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Baby Bear goes downstairs and sits in his small chair at the table, he looks into his small bowl. It is empty. “Who’s been eating my porridge?” he squeaks.

Papa Bear arrives at the big table and sits in his big chair. He looks into his big bowl, and it is also empty. “Who’s been eating my porridge?!!” he roars.

Momma Bear puts her head through the serving hatch from the kitchen and yells, “How many times do we have to go through this with you idiots? It was Momma Bear who got up first, it was Momma Bear who woke everyone in the house, it was Momma Bear who made the coffee, it was Momma Bear who unloaded the dishwasher from last night, and put everything away, it was Momma Bear who went out in the cold early morning air to fetch the newspaper, it was Momma Bear who set the damn table, it was Momma Bear who put the friggin cat out, cleaned the litter box, and filled the cat’s water and food dish, and, now that you’ve decided to drag your sorry bear-asses downstairs and grace Momma Bear’s kitchen with your grumpy presence, listen good, cause I’m only going to say this one more time.

“I HAVEN’T MADE THE DAMN PORRIDGE YET.”

Worth a snicker at least, eh? I post this one a little bit sheepishly, because in all honesty, it’s Beloved who does a lot of this stuff around our place. I’m out the door to catch the bus by 6:30 each morning, and he either stays home with the boys or gives them breakfast, gets them dressed and brings them over to Bobbie’s house. By himself. Not bad, eh?

As I mentioned before Christmas, he’s been asked to teach in a new faculty at work, so he’s teaching almost full-time this term, but he managed to arrange his schedule so he’s still home one full day with the boys. I’m so grateful for this, not only because I want to maximize the time the boys spend with one of their parents at least, but also because we need all the help we can get on the domestic front.

I have to admit, in a “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” kind of way, I never realized how good it’s been. With Beloved home two days out of five, there was someone to feed the dishwasher, perpetuate the endless laundry cycle and stem the tide of toy trains that threaten to take over every inch of floor space on a daily basis. Heck, he even made the beds every now and then. The house is never spotless, but at least it’s within arm’s reach of presentable most days. Sheesh, we even let our relationship with our cleaning lady peter out after the summer. I’ve been spoiled.

Now that we have to switch gears, I think we’re in trouble. With Beloved covering the daily tidying and minutia, I used to spend the little window of precious time I am willing to waste on devote to housekeeping and chores on deep cleaning. Now, by the time I make dinner, clean up after dinner, load the dishwasher, sort the laundry, and pick up the daily toy dump – let alone pay attention to the boys for a minute or two – the evening is done. Lord knows when we’ll get around to cleaning the bathroom, or picking up the clutter in the bedrooms. And I can only cringe every time I see the the bare gypsum board and bits of torn wallpaper in three rooms, where we peeled off the wallpaper border with the intention to paint – last fall.

All this to say I didn’t realize how lucky I was to have Beloved at home, taking up the slack. He’s done a great job with the boys, but he’s also taken on a big chunk of the other domestic stuff that keeps a house running smoothly. It’s been a year this month since I came back to work, and it looks like we’ll have to start again from scratch, finding a way to make all this work. I think the first step is to find another cleaning lady!

How long is it until the end of the semester?

So here’s a question for you, because I am enjoying all the activity in the comment sandbox recently: if someone offered you a gift certificate for a year of any kind of domestic service (cleaner, cook, gardener, valet, personal shopper, masseuse, hairstylist – whatever) free of charge, which would you choose?

Speaking of fours… as seen everwhere on the Interweb these days:

Four jobs I’ve had
1. Scooping ice cream at Baskin Robbins
2. Assessing tax returns (Only thing I ever failed in school? Income tax returns. Go figure.)
3. Marketing for a program that recycles used computers into classrooms
4. Communications advisor

Four movies I’ve could watch over and over
1. Moulin Rouge
2. The Princess Bride
3. Anything featuring Monty Python
4. Bull Durham

Four places I’ve lived
1. With my folks in London, Ontario
2. With six students in an 80 year old house in the Glebe (Ottawa)
3. On my own in a tiny apartment in Old Ottawa South
4. With my boys in beautiful suburban Barrhaven (also a neighbourhood of Ottawa)

Four TV shows I love
1. Lost
2. Corner Gas
3. Scrubs
4. Grey’s Anatomy (kind of cheating to put that one on the list, cuz I’ve only ever seen two episodes, but the one I saw last week was one of those recap episode and all I could think of was, How did I miss this show until now?)

