The Grateful Mama » Humour

Singing

Karen — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 14:00:12 +0000

“I don’t sing because I’m happy; I’m happy because I sing.”

William James

When I was a teenager, I was really interested in the performing arts. I loved music. I wrote songs, I played guitar, I acted in plays, I danced, but I did not have a very powerful singing voice. My ever-supportive parents arranged for me to have private vocal instruction with a lady named Joyce Court. After several rather frustrating singing lessons, dear Mrs. Court said to my mom and I, “Have you thought about modeling, Karen?” In other words, I was not going to make it as a singer. I had a good ear, I could read music, and I could definitely carry a tune, but I just didn’t sound that great.

I moved on. My experience with Mrs. Court definitely discouraged me from performing songs in a public forum, but it certainly didn’t stop me from singing for pure enjoyment. I used to sing with my students when I was teaching, and now I literally sing ALL THE TIME with my daughters. Singing soothes babies and older children alike. If my daughters are cranky, I can always distract them with a little song.

The cool thing is, my daughters don’t give a damn whether or not I have a good singing voice, they call for encores all the time! I sing kids’ songs, current songs, lullabies, Abba, soundtracks from musicals such as The Sound of Music, and I also make-up my own ‘running-commentary’ type songs. These are the tunes that would probably be most irritating to any other adult within earshot, but they work. I often pick showtunes like, “New York, New York,” and change up the lyrics… ‘Start getting your shoes,” (instead of ‘Start spreading the news…’) “and put on your socks, we’ll get our winter jackets on, and head outside.” I’m sure I’m not the only one who does this.

I’m reminded of a former colleague of mine, who taught second grade, and used to sing and hum constantly. Sometimes she’d even sing her responses to her students. I thought she was rather loopy at the time, but I don’t anymore. I get it. Even my mom is a hummer. I never recognize the songs she hums, and perhaps they are just a random collection of notes. Maybe she just hums for humming’s sake, but that doesn’t matter, does it?

I’ve noticed recently that Pip and Fig also launch into operetta-style conversations very naturally, as though it’s just another acceptable form of communicating. I’m thinking it might make difficult conversations go a lot smoother in the future. Imagine if Pip confronted me one day and sang, “Mama Mia, Here I go again, My My, Can I get my tongue pierced?”

A Conspiracy of Love

Karen — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 15:00:18 +0000

“Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.”

- Hamilton Wright Mabi

Now that I have an opportunity to write, I’m realizing that I really missed my daily postings last week! It reminds me of when I moved away from home to go to the University of Alberta and my sister didn’t shed a tear when I left, but she bawled like a baby when I returned home for the Christmas holiday.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’ve missed your love, until you are reacquainted.

I have four ideas for posts today, but I’m going to write about my first Santa-photo-shoot because I’m just so excited about the entire experience. Not only was the actual ’shoot’ fun and exciting, but the processing and packaging was fulfilling as well. As I slipped each photo into a greeting card I imagined how the parents would react when they opened the envelopes and saw their little beauties on Santa’s lap. Some images were hilarious, some were sweet, and, as I prepared each photo, I learned that just the idea of providing parents with a lasting image of a precious moment in time really rocks my world!!! My next photo-shoot isn’t until next Saturday, and already I cannot wait to get back at it!!! It’s a good sign.

What I really want to write about is Timothy. He showed up after the shoot was over and Santa had left the building, (with a very happy-looking Mrs. Claus I might add,)

“Is Santa gone?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Will he be here tomorrow?”

“No, but he’ll be here next Saturday,” I said as I packed up my equipment.

“Oh. I won’t be able to come next Saturday. Do you take the pictures of Santa?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give him my list?”

Timothy reached into his pocket and pulled out his carefully written Christmas list. Now, I had anticipated that I would have a good time taking photos of kids, I suspected that I would enjoy watching the magical exchange between Santa and each child he conversed with, but I didn’t expect that a child would consider me a part of that magic. Timothy surprised me by assuming that I had a direct line to Santa.

“Of course,” I said, checking the list, “is your name on it?”

“Nope; my name’s Timothy.”

“Okay Timothy.”

I have the list in my camera bag and will most definitely give it to Santa, along with some special-secret- signal. With any luck, Timothy will make it to the mall one Saturday before Christmas, and wouldn’t it be grand if Santa pulled Timothy’s list out from his pocket?

The Happy Clauses

I love Chinese Food!

Karen — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 15:00:35 +0000

“Everyone eats and drinks, yet few appreciate food.”

Confucious

Big Daddy-O was away and the girls and I had to run an errand in the late afternoon. It took longer than I had anticipated, so at 5:20 pm I decided to pick-up Chinese food for dinner instead of cooking at home.

“But I don’t like Chinese food, Mama,” Pip whined.

