Hooters: It’s Where You have a Hoot!

As my son and I walked through the  mall attempting to decide where to eat.  His eyes looked up at the bright orange sign and said, “Why don’t we give Hooters a try?”

I sighed, “Umm. Let’s go somewhere else that you might like to try!”

“Mom! Everybody says Hooters is the place where you have a hoot!”

“A hoot?”

“Yes! A hoot!

“Who says that?”

“I don’t know! I just heard it.”

His nine-year old eyes innocently looking up at me, “Can we go?”

“It’s not really a place to have a hoot. It’s just a restaurant. And I have heard the food is terrible.”

“But I want to try it!”

“How about you pick something else? And we can have ice cream afterwards?”

I know the great parental bribe! I have never pretended to be  above it. At the same time, it was my last attempt to change the subject. How did I explain to my son that I did not want to eat at Hooters because the woman were objectified in short shorts and low-cut tank tops. Was it really time for this conversation?

“Mom! Come on! Please! Please!”

If anyone was stubborn it was him and he wasn’t giving up!

“It looks fine. Can we go?”

And with that I diverted the subject, “Let’s have lunch later, and go check-out the skateboard shop.”

Crisis averted! But who knows for how long?

When is the right time to discuss the objectification of woman and sex? Can it be avoided? If so, for how long?

 

Bubble Wrap and Freedom

As the end of the school year comes around the bend, I  have watched with pride how far my little men have  strided  and grown learning from their own failures and successes. I watch in awe how spirited they have become -  I wonder is it time to unravel some of the bubble wrap that surrounds them? It was just this weekend my nine-year old taught me an important  lesson knowing when it’s time to let go of the reins.

“Mom! Do we have any strawberries?”

“Yes! They are in the fridge. I’ll get them for you in a minute.”

“It’s okay Mom! I got it!”

I hear him open the utensil drawer, shifting through it, and peaked my head around the corner.

“What are you looking for?”

“The cutting knife.”

“I’ll cut them for you.”

“No mom! I can do it!”

Instinctively, I walked over getting the knife out of the drawer ready to begin slicing the strawberries for him. He put out his hand for the knife looking exasperated.

“Mom! I’ve done it before.”

“When?”

“When you were gone one afternoon and dad was downstairs working in the basement. I just did it. And I didn’t cut my fingers. Just let me do it.”

I handed over the knife and hovered over him watching intensely as he chopped up the strawberries.

“Be careful. Watch your fingers.”

“I know Mom.”

It was with that he carefully cut each strawberry,paying attention to every detail, ensuring his little  fingers were safely away from the blade.

Once he was finished, “See I did it! You know I’m going to be in grade 4 next year. I can do this stuff.”

It was with that small moment of hovering over my son, watching him grow to become more independent and responsible. I knew it was time to loosen the reins and give him a little bit more freedom.  If I want him  grow to become the confident young man he is meant to be, I can’t always hover, and  must slowly unravel  just a little bit more of  the bubble wrap that I have constricting him.

Do you think we give children less responsibility these days? How do you know when it’s time to unravel the bubble wrap?

The Threat of Liver

I have a confession my son is a picky eater and I have failed at expanding his food horizon. In the past, I scanned every parenting magazine, forum, and sought advice from friends. But nothing seemed to entice him to eat if he didn’t want to eat what was on his plate.

I am also guilty of catering to his whims, and have been known to cook two separate meals. One for him and one for us. However, our last supper turned into a disaster. I had made lasagna, fresh bread, and  salad. What’s not to like?

My son looks at it, picks at it, twists it on his fork, his pleading eyes look at me, “Do I have to eat this?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“I don’t like lasagna!”

“Since when? You ate it without complaint the other week.”

“May I just be excused and go to my room?”

It was with that one question something inside me said, “No! You will sit there and finish it. It’s lasagna and there is nothing gross about it. So eat it.”

“Do I have too? I just don’t like the taste.’

“It tastes like spaghetti.”

“Fine. I’m not eating.”

“Fine. You sit there until it’s eaten.”

My husband looked surprised, my youngest son Robert gobbled his with delight, and Alex sat there with tears welling up in his eyes.

“I just don’t like it!”

“Alex do you even know what gross food is?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t think so. How about this? You either eat this lasagna or I go to the store and purchase liver. I will come home and you can help me cook it then you will eat it. It will be then you will discover what gross food is!”

“I’m not eating it!”

“You won’t eat the lasagna then you sit at this table until I get back from the store.”

I went to the entryway, grabbed my keys, my purse, and put on my shoes. My husband looked up pale wondering if he too had to eat liver. He also knew that I meant business and sat quietly watching the events unfold before his eyes.

” This is your last chance! Eat the lasagna! Or I will leave, go to the store, and buy liver! You will then eat it and learn the meaning of gross. The choice is up to you.”

