'll get back to you on that. Either way, it's not pleasant.

So I turned to bribery. And gosh darn it, it works. It works too well now actually. I have been outsmarted by my almost three year. His old once-a-day habit has since been turned into a four-times-a-day habit, each of which he demands to be compensated for succes by scremaing "CHOCOLATE MILK MOMMY!!!" Damn.

I curse myself four times a day when the chocolate buzz has him running laps around his Tomas Train table screaming for me to chase him. "Get me mom, GET ME!".

Now if you'll excuse us, Mr Man needs some "private time" to earn his next cup of chocolate milk :/


oh, and don't worry, Miss A will keep the back up potty from being too lonely.

Prozac anyone?

To delay the nervous breakdown that is hovering on the horizon every time I hear the word "pack" *shudder*, I've been browsing pictures of my darling adorable wonderful children, thinking of which I want to blow up and hang on the walls of our NEW HOUSE (!).

And then I found this.



oh. I..., ya. huh. well.

I'm so sorry baby girl.

I'm having heart palpitations

As we get ready to put write one of the biggest cheques of our lives to cover the down payment on our NEW HOUSE (!), I find myself looking out the corner of my eye and mentally accessing the packing that is ahead of me. And then I cry.



I hate packing, oh bloody hell do I hate packing. I start out all organized, and the first 1/4 of my packing is perfect, flawless, well organized and practically professional. Then I realize how much is left to do, break out the booze and by the end I have tiny shoe boxes labeled "Christmas cards 2006". Those tiny boxes make my slaves, errm, I mean friends, bonkers. I can't blame them.



I'm not a good packer.




You'd think I would be! Before out house, Hubby and I have moved a total of 6 times in the past 8.5 years. Holy cow, that is alot! Startled myself there with that number, I think I need a minute to compose myself.

Sorry.

ok, i'm back. wow. Why is it that I still suck at packing on move #7? Anyone, Anyone? Bueller, Bueller? (name that movie!)



I need to go curl up in a corner and rock myself to sleep now. Packing, with two kids? There is not enough Rum to put in my coke to get me through this!

The food man cometh

Or the "Schood Man" as my almost-three year old would say.

I'm lucky to live in an area where I can get a weekly delivery of organic produce right to my door. As we currently have a gazillion feet of snow and temperatures more suitable for snot freezing than air breathing, anything that means I don't have to pack up my kids and go to the store is fine by me!

Not to mention, but as a SAHM, something as simple as a delivery can be the highlight of our day. It's not just about the delivery. It's our games guessing what time he'll come, what will be in our "Schood" box, counting out the money with my kidlets, all those simple things that help me not go bonkers for lack of mental stimulation.

My son's eagerness to discover what goodness awaits us this week in the box o' wonders makes me happy. I love that he gets excited about good food. That he gets excited about fresh fruit and vegetables like it was christmas all over again makes me feel hope that McDonald's might not get its hooks into this young one.

Having a box o' mystery delivered to my doorstep also stretches my cooking creativity most weeks. For the first time in my life, I'm cooking things like Kale and beets and using abundant amounts of fresh herbs. My own heart skips a beat when i see images of new recipes dancing in my head. Like I said, we don't get out much in winter :/

Today's offerings were just as yummy as expected.


bananas, apples, kiwis, lettuce, parsley, onions, lemon, orange, carrots, sprouts, green pepper, carrots.
If anyone has any idea what that fruit at the front is, I'd be grateful. And how to eat it. Mango? Papaya? It defies this poor canadian. I think apples are about as canadian as we get 'round here.

Mr Man always has to go through and personally approve of everything


If i'm no careful, the little bugger takes off with all my apples. How do you like THEM apples?! (name that movie!)


Everything is just so fresh, it's all I can do not to eat is right out of the box


ok, ok, so I do eat it right out of the box, you got me. sorry husband. There really was more apples, but they were just SO damn good! And really, what else am I suppose to do with them?



now how did that happen?! hehe, sorry.

This little piggy

went wee wee wee all the way home!!!

What is it about baby/toddler feet that are so irresistible?! So beyond adorable, so kissable, ticklable, squee-inducing that I spontaneously ovulate?



If you know, please share. I've got more pictures of my kids feet than I care to admit too. I might need a 12 step program

My son, the gourmet

If only I could look at carrots sticks with the same love, adoration, devotion and awe.

While this photo is a year old, I still love it. I think this one needs to be blown up and framed in my new house, in the kitchen, yes?

Why "RedCanuck"?

I know you are all dying of curiosity why I call myself redcanuck. Losing sleep, not able to eat, holing up in your bedrooms rocking yourself back and forth because you just.need.to.know.why DAMMIT!!

I could not live with myself knowing you weren't eating or sleeping, let alone not doing other things in your bedrooms (*wink wink nudge nudge*), so this post is all about making your life happier. I'm a people pleaser. You love me.

redcanuck hails back alllll the way to my first year of University, when I went by the the nickname "red" pretty exclusively. There is something about dorm life that breeds goffy nicknames. Red fit me perfectly, what with the redhair, and red face when I laugh, cry, am tired, am excited, am bored, am embarassed...so basically all the time. Red worked very well. My University friends still call me red, as does my husband on occassion. I like it, it works. And as far as nicknames go, it's better than "Killer Tomato" and "Carrot top". Yeah, i think I'll keep red.

The canuck steams from my pure love of my country. It's as simple as that. I am all about being a canuck, as the liberal sprinkles of "Eh's" in my vocabulary will testify to!!

So there's the story, morning glory. Not too exciting, not to boring, Just...me

Oh dear...

As my son would say

"mommy, I'm not happy"



poor baby girl was not feeling up to par today. Not up to par at all. Rather sub-par to be honest. Extremely sub-par. Rock bottom sub-par. So far sub-par that par has nothing to do with it. I think.
She was definitely not happy.


A good puke and some good toots later, she was much happier. Isn't is amazing what a good fart can fix?