First Comes a House (Decision), Then Comes FURNISHINGS

Now that we have decided on a house (for the most part . . . things can always change with us, and they usually do), I have taken to some pre-house move-in furnishing.

It always adds up when you do it all at once, and since we've got some time to kill before we can actually move in, I've been dreaming away.

For Jackson's room:

Fish sheets and his current duvet cover. (I'm saving pennies, can't you tell?? ;) )

For Jayden's room:

Duvet cover:

Sheets:

(If there is any money left over, here's Avery's bed . . . donations are always accepted ;) ) Oh, and it is definitely a good thing that all that bedding has been discontinued because it is hard to resist!

And for our kitchen table, I am IN LOVE with round tables and found one that seats EIGHT. (And it would fit in our nook.)

Here

However, that leaves our dining table to be much more rustic looking than our kitchen table, so if I am dreaming, I may as well dream big and get a more rustic version of this . . . maybe in a natural cherry wood? With maybe some iron feet??

Here

Then there is the case of needing a corner unit for our TV. Fortunately, Crate and Barrel has moved into our neck of the woods and has a few options:

Here

and

Here

More dreaming is sure to come, so stay tuned.

(Disclaimer: we'll be penny pinching over the next few months so we can get into our house and pay as much down as possible so I highly doubt any of these items will materialize.)

House Decision

After months and months (and months) of deliberating, agonizing, and compromising, we finally narrowed our house selection to three: The Gorgeous Bungalow, The Stunning Redwood, and a new Mountain Ash.

Add in a few more weeks of stressful negotiations on the Redwood (to the point of frustration on our part, the realtor's part, and certainly the builder's), followed by several house hunting trips to totally different areas and builders . . . we decided to put in a final offer on the Redwood.

And within hours we second guessed our decision and changed our minds (again) to put in an offer on a totally different house.

Oh, how these people must LOVE us. ;)

Fortunately, I have great parents who listened to my endless agonizing and offered great support on our initial decision.

And so, the Redwood it is. (Assuming the builder hasn't grown so sick of us that he just doesn't want our business--the offer is going to be on his desk tomorrow morning.)

The builder is planning to obtain permits on Tuesday so we are really hopeful that our house will be built by December.

Hooray for a decision! (I sincerely hope the builder still likes us enough to accept our offer because I'm just not up for more house hunting any time soon.)

From Punjabi Hut to Piggly Wiggly

When we were looking for a new place over two years ago, we chuckled a little at the idea that we could be living around the corner from not "Pizza Hut," but the "Punjabi Hut" (a nod to the particular culture that is prominent where we live).

This time around, we decided to go to the fair of the small town we are planning to move to. While we waited for the fair to open, we stopped into the school and then ate at the local restaurant . . . "The Scruffy Duck."

We've never really lived in a small town before. Sure, we grew up in rural areas, but we both lived on farms with lots of property outside of small towns so we never really had that "small town" feel.

But one afternoon in this town gave us flashbacks of "Pigeon Creek" in "Sweet Home Alabama."

Everybody knew everybody, it seemed. And it didn't take long for people to realize we weren't locals.

"Hmm, you're city folk." The waitress decided.

(A label we kind of objected to since we were raised on 10 or more acres for our entire childhood and truly can't wait to get some space between us and our neighbours.)

We had seen the cute houses, the beautiful countryside that surrounded this gem, but didn't realize how small-town, country it really was.

Not that that is a bad thing . . . unless you consider the public school incident reason enough to find lodging miles and miles away.

And in fact, I think it just might be the sign that we needed to help with our house hunting . . . and steer us to another house.

As we waited for the fair to open up, we took a drive around town and thought we'd stop into the public school, check it out, and get a registration packet for Jackson. You know, to get a feel for what the school system is like.

Brad and I debated about who would go in, I seemed to have won out.

Before I left the car, Brad said,

"Don't tell them you are buying a new home. They don't like outsiders here. Say that you are buying the house on R-street and moving in this September."

Now why I listened to him, I really don't know.