Four places I’ve been on vacation
1. Cooperstown NY (baseball hall of fame)
2. Las Vegas (I was 12)
3. Paris (twice)
4. Florida (bunch of times, all before age 15)

Four blogs I visit daily
Read the sidebar bit about my ideal bloggy dinner party. They’re the milk in my cornflakes.

Four Favorite Foods
1. Guacamole
2. Barbequed steak and baked onions at my parent’s house
3. Ruffled plain potato chips and Helluva Good french onion chip dip
4. Just about anything that gets delivered to the door

Four places I’d rather be
1. Curled up on the back patio in the shade watching the boys play in the sun
2. Driving the back roads with a hot coffee and sleeping baby(ies) in the back seat
3. Browsing just about anywhere, from a flea market to a book store to Ikea
4. At a daytime matinee with Beloved, holding hands and sharing popcorn in the dark

Four CDs I listened to most recently
Eponymous – The Tragically Hip
Maroon – The Barenaked Ladies
Wiggly Safari – The Wiggles with Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin
Oh What a Feeling 2, Disc 3

Last four vehicles I’ve owned
1991 Mazda 323 (bought new, drove the hell out of it, traded it for $1k )
1998 Pontiac Sunfire (leased)
2001 Ford Focus Wagon (leased)
2004 Ford Focus Wagon (bought; identical to previous Focus wagon except for colour)

I think I’m the last person on the Interweb to do this meme, but if you haven’t yet and your muse has gone out for smokes, feel free to consider yourself tagged. Drop me a note and let me know you played!

There are four little words I really need to hear right now. Four words that will probably save my sanity, if not the future well being of my sons. Four little words.

It’s just a phase.

Please remind me it’s just a phase, and tell me it’s a short one at that. I was reading one of the blogs in the momosphere, I don’t even remember which one, and she was lamenting about the terrible twos. She asked for advice, and her commenters said something along the lines of, you think two is bad, wait until three and a half.

Yeah.

Is anybody else finding the few months before the fourth birthday particularly trying? I think we’re caught in a double-whammy, with Simon in his terrible twos (officially, less than 20 days from now) and Tristan coming up on four. It hasn’t been pretty.

With Simon, at least I get where he is coming from. I understand, from a behavioural and cognitive perspective, what’s going on in his world and why he is so frustrated. (For great insight into the two year old mind and how to work with it, take a look at Marla’s post from last week.) And by luck and default, I’ve figured out some coping strategies. What I’m having a hard time dealing with is how he expresses his frustration – he hits or throws things or kicks things. What’s most troubling is seeing my own bad behaviours (I don’t always cope well with stress) coming from a two year old.

With Tristan, it seems to be more of an emotional thing. He’s argumentative. And obstinate. And whiney – oh, the whines. I know it’s all fairly normal; I think I read somewhere whining peaks around age four. But he’s a meltdown waiting for a trigger lately, and I’m not so sure that’s normal. Whenever he doesn’t get his way, he says things like “Nobody wants me” and “Nobody understands me”. I didn’t expect that one for another ten years or so. Is that on the developmental curve for preschoolers, too?

I have to say, I’m quite pleased that I’ve figured out how to manipulate at least one of the boys in my house. I read a lot more of the ‘literature’ on parenting (everything from books to magazines to blogs to message boards) than Beloved, and I’ve been looking for a way to dial drag him into the conversation. I found out they have a lot of the more popular parenting experts on videocasette, and if it’s on TV, Beloved will sit through just about anything! (kiss kiss, sweetie) In the summer we watched Thomas Phelan’s 1-2-3 Magic, and last week we watched Sal Severe’s video workshop on “How to Behave So Your Children Will, Too.”