“Honey, you’ve never tried Chinese food, so you don’t know if you like it or not.” This next bit is rather shameful, “Do you know that you used to say that you didn’t like chocolate chip cookies? Then you tried them one day, and you liked them!” It wasn’t true, but at least it made her think about making uninformed decisions about food preferences!

We strolled into Q.F. and ordered the four-item combo; rice, veg, chow mein and prawns. Just for fun, I had them throw in a few spring rolls. (My mouth is watering just typing the words, ’spring rolls.’)

We got home and I had dinner laid out in a flash. Pip seemed to like the looks of her dinner after all, and chomped into her spring roll without hesitation; or plum sauce. ”Mama, I LOVE CHINESE FOOD!” were the words that I heard at least three times that evening.

“Fantastic, Pip!”

“I think I could eat a WHOLE spring roll all by myself,” she ate one and a half rolls, then polished off everything on her plate.

After dinner the girls ran around a bit while I cleaned up, then we all danced for awhile before bath-time.

Once I had put Fig to bed, it was time to read to Pip. I got onto her bed while she looked for her book of choice. When she joined me on the bed, she performed an energetic little bounce on all fours and surprised us both by purging a good portion of her dinner on the bed.

“I threw-up Mama.” Pip was very calm.

“Yes you did, Honey.” I began to strip the sheet.

“I don’t know why I did that Mama.”

I explained that perhaps her body wasn’t used to Chinese food, perhaps she ate too quickly, or perhaps it was just all of the activity straight after dinner.

By the time I finished my explanation, Pip was snuggled into bed and ready for her book. I had to let a small chuckle escape before I began reading. I couldn’t help myself; it was the vision of her exuberant, ‘I LOVE CHINESE FOOD MAMA!!!’ coupled with the sudden vomiting image. Pip didn’t see the irony, of course, but she laughed when I chuckled, just to keep my giggle company.

Feminine Fun

Karen — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 15:00:30 +0000

“A three-year-old child is a being who gets almost as much fun out of a fifty-six dollar set of swings as it does out of finding a small green worm.”

Bill Vaughn

When Fig is too quiet, it usually means trouble. I was in Pip’s bedroom, assisting with her fifteenth costume-change of the day, when I noticed that Fig wasn’t with us. ”Where’s Fig?” I asked Pip.

“I don’t know, Mama.” I called Fig’s name. There was no answer.

“It’s awfully quiet,” I said to Pip as I attached her butterfly wings. ”Let’s see what your sister’s up to.” I walked out of the bedroom calling Fig’s name. No sign of her in the bathroom, nor in the master-bedroom. She wasn’t in the kitchen.

“Here she is Mama!” Pip yelled from the living room. I turned the corner to find Fig carefully unwrapping her tenth tampon.

I did what any responsible disciplinarian would do; I grabbed my camera. I also took some solace in the fact that these weren’t my favourite brand of feminine protection. It was one of those emergency purchases at the Merville Store, where selection is limited. The unused members of the box had sat under the bathroom sink for months, and I suspect they were quite thrilled to see the light of day and to realize that they were to be used as toys.

Fig quickly discovered that the cardboard tubes fit perfectly on her fingers. ”Mama, Puppet!” she proudly announced.

After playing with the tampon puppets for a time, the inevitable happened…

but nothing prepared me for this:

I don’t think I’ll ever view feminine protection in quite the same way!

Lucky Button

Karen — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 15:00:35 +0000

“We hippos love our belly-b’s, they’re round and cute and funny, and there’s a place we take them to when summer days are sunny.”

Sandra Boynton

Pip has always adored her belly-button. It’s an impressive, round ‘outey,’ and she rubs it to soothe herself. It came as no surprise, therefore, when Pip brought her first ‘family drawing’ over to me the other day and I noticed that we all had belly-buttons. It seems that we’re destined to remain mouth-less for awhile, and poor Fig didn’t get arms, but at least we have our belly-b’s.

Grassman gets a trim

Karen — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:00:02 +0000

“Too bad that all the people who know how to run the country are busy driving taxicabs and cutting hair.”

George Burns

Do you remember Grassman? Well, he’s still around. He’s been hanging out on our kitchen counter with our jade plant, watching the fall storms blow through our yard. Some of his grass has turned brown from neglect, I’m afraid, and his facial features aren’t what they used to be, but he seems to be in good spirits nonetheless. He has a certain wisdom in his eyes; it’s as though he knows that he was little more than ‘craft of the week’ to my daughter, but somehow he doesn’t mind.

The other day I was tempted to dispose of Grassman, (perish the thought,) but I realized that Pip had yet to give him a hair-cut. I asked her if she was interested and, of course, she jumped at the chance.