I walked down the hall ways of this old but nicely refinished school house and into the tight and cluttered office.

"Well, hello! What can we do for you?" a plump, older lady asked.

"I was wondering if I could get a kindergarten registration packet. Do you have them?"

"Well, certainly dear. Do you have any more children? We can certainly use more kids next year."

"Yes, I have another son who will be in grade one."

Her eyes went wide and lit up.

"Oh, that's just great. Maybe you could pop out another one for us!" Besides how erie that sounded coming from a stranger, there was something a little odder about being is such high demand. Almost like one of those small towns that John Candy used to visit in his old "comedic horror" movies.

Which house are you moving in to, sweetie?"

The first thing that came to my mind was the R-street.

"Hmm. I didn't know there was a house for sale there. Who's moving out? I hope it isn't one of our kids! Our numbers are really low for next year. Which house is it?"

Getting put on the spot, and realizing that I might be getting caught but had no where to run, I stammered:

"Oh, I can't remember the number. Isn't that silly?? I'll get it to you later."

The lady turned to the janitor sitting in the chair,

"Eddie, do you know who's moving out of R-street?"

"No, can't say that I do."

"Fern, do you know who's moving out of R-street?" She asked another lady in the office.

I tried to take my packet and run, but then she asked me for names . . . of my kids: first and last and proceeded to give me an invitation to a June 16 meet and greet for kindergarteners.

I must have been beet red as I exited the building as fast as I could, vowing to never return. To the school, or the town.

It would only be a few days before she spoke to every resident about the house on R-street and found out that no one by our last name was moving in.

And I thought about what it would do for Brad's reputation as he set up shop in a few months and she showed up in his office! Would she recognize his last name and think of us as big fat liars??

Brad assured me that he could take care of the whole situation for us. If such a question ever arose, he would say,

"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't know why my wife would say such a thing. Actually, I think she is a compulsive liar. Is there a LA (Liars Anonymus) in town?"

Fantastic.

Either we buy a house in an entirely different area or we send our kids to the Catholic school.

In the mean time, vegging out infront of "Sweet Home Alabama" was just what the doctor ordered.

Googly Eyes

Yesterday as I was making dinner, Avery was "safely" playing in Jayden's room.

Grateful for a bit of a break from her pre-dinner whining, I quickly made our ravioli.

Halfway through, Avery came downstairs holding her ears and wearing a very concerned look on her face.

When I checked her ears out I saw something stuck in each ear canal.

Looking a little closer I soon realized that they were googly eyes. From a craft project that Jayden had in his closet.

Why on earth would she put googly eyes in her ears? I frantically wondered. Did she think they were earings? Was she just curious??

At this point it didn't matter. I had to get them out somehow--and without pushing them in farther!

My fingers proved to be too big and even my nails didn't help lure them out. I ran her upstairs to get some tweezers.

The first eye came out rather easily and I wiped the sweat off my brow.

The second though, had made its way into the canal quite far. I was really worried that the tweezers were actually pushing it in further.

My mind began flashing to (what I thought) was the inevitable emergency room visit where a doctor had to extract the googly eye with pliers or something . . . and the subsequent visit from child services that would come my way.

As I was about ready to pile all the kids in the car and run to the hospital, I gave it one more try.

Finally, it came out. You cannot imagine my great relief.

I took a few more checks of both ears to make sure there weren't any other pairs of eyes in there (since the puppet package had materials for TWO puppets and I only found ONE pair of eyes I was worried). Things looked clear.

But, at her next check up I might suggest to the doctor to check her ears thoroughly . . . for wax build up or something clogging it. (Certainly I won't be mentioning googly eyes!)

30-Something

and counting.

Brad turned the Big 3-0 today. There is no more denying it. No more jokes about only me being the the 30's and he still as a spring chicken.

So, apart from the jokes about him no longer being able to sow his wild oats, being "well-seasoned" (at least by looking at his hair) or being young and carefree . . . we celebrated.