In the Sal Severe video, he was saying the parents who have the hardest struggles with behaviour often have children that are bright (check!), have strong verbal skills (check!) and are persistent. Well, if we define ‘persistent’ as ‘stubborn as the day is long’, then yah, I think we qualify.

So tell me, mothers who have been there or are there – is three and a half to four really one of those known ‘phase’ times? And how did you cope? And are there more minefields ahead, or have I done all the hard work once we get through this one and we’ll just rest on our laurels from here on in?

(Editorial note: I wrote this two weeks ago, when I thought we were supposed to post our goodies. I STILL don’t know who my secret santa is!)

The suspense is killing me! Who who WHO was my Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Extravaganza Secret Santa? Whomever she is, she has put Secret Santas the world over to shame.

Everything came the week before Christmas in a nice big box with a return address but no name, just to let me stew in my own curiousity.

Inside, there were two boxes marked open me first and open me second. Each box had three compartments in it. (I told you, she’s the best Secret Santa ever!!!) And each of the six compartments had not only a little gift, but a little handwritten note addressing various things I’d written in my ‘101 things about me’ post, the one I pointed to from my questionnaire.

There was homemade shortbread (BEST SECRET SANTA EVER!) with a note that said, “In the darkness, there are no shadows.” There was a lovely sparkly heart ornament from Pier One and a Pier One gift certificate with notes about my silly fear of wide open spaces.

There was a little keychain photo album (way cute!) with a note that said, “Sometimes wide open spaces can make us feel small… weak… afraid…” and then the most sparkly, gorgeous butterfly ornaments (remember, I have often admitted to coveting sparkly and shiny things) with a note that read, “… but you are a very important part of this huge universe. Just ask your loved ones.”

Did I mention best. Secret. Santa. Ever??

And finally, a little stamp pad and a stamp to personalize my books. I mean, it’s a day later and I’m still blown away. Heck, my best friends couldn’t have put together a more lovely, appropriate, charming package.

And you know what? I got all the way to the end, and I still have NO IDEA who it’s all from. I’m beginning to think it’s from the real Santa, because even he could take a few pointers from this Secret Santa.

So come out, come out, whoever you are – I’m dying of curiousity!

And thank you for the most extraordinary gifts. Really, I mean it!

Edited once more to add: AHA!! After reading the comments, I started to scour the blogosphere, and my very first guess was right! My brilliant and generous secret santa (best secret santa EVER, you will recall) is one of the funniest people who play in the comment box, Kristina from Freakazojd’s Palace. She ROCKS!!!!

Thank you, Kristina! Mwah!!!!!

Saw this over at Phantom Scribbler, and totally couldn’t resist.

MyHeritage uses photo recognition technology to analyze your uploaded photo and tell you which celebrities you most resemble. How could I resist?

I got ten celebrity matches to my face. My ego insists that I tell you that the first female on the list was Isabella Rossellini (54% match) followed by Chelsea Clinton (53% match).

And then to shut up and walk away.

However, in the name of truth and disclosure, I must also admit that the first five returns on the list were (blush):

Zinedine Zidane – 68% match. (I know. I also said, ‘Who?’ Apparently he’s a French soccer star. Right.)
Oliver Stone – 66% match
Dennis (yikes) Quaid – 61% match
Pete Sampras – 60% match
Billy Bob Thornton – 53 % match

Hmph.

Couldn’t have been Angelina Jolie instead of Billy Bob, could it? Hell, even resembling Brad Pitt would have made me feel a little better.

I think I’ll take my Isabella Rossellini and cut my losses.

I can’t decide if I’m giddy or ashamed. I think I’m somewhere in between.

I’m giddy because I’ve just been on the phone talking to the elementary school where I’ll be registering Tristan in February for the junior kindergarten session that starts in September.

I’m ashamed because I caved in to my own hypocrisy and am registering him in a Catholic school.

Oh, the angst!