I took a before photo:

Several photos during the haircut:

And of course, an ‘after’ photo:

Fig was very patient throughout the entire procedure, so she had earned some styling time. It was the first time she had ever actually held scissors on her own, so she was delighted to simply pose with Grassman instead of attempting to make any cuts.

I was surprised at how naturally Pip assumed the role of ‘hairstylist.’ She didn’t take her eyes off of Grassman whilst trimming, she talked to him throughout the cut, and when it was all said and done, she asked to have her client back because she had spotted one long, stray piece of grass that she’d missed. She had trouble cutting that last piece and sighed as she said, “We need an Elton.”

Elton cuts my husband’s hair.

Kettles, Pots and Brownies

Karen — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 15:00:42 +0000

“The more you eat, the less flavor; the less you eat, the more flavor.”

Chinese Proverb

We don’t typically eat dessert, but every once in awhile Big Daddy-O brings home some sugary delight when he goes grocery-shopping. Last night it was those evil little two-bite brownies. Ironically, Pip didn’t even know they were called ‘Two-bite Brownies’ when she took one nibble, then popped the rest of the entire brownie in her tiny little mouth. I found myself looking at a guilty chipmunk across the table.

“Pip, did you put the whole thing in your mouth?” I asked.

Her mouth was too full to speak; all she could do was flash a gooey, chocolate grin. ”Oh, Sweetie,” began my husband, “you don’t want to eat too fast. There’s no rush. You should eat your dessert slowly.”

Now, those of you who know my dear husband may be rolling your eyes right now because you realize that this is a PRIME example of the pot calling the kettle black. Firstly, my husband eats faster than our dog, and secondly, he has been known to have two helpings of dessert after consuming three servings of dinner! Granted, he doesn’t do this on a regular basis, but I’m not exaggerating!

At any rate, I couldn’t possibly let an opportunity like this go by without giving my husband a hard time. With a twinkle in my eye I said, in my most sarcastic voice, ”Pip, you should definitely listen to your father because he ALWAYS eats VERY slowly. He SAVOURS every single mouthful of his dessert; he chews SLOWLY and he NEVER, EVER puts too much food in his mouth.”

Big Daddy-O chuckled, and Pip, who had finished swallowing her brownie during my little monologue, asked if she could please have another.

“Sorry, Sweetie; ONE brownie after dinner and that’s all.”

“But Mama, I need two desserts.”

“Why is that, Pip?”

“Because I eat a lot faster than Daddy.”

Lord help me.

Nostalgia

Karen — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 15:00:45 +0000

“Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.”

Peter De Vries

When we were in Vancouver the week before last, my husband and I were filled with memories of our lives in the city. For some reason, we were often compelled to share little snippets of our past lives with our daughters. Interestingly enough, whenever we told Pip a story, she’d follow it up with one of her own. The conversations went something like this:

“Pip, do you know that your dad used to live on a boat? A long time ago, before you were born, I had a boat in this marina. Look right down there, that’s where I used to live. Isn’t that neat? When I had to take a shower, I’d walk over to The Rowing Club right over there. ” Big Daddy-O’s face would light up with pride at the end of one of his tales, but instead of hearing ‘Wow,’ or ‘That’s cool, Dad,’ from his daughter, he heard the following:

“Dad, when I was a little girl, before you and Mama were even born, I used to live on a boat, right down there. Do you see that? I would walk right over to that building to take a bath every night.”

Kind of takes the wind out of your sails. (Even when you no longer live on a boat.)

Poor Rubies

Karen — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 14:00:30 +0000

“Irony is just honesty with the volume cranked up.”

George Saunders

I made a big mistake the other night. I took Fig’s diaper off and let her dance around the living-room in her birthday suit. It was just before the girls’ bath and she was only going to be naked for a few minutes, so I thought it was safe. I was wrong. In the time it took me to walk to the bathroom to start running the water for their tub, Fig had pooped. Luckily, the healthy mountain of waste was on the floor, about five inches from the carpet. I called my husband in for support and he took the girls to the bathroom while I cleaned and disinfected the floor.

That evening, I was so tired and sick that I went to bed right after the girls fell asleep. My husband worked in his shop for awhile, but he turned in early as well. My point is, neither of us spent time in the living room that night.

The following morning I was sitting on the couch reading a book with Fig, and Pip was dancing around the living room in her ruby red slippers. ”Mama, I think Fig had a poop!” said Pip with a sour look on her face. I leaned over to Fig and inhaled. Sweetness.

“I don’t think so, Pip. Fig smells fine.”

“No she doesn’t Mama, I can smell poop.” I got up and walked over to where Pip was standing. I looked down at the carpet and realized, with great remorse, that we had overlooked a small portion of Fig’s deposit from the night before. It had blended into the design of our Indian carpet beautifully, but it looked disturbed, as though someone had been standing in it…..NO….NOT THE RUBY SLIPPERS!!!! I tried to remain calm for the sake of the children.