Yesterday we went out for a lovely dinner, without kids. It was to a restaurant that Brad had taken me to 12 years earlier for our first dating anniversary.

We thought back 12 years and wondered if we could have ever imagined that we'd be back 12 years later, still together, and have three kids to our name. Perhaps we'll return in another 12 years and see what's changed!

Dinner was great . . . the restuarant made a great effort to make Brad feel special for his big day by bringing out complimentary champagne. Naturally, we declined. So, our waiter was gracious enough to offer free espressos with our dessert. I am sure he felt like we were the most difficult patrons to please.

Afterwards, we toured around the township we plan to raise our family in. It was a fantastic evening. The sun was just going down giving everything a golden glow.

Today, I was goign to let Brad sleep in, but his phone rang and woke him up extra early. The kids soon followed and instead of doing breakfast in bed with some cards and presents, we did a few quick presents and then went out for breakfast.

We were just planning to go around the corner when at the last minute we decided to head down town for big hotel buffet. It was really fantastic. I'm not a museli person, but theirs was to die for. Really it is. I have got to get the recipe.

We were finished breakfast by 9:30 am (clearly, we were up WAY too early!), and thought it might be fun for the kids to ride the subway. Off we went to stop by PBK (and maybe PB for mom). And another stop was at Nike to buy a lucky tennis outfit for Dad. (And maybe Mom picked one up too.)

The rest of the day was spent with Brad in a tennis tournament (victorious so far--we think it might have been the fact that his cheering section was throwing balls at his opponent and crying in the background), and a quick BBQ at home with unexpected guests . . . the missionaries.

Avery got worried that maybe there were too many candles on Dad's cake for him to blow on his own. So she got in on the candle-blowing action, you know, to make sure we didn't burn down the house!
If you knew Jackson, you'd be worried too that maybe some hamburger bits might come flying out on your cake too!

All in all, it was a busy, crazy birthday weekend, but a great one. And to top it all off, Jackson hand-picked out Brad's gift from himself: a massager . . . I am sure it will come in handy after those tennis matches.

The Ex is Back

House, that is.


It is still for sale and since the developer has been laughing at our current offers, getting into a newly built house by Christmas seems bleak. Hence the gravitation to the "Ex."


It is such a nice house. And we sat down and figured out how to make it work . . . financially, and spacially. And let's not get started on the allures of a fully loaded house with lots of land and grass that we could MOVE IN TO IMMEDIATELY.


But when it comes down to it, we just aren't sure we want all our hard-earned money going directly to interest and not equity.


We were fortunate to be able to walk through someone's finished house by our builder. Our exact model, in fact. It was really nice to see how the rooms feel walking through them, rather than using "room-arranger" on line to get an idea.


The finishes were another good thing to see. Although it was about what I expected, Brad thought that since it was priced closer to the "Ex" he was getting a fully loaded dream house.


And we really do love the layout of the "Ex" . . . but it's more than the other two houses we are looking at. And it isn't in the quaint village we absolutely adore like the (hopefully) soon to be built houses. Stressing over whether they will build our house this century will be rough . . . as will being house bound with all the kids while we wait for grass.


If we do go with the builder, is it better to just go cheap and try to get out in 2 years . . . or get something that we could enjoy for 3-4 (incase it takes that long to get in!)???


We are running in circles.


Any house hunting experts out there with good ideas of how to choose your house?


The Ex, fully loaded and beautiful . . . for a steep price and in the second favourite location.


The Big Kahuna, with enough bedrooms for each kid and then some (pretty important when the boys fight like cats and dogs!)




El Cheapo (Well, relatively speaking that is! Nothing is cheap out here.)



Advice is much appreciated. ;)

Attempts to Save Some Green

Cash, that is.

We've worked hard and spent a ton of money on grass for this rental. And it is never to much avail.

There are always patches of dirt (that later turns to mud as soon as the boys put a sprinkler to it), and worse, there seems to be some kind of grub problem.