There were a few factors that helped me decide on this particular school. Just before Christmas, there was an ongoing series in the daily newspaper about a school’s preparations for their annual nativity pageant. They were about half way through their series, which I think spanned eight or ten days, before I realized it was the school across the street. I read the last few instalments with interest, and realized that the school, with less than 500 students in JK through grade 6, has a fully realized music program and a drama teacher.

An elementary school with a solid arts program. Be still my heart!

And then, on the last day before Christmas, I was talking about the school and the pageant with the boys’ caregiver, Bobbie. Bobbie’s two sons also go to this school, so it makes afterschool care basically a non-issue. I found out that day that the school also offers a French immersion program starting right from junior kindergarten. After my endless years of trying to force my unilingual brain to accept a second language, I am beyond delighted to give my kids a gift like this.

(My mother is less enthusiastic about the French immersion thing. She believes, as I used to, that immersion makes kids jacks of all languages and master of none. But with me as a mother, I think the kids stand a pretty good chance of having a firm grip on the vagaries of the English language, and I can scrape by enough in French to help them with their homework up until the second grade at least. I just have to keep taking lessons myself so I remain a level or two ahead of them!)

Having agonized through the decision-making process, there was only the minor (insert nervous giggle) issue of the fact that the boys are not yet officially Catholics. When I called the school to ask about enrollment processes she said all we need to present are his birth certificate (check!), his immunization record (check!) and his baptismal certificate (sound of crickets chirping).

“Uh, um,” I stammered, knowing that the next three minutes of conversation would probably set the tone for my child’s entire institutional educational experience (who me, hyperbolize?). “We, um, haven’t exactly done that yet. But we’re going to, really soon!” I said, trying to sound as religious as possible.

I could picture Tristan’s file being moved from the glowing white “faithful” pile down the escalator to the “heathen” pile in the basement storage closet.

“Are you or your husband Catholics?” she asked piously. (Okay, scratch that, she asked it nicely. Besides, Stephen King says you shouldn’t use adverbs in attributive dialogue.) And I hurried to assure her that yes, of course we were, while willing myself with my entire being not to keep yapping and tell her about the divorce, Beloved’s lack of confirmation and the many nights I lay awake conflicted by my own doubts about organized religion. “Oh then, that’s no problem,” she assured me. “Just bring in a copy of your baptismal certificate, or your husband’s, and we’ll be on our way.”

(sound of crickets chirping)

Baptismal certificate, eh? I had one, once upon a time. I would have had to present it to get married in the Church, for my practice marriage back in 1989. And I probably left it with the ex-laws, along with all my other important papers, that I ditched in my rush to get the hell out of there back in 1993. I sent Beloved off to scour his keepsake boxes, and while he could come up with his 34 year old baptismal candle branded with the relevant details, I don’t think it would have fit in the photocopier.

In the end, I called the Church where I was baptized, and they’re sending me off a spanking fresh copy of my own certificate. For free! Tomorrow! Okay, for that kind of service, I have to take back at least some of the nasty things I’ve said about the Church over the years – the government could take a few lessons on efficency and customer service when it only takes 24 hours to retrieve, replicate and send a 36 year old record.

So, the boys will be attending Catholic school. While I’ve spent a lot of time agonizing over it in the past four years, I’ve come to an uneasy peace with our decision. We might even start going to church. Sometimes.

Hey, it’s a start.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be blathering on about a blog that only has three posts in it, but this one looks like a keeper. Remember just before Christmas when I was crowing about being featured in the sidebar of a Toronto Star article on the Momosphere (Ann, I still love that word) in general, and my idol Jen in particular?

(pauses for breath – crikey, that’s a lot of links in one paragraph)

Well, the Andrea Gordon, the reporter who wrote the article, just started her own blog under the Star’s banner, and I wanted to say welcome and good luck.

It’s been maybe eight or ten months since I stopped nursing Simon. And just now I’m getting around to retiring my maternity bras. (Boys beware, there be girl talk ahead.)