“Pip, I found a bit of Fig’s poop from last night on the carpet, and I’m afraid there may be some poop on your rubies. You’d better take them off and let me check.”

“Oh no, Mama, there is poop! There is Fig-poop on my rubies!!!!”

“It’s okay, Sweetie, I’ll be able to wash them. It’s not a problem.” I wasn’t nearly as confident as I sounded. The slippers are sparkly and textured; not the kind of shoe you can dip into soapy water or throw in the washing machine. This was going to be a delicate operation. In the meantime, I was impressed with Pip’s reaction. She calmly handed her shoes over to me and stared at the messy carpet. Fig was quite interested as well.

“Poop, Mama.”

“Yes, you’re right Fig, it’s poop. Don’t touch it girls, Mama has to clean it up.” As I cleaned Fig’s fecal matter for the second time in twelve hours, I was struck by the irony of the situation; Pip had only been wearing her ruby slippers indoors so that they wouldn’t get dirty.

After cleaning the carpet, I went to work on the shoes. You’ll be glad to know that an old toothbrush and some careful cleaning did the trick. The rubies are back on Pip’s feet, and the diaper is back on Fig’s bottom; for good.

Shoe-love

Karen — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 14:00:02 +0000

“I still have my feet on the ground, I just wear better shoes.”

Oprah Winfrey

I’ve never been a shoe-girl. I can think of one pair of slick black boots that I had a lengthy love affair with, but it ended badly when Lefty’s seam split up the back. I still compare new boots to that old pair, which isn’t healthy for any new relationship. Suffice it to say, shoe-shopping doesn’t really rock my world. I don’t window shop for shoes, I don’t know the designer shoe labels like Carrie did on ‘Sex in the City,’ and I’ve never gone out of my way to purchase a particular pair of shoes; until this past weekend. I was in Vancouver and I was on the lookout for ruby-red slippers for Pip.

On Thursday, our first day in the city, we three girls ‘strolled’ Robson street without any ruby luck, and Friday we looked on Commercial Drive and came up empty-handed once again, so I put out some feelers. As it turned out, my girlfriend Tracy had purchased a pair of red sparkly shoes for her niece at a store on West 4^th Avenue. She didn’t remember the name of the store, but she knew the general location. A Google search and a phone call to ‘TomaToes’ later, I learned that size 10 sparkly red shoes did indeed exist. Fabulous.

We woke up to a glorious Saturday morning, and for the first time since our arrival, our raincoats were not required. The morning was spent enjoying a family outing to the Aquarium, then Fig went down for a nap. I had made a hair appointment for 3:00 in Yaletown, but I had enough time before-hand to drive to Tomatoes and pick up the shoes. Just enough time. .

Traffic was heavy, and by the time I found parking on West 4th Avenue, I had only twenty-five minutes before I was due at the hair salon. It was going to be tight. I ran the block-and-a-half to the shoe store, and when I got to Tomatoes and set eyes on the precious rubies, I literally squealed with delight. They were PERFECT!!! The salesclerk started ringing in the sale and, before I even opened my purse, I realized with horror that I had left my wallet in my raincoat-pocket back in the apartment!!! What an idiot!!! I had no cash, no credit cards, no bank card; just a cheque-book.

Pleading with Mr. Tomato didn’t work; he would not take my cheque, so I asked him to put the shoes aside for me. I would be back. Come hell or high water I was going to get those ruby slippers, but I had a more immediate concern to deal with…it was now fifteen minutes until my hair appointment and it would take at least half-an-hour to retrieve my wallet and get to Yaletown. I called my hairstylist and asked if she’d take a cheque. No problem. Okay. It wasn’t going to be a total disaster. I called my husband and asked him to leave my wallet with the concierge since I didn’t have my own set of keys for the apartment. Thankfully, I caught him before he had taken the girls out for the afternoon.

After a very satisfying cut and style, my focus shifted to the ruby slippers. I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West in my obsession to get my hands on those little red darlings. I drove back to the apartment, got my wallet from Steven the concierge, drove across town to Tomatoes and purchased the shoes. A couple of hours later, I arrived back at the apartment and was greeted by a very excited Pip.

“Did you find my ruby red slippers Mama?” (My husband had the camera ready.)

“I’m happy to say that I did, Pip, and they’re magnificent! Here they are.” I passed the brown bag to Pip and she pulled out the little yellow shoe-box. She unwrapped the shoes and literally gasped with excitement. I think I was hugged and thanked ten times that evening.

I’ve never gone to such lengths to get a pair of shoes, but after witnessing the look of shoe-joy on Pip’s face, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.