Now I have priced out grub removal products, and it is pricey. Add that to the hundreds of dollars you can easily spend on DIRT and seeds . . . and well, it's not worth our time since we are planning to be out of here soon.

However, since it looks like we will be here for the summer . . . and the boys gave me a glimpse of my life for the next 5 months without grass. Think lots of mud . . . in the yard, ruining their shoes, all over their bodies, and let's not forget the mud that comes in on my WHITE kitchen floor quicker than I can mop it up. I quickly made an executive decision to quickly grow some grass.

I went off to buy some soil and seed but laid my eyes on sod.

It was already green. Just roll it out on the muddy patches. And I wouldn't have to go through three weeks of mud tracked in the house or house-bound maniacs like last year.

And it was $10/4 rolls!

How much easier could it get??

So I picked up four rolls, thinking that I had way more than I needed. Wouldn't my neighbours be so impressed when they found out that I laid some extra down between our houses over the weeds and mud??

When I came to inspect my yard more carefully, I noticed that while there were several large mud traps, there were also a million gaping holes all over our lawn.

Perhaps soil and seeds were the way to go.

Figuring that I could just cut the rolls into pieces for those holes, I proceeded armed with an old kitchen knife. I laid down one roll first on one of the worst mud traps.

It barely made a dent.

Ouch.

I think I may need another 4 or 8. Which would probably put it in the range of buying soil and seed. Or even more.

Yes, today I was definitely brilliant.

I can really understand why people just put down a patio in their yards.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It's that time again . . .

The time that makes my heart sing.

It makes me wake up with renewed energy and a hop in my step . . .

To get as much garbage out of my house and onto the curb before the garbage trucks come.

All because it is UNLIMITED GARBAGE WEEK!

(Actually, next week is too. I will be rotating my 72 hr kits and food storage this week and lugging 20 bricks to the curb next Tuesday. Of course that is along with finding every scrap of garbage or unneeded clutter hiding in our house.)

One thing I just don't understand: why doesn't anyone else on the street have as much junk as us?? Unlimited garbage week is fantastic, but since we have discovered that extra garbage tags are only $1/bag, we've been making good use of the tags.

It's almost like every week is unlimited garbage week here . . . and yet, we still have TONS of garbage left over to take full advantage of unlimited week.

We truly must be pigs or something. Either that or all of our neighbours are hording a pile of crap in the houses somewhere.

Notes From a Staircase

The other night I sent my very sleep-deprived, sugar-highed, over-stimulated children to bed. I warned them not to come down or see me until 7am the next morning.

Naturally, they didn't care much for my requests, even in spite of the fact that I had my cousins over to reminisce about our late grandfather.

Thumping and stomping was heard from above. Screaming and whining. And finally Jayden came down to report that Jackson had been swinging on the curtains and broke the window.

When I went up to inspect, I found a tattered curtain, a bent curtain rod, and the window moulding hanging by a small piece of plaster.

I might have gotten a little upset. I might have breathed out some awful threatenings. Mostly, I quite possibly threatened to bring out "the spoon" if I so much as saw either of them again.

I returned to my company and was having a lovely time . . . until a white note fell from the staircase.

My brother went over to read the note. It read:

(I, Jayden, want a glass of water.)

He went and filled a glass and brought it up for him.

Amused by his creativity and new writing ability, we settled back into our conversations.

A while later, the sound of a sheet of paper hitting the wooden floor rang out.

It read:

(Can I have another glass of water.)

My brother sent another glass up.

The next day after all of our guests had left and I was busy trying to put my house back together, I heard the all too familiar sound of paper hitting the floor.

A new note.

It read:

(I want a glass of juice please.)

I was busy on the phone and forgot about it for a few minutes. After a little while Jayden made his way down to me and asked,

"Didn't you get my note?"

"Yes." I replied.

"Then where's my juice?"

I see a pattern developing. And it probably isn't a good one, if my goal is to get my kids in bed and to stay in bed. However, it is motivating him to learn how to write. Maybe it isn't that bad afterall?

Parting Gifts

My Dido Struk on his 93rd birthday, January 2009.