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, let me tell you about nursing bras. They are stretchy, they are soft, they are as comfy as your favourite jammies. And, after two years of use and abuse, there’s about as much elastic left in them as there is integrity in election advertising.

Maternity bras are not about giving you a better silhouette, they are not about making the melons look firm and ripe. They are about giving a squalling baby easy access to his lunch while still providing enough support that you can run down the stairs without poking your own eye out. (And, if you are less than a D cup, no offense, but I’m not talking to you right now. I’ve always wanted to be able to wear one of those adorable little camisole tops in lieu of a bra, or one of those cute cotton numbers with the matching panties. That’s not a bra, that’s a toy. I’m talking about industrial strength bras here, bras with a real job to do.)

So the comfort factor is a large part of the reason why I’m still wearing maternity bras almost a year after I finished nursing. (After having two babies in two years, my pre-maternity bras are no longer an option. If you’ve been there, you know what I mean.) Another major factor is sheer laziness my busy and fulfilling daily schedule. But the real reason is, I hate bra shopping with a white-hot burning passion.

I’ve always hated bra shopping. No matter what kind of mood you are in when you start bra shopping, you will leave the experience feeling bulgy, saggy and demoralized. Bra shopping undermines self-esteem like the worst kind of ex-boyfriend. You can take 50 bras into the changeroom and none of them will fit. Some fit okay over the ribs but pucker under the arms. Some give you torpedo boobs. (Ah, the google traffic that phrase will bring.) Some give you muffin-top bulges over the cup. Some dig into your side and grate on you like your mother-in-law’s voice. Some cut into your shoulder so deeply you can see bone under the grooves. There is no perfect bra, there is only good enough.

All of which makes it nothing short of a miracle that I found myself in the unmentionables section of a department store the other day on my lunch hour, having been drawn in by a plethora of red “40% off” signs. Having only the vaguest idea what size I might actually be but caught up in the moment, I started grabbing boxes willy-nilly. I grabbed some with underwire; I grabbed some with lycra; I grabbed some that were white and I grabbed some in radiant jewel tones. I must have tried on a dozen bras and you know what? I found two that I loved. Not just liked – I heart these bras.

Who would have guessed that it was possible to have a bra that is comfortable AND provides support? I stood in the fitting room looking at myself in the mirror, thinking ‘Oh, they’re supposed to be way up there?’ Who knew that even after two babies, your nipples don’t have to hang out with your navel?

You know what the best part is? When your ta-tas aren’t sagging down to your waistline, even a striped turtleneck looks pretty good!

Hey you! Yes, I’m talking to you, the one who drops by here almost every day and never says a peep. You read, you leave a digital footprint, you go, and I have no idea who you are.

Guess what, today is your day. As read on Mimilou, according to Papernapkin, it’s International DeLurking Week! (Actually, they said it was National DeLurking Week, but we’ve crossed the border and now it’s an International incident.)

So drop me a note and say hello. If it’s your first time here, or if you drop by every day – whatever, just click on the comment link and have at it.

You know you want to. All the cool kids are doing it. Don’t make me beg, I really have no shame…

What do you think about getting paid for blogging? I mean, most bloggers I know would jump at the chance (me included, of course). It’s the holy grail of blogging, a paid gig.

But at what price? I’ve been wondering about blog ads like AdSense. Have you ever thought about signing up? With more than 100 hits a day, I’m sure I’d make at least a dime, maybe even a quarter, each month. Actually, I have no idea what the rates are, but it can’t be too much because even my favourite bloggers don’t seem to be all that much closer to the retirement chalet in Provence.

What do you think of those ads? I have to admit, when I see a blog has ads it immediately knocks my opinion of the blog down an infinitessimal amount – nothing that interesting stories well written wouldn’t overcome. But, I am a bit of a snob that way.

And yet, I’m also not independently wealthy, and a part of me wonders why I wouldn’t want to have a few extra pennies each month. Anybody have any experience, pro or con, with blog ad programs? I really don’t know much about them at all.

And what do you think of blogging for profit? Do those ads change your opinion of a blog?

Speak, for I have nothing worth saying today.