I then began the final countdown, hand on the door knob, ready to leave “10, 9, 8, 7, 6,5…”"

“Fine. I’ll eat the lasagna. I hate it but I will eat it.”

It with that one threat of liver which forced my picky eater to finish his plate of lasagna. I still shudder the thought of cooking liver and onions. Even I can’t stomach the stuff…

Do you have a creative solution to getting picky eaters to eat? Is there one food that you can’t stand the taste of?

A Mop! A Mop! A Cleaning Lady for a Mop!

I once had ambitions  just like Richard the III and dreamed of my own matriarchal  kingdom. It would be  a shiny beacon that would make Martha Stewart envious of my organizational skills. In the past week I have washed, scrubbed toilets, and de-cluttered  almost all of the closets. It was only within moments my homes squeaky clean appearance was tarnished…

The aftermath of my madness was questionable, but what lead to this madness? Was it that I gave Mr. MBA too much free rein last night when he did the laundry? Or was it  giving the kids too much freedom in their room  not policing where they put their toys and laundry? I’m unsure where or when my madness occurred but when it did everyone took cover!

I awoke this morning groggy, getting breakfast ready, packing lunches, listening to the sound of my coffee brewing in the tassimo (my one trusted friend ) it was when my little man yelled, “Mom where are my socks?”

“Your Dad put them away last night they should be in your top drawer.”

“They’re not!”

My second son, “Mine are not either!”

My husband came trudging down the stairs in his wrinkled dress pants and shirt. I gave him the once over “Did you stuff the dryer full?”

“Yes!”

“Why would you do that everything is going to be wrinkled!”

“Don’t worry I’ll fix it.”

He went downstairs and put his wrinkled clothes in the empty dryer. I thought to myself not a word just I just need my coffee.

“Mom! I still don’t have any socks!”

I wandered upstairs and looked at his room. My ears began to turn red “Where is your floor? What have you done? I just cleaned this yesterday!”

He gave me his sweet eyes, “I don’t know!”

I went back to the kitchen to discover the dog in the garbage. It was everywhere the remnants of last nights spaghetti sauce. I was biting my tongue, keeping my cool, the dog gave me the look, and took cover in her crate.

Mr. MBA reappeared smoothed out and ready to face his day! “Did you put away the kids clothes last night?”

“Yup!”

“That’s funny I can’t find their socks. I’ll go look in the laundry room.”

As I hit the bottom of the basement steps,  and entered the family room. I looked and discovered a pile of clean socks in the centre of the floor.

“Mr. MBA could you come here!”

I heard the foot steps slowly come down the stairs. “Yes!”

“What’s this?”

“It’s the kids socks.”

“Why are they in the middle of the floor?”

“I thought they could just match as they go!”

“You thought? You thought? You thought they could  match and go?”

“Is that what your mother did?”

“Well no!”

“So do you think I want to look at a pile of socks every time I watch TV?”

Mr. MBA slinked up the stairs “I think I better go now.”

All of my Better Home and Garden dreams thwarted with a blink of an eye. I felt dizzy with the onset of madness and all  I could do was declare  “A Mop! A Mop! A Cleaning Lady for a Mop!”

Have you ever been driven to madness?

Parenting 101: Teaching the Proper Terminology

As I dragged my children to the Bay for the search for the perfect father’s day gift. We began to pass the lingerie department  filled with lacy frills and pink panties. My youngest son got that special glint in his eye and piped up, “Hey Robert! Do you need pink booby covers and panties?”

My oldest face turned scarlet red and exclaimed, “No! I don’t need pink booby covers! “

My youngest retorted, ” You were just singing Barbie girl and if you sing that you need pink booby covers!”

“You are so going to get it!”

My oldest then attempted to pummel Alex in the middle of the department store.  I glanced over my shoulder and noticed three blue haired ladies staring at us unamused by the  impropriety of my children. I wanted to run and hide! But instead being the dilligent parent that I am…I broke up the brawl with one vocal threat of no treats  for the rest of the afternoon.  

 I then sternly  corrected them, “The proper term is not booby covers. It is bra!”

I then walked ten feet ahead of pretending they were not my children. Ahhh! The silent joys of motherhood!

The Cure for Bitter Housewife Syndrome

It was one of those busy non-stop errand running and taxi service days. I had an hour to get to soccer and feed the kids. It is at those pivotal moments that fast food comes in handy and quick. So, we scurried off to Wendy’s digesting our greasy, non-organic hamburgers and fries. We hopped back in the car and away our merry caravan went off into the frenetic city streets.

My son was overjoyed with the CD he received from his kids meal, “Mom! Can we listen to this?”

I attempted to show enthusiasm, “Yay! A Mini-Pops CD! I can’t wait to listen to it!”

I was about to go into a spiel about the importance of good music “Back in my day…” sinking  back