My Dido (grandpa) Struk was the best at saying "good bye."


After every visit with him, as we gathered our belongings, he would disappear into his bedroom and emerge several minutes later as we were ready to go out the door. He would say, "Melania, come here, I have something for you." And then he would slip me a token gift.


When I was younger, it was pocket change. As I got older, it turned into $20 bills, or even $50's. And, after my grandmother passed away, it became small trinkets (from gold lockets to old lipsticks) of hers to remember her by.


Once we had hugged and kissed, and were settled in our car, he would stand on the curb with my Baba, smiling from ear to ear and waving. As our car drove through the circle of Struk place, and down the cul-de-sac road, they would still be waving and smiling--and would not stop until we were completely out of sight.


This past week, my Dido said his last good bye. And he did it in his signature style.


Although his gifts this time were not pocket change, or small trinkets, he did give us two parting gifts.


The first was the gift of time to see him before he passed. Each grandchild and child of his was able to come and see him in that last month. And most of us even had the opportunity to see him in his last days to actually say our last good bye. Though the doctor predicted that he would pass on the Friday or Saturday, my Dido hung in there until early Monday morning so that the last grandchild could see him as she flew in on Sunday evening.


The second gift was that of precious memories.


Some of my earliest memories of my Dido involved picking fresh raspberries from his garden and then enjoying them with sour cream and hearing stories of his "pet" wild squirrels. It did not take these clever creatures long to figure out that if they just sat at my Dido's window and stared long enough, he would eventually give them something to eat. And that was a lot easier than climbing up the big walnut tree to struggle with a hard nut.


As I grew older, visits always included a walk around his perfectly manicured and extensive garden to see what was new. I was always amazed that he could find one more variety of flower, plant, tree or vegetable that he didn't already have . . . and then find some room on his small plot of land to grow it. From multiple peach, apple, cherry, plum, and walnut trees, to at least a half dozen different rose varieties, to almost every type of vegetable and flower that would grow in our hemisphere . . . he had it. And they were in abundance.


His talents and skills were as varied as his garden. He was raised on a farm in Ukraine, but when the war broke out, he was uprooted and had to learn some new skills very quickly. He worked as a tailor, as horse trainer in the army, and learned several languages (Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, and English). Then, as he came to Canada with other war refugees, he went from one career to another, beginning with opening a women's clothing line and store to a hotel and restaurant owner, a land developer and house builder (where consequently, he named a street after himself). His pastimes included gardening, wine distilling, singing in a choir, writing poems and histories, and watching every episode of "Hockey Night in Canada." For his grandchildren, he always stressed the importance of learning and encouraged us to aspire high in school and careers.


More importantly, is what he did with his talents. During a 90th birthday celebration in honour of my Dido, I became aware of his great influence on his community and on the people he came into contact with. Several stories were shared of how my Dido had touched the lives of community members deeply. I remembered being proud and impressed by the service my Dido had done for his fellow men. And I remembered wondering if anyone could possibly say anything like that about me. What an example he lead for me.


He always stressed our Ukrainian heritage and the importance of keeping in contact with our relatives abroad. Every visit with him would undoubtedly bring some information of my great aunt and what she was up to. Most recently, he began writing histories and biographies of his family which I can't wait to translate and cherish.


But the most important memory I have of my Dido is his faith in God and his Savior Jesus Christ. On Ukrainian Christmas Eve, when the rest of us were overstuffed and exhausted from the excitement of unwrapping presents, my Dido would still put on his hat and coat and go out to midnight mass. No matter what his age, or how tired he might have been, he always went. A few years ago he wrote an autobiography of himself, how he met and married my grandmother, and how they came to Canada. I was very impressed as he often acknowledged the hand of God in helping him through every obstacle in this difficult time. It was a wonderful testimony of his faith for us to continue on in our lives and pass down.


It is because of his great faith that I am confident that our Heavenly Father is mindful of him. I know that he is in a better place and that he is finally (after 15 years) reunited with my Baba.


I am comforted by the image of my Dido and my Baba, standing arm in arm on the curb of Heaven, waving "good bye." And in my image, I see them smiling. They know that this "good bye" is not forever, but (in the grand scheme of things) just for a short time.

"C" Is For Cookie

That's good enough for Jackson!

This year for his birthday party theme, Jackson has long decided on "cookies."

It seemed simple enough. (Particularly compared to Jayden's ideas of helicopters, specific transformers, or car designing and manufacturing themes.)

Have a buffet of various kinds of cookies, decorate some, and play "Pin the Cookie on Cookie Monster." Jackson has since added the game, "Duck, Duck, Goose" but changed it to "Chocolate, Chocolate, Chip."

So, in honour of his fourth birthday, and because he loves to cook, and because his mom loves to do photograph invitations, I let him bake his very own batch of cookies.

All by himself.

(So I could get some great shots for his invitation.)

Besides a little bit of a mess (which was surprisingly less than the mess he makes actually EATING), I think he did a fantastic job. I will have to let him cook more often.

The Iron Chef, getting ready for his big event.

Event 1: The Egg Cracking.

I was really surprised at how well he cracked the egg. Only one tiny piece of shell went in the bowl.

Event 2: Whisking the butter with the egg.

Apparently, it was thrilling.

Event 3: Pouring the cookie mix in. (Okay, I wasn't going to have him completely do the whole thing from scratch, I was behind a camera afterall. )

Some of the mix somehow missed the bowl. Naturally, we couldn't waste a single crumb so Jackson hand-picked as many crumbs as possible and replaced them in the bowl.

Event 4: Mixing the batter.

Event 5: Sampling the batter. (How else will you know if the cookies are worth the wait in bake time??)

Event 6: Placing the batter on the cookie sheets.

Iron Chef? More like Ninja Chef! Two spoons made it go by faster.

Event 7: Waiting.

And waiting.

Event 8: Get those cookies OUT!

Event 9: Transfer the good to a cooling rack.

Event 10: Tasting the Fruits of His Labour.

"Hello Mr. Cookie. Do you taste good?"

Good Bye

It is such a simple phrase.

Two words should be so easy to say.

But, for some reason they got lost in my throat when I tried to say them.

Maybe it was the tears welling up in my eyes that washed the sounds away. Maybe it was my heart breaking in two that took my breath away momentarily.

Whatever the reason, they were the hardest words I've ever had to say.

My grandfather was an incredibly active and alert 93 year old. He was industrious and always working on something: a garden, a suana, a history book, or even starting a part-time carpentry business making wooden reindeer lawn ornaments at 91 years of age. Most people mistook him for 70-something with the hop in his step and sharp mind.

But this past Easter he suffered a small stroke slowing his nimble body down to resemble the 90 year old that he biologically was. In the four weeks that passed, he rapidly detiorated until he was granted "emergency acceptance" into a nursing home.

The morning he was supposed to move in found him in the hospital with a prognosis of a day, maybe two.

All of his family rushed to the hospital to say our good bye's and be there to hold his hand so he wouldn't be alone as he passed to the other side.

In the hour long car ride I went over the eloquent and comforting things I wanted to share with him. They would be touching, loving, and leave us both feeling so peaceful.

But something happened as I entered the hospital room. If the smell of hospitals didn't partially paralyzed me, then seeing my very recently strong and vital grandfather be replaced by a suddenly very old and frail looking man certainly did.

My mind went blank. My mouth closed up. The finality of it all began to sink in.

By the time I came, my poor Dido had lost all the ability to move or speak. He couldn't even close his eyelids to sleep.

Everyone assured me that while he might not appear to respond to anything, he could infact hear.

But what could you really say? Obviously I couldn't utter words of encouragement to "hold on" or "keep fighting." I knew that he couldn't live, he wouldn't want to live like this for very long. But saying, "Good bye. I'll see you on the other side one day," somehow didn't feel right either. It almost made me feel as though I was wishing him to pass.

How do you say "good bye" to someone who has been a family fixture for so long? Sitting at the head of the table of so many holiday dinners, surviving his wife by 15 years, and being there for so many family changes . . . it seemed as though truly he would just live on forever.

At the end of my visit, I knew it was the "now or never" moment. I pulled in close and squeezing his shoulder I whispered, "I'm leaving now. Say 'Hi' to Baba. Remember that I love you. Good bye, Dido."

Good bye.

Two words that should be so simple to say, but are the hardest to utter.

I hope I don't have to utter them again for a very long time.

What's Cookin'?

We've been cooking up something fun over here.

Stay tuned to see more!

Stale Mate

There has been a battle going on in our house.

No, make that a war.

A War of Wills. Ever since last night.

Meatloaf was served for dinner, and this tired, sometimes cranky mom, refused to make anything else for dinner.

Only one person found this to be a problem.

A very big problem.

After refusing to eat for the whole duration of dinner, we got fed up and sent said child to his room.

The next morning, he awoke, STARVING.

And excited to eat the biggest bowl of Cherios the world has ever seen.

Unfortunately, reheated meatloaf and masked potatoes appeared.

Back to his room he went. Stomach empty.

Dad came home later on and brought breakfast for everyone: french toast, bacon, sausage, potatoes, and eggs.

Everyone got some, except said child.

How his mouth watered for some salty bacon. Or even a cup of juice.

But until he ate at least ONE bite of meatloaf, none of the yummy breakfast would he see.

So, back to his room he went. Starving and thirsty.

Hours later he was released, as he begged for a drink.

"Sure, as soon as you put some meatloaf into your mouth, I'll give you all the juice you want."

His mouth pursed shut.

Flash backs to my own childhood appeared.

I remembered many long, lonely nights sitting at the dinner table. I had been told that I could not leave until I ate one bite of my salmon burger/potato pancake/whatever. And I just sat there as the clock ticked. And then I sat some more.

Finally, my mom would just give up and send me to bed.

I think perhaps a bit of me was transferred to Jackson. At least the strong will and picky eating did.

And if that is the case, there is NOTHING I can say or do to make him eat something he doesn't want to.

But, I needed to follow through on my "rule." No eating anything until he takes one bite of meatloaf.

I was left with no other option than to lock his head into my side, pry his jaw open and stuff a piece of meatloaf into his mouth and (without blinking) dump some juice in before he had a chance to start spitting the meat out.

Parents may have won this war, but I would hardly call it a victory.

To Give and To Receive

About a week before our anniversary, Brad called on his way to work, upset and cranky because his car was overheating.

Fed up with hearing about another car problem, I told him to just go and buy himself a car. It didn't matter to me which one, (although something that our whole family could easily fit into and had 4 wheel drive was what I had in mind) but just to buy one that was a year or so old and wouldn't give us any problems for a year.

Brad came home with a new car.

A BMW 3-series. That was 7 years old.

Basically the size of a civic. Hardly the four wheel drive beast to fit us all in that I had in mind (think Navigator or even Acadia).

But, I did tell him to buy whatever he wanted. And he did get an amazing deal.

So when our anniversary came around, I thought that his present was all taken care of. In his card I mentioned the great gift of his beamer and added a BMW keychain.

Ironically, in place of Brad's anniversary gift to me, there was a card and chocolates. Inside the card was mention of the new-to-me Beamer.

A wonderful thought, however it seems as though it is never left here during the work week for me to cart all three kids around in. And then there are all the mentions of it being "dad's car"--slip ups by Brad himself.

Something tells me that I might have been jipped a bit.

Wrong Colour

At the mall the other day, Jackson requested that we go and see the Pet Store.

"We'll see if we have time. Why?" I asked.

Jackson replied without any hesitation,

"I don't like the colour black. We need to take Guillermo back and get a different one."

Fortunately, we didn't make it to the Pet Store. But I couldn't help feeling sad for the fur ball.

Poor little Guillermo. Black listed because of his fur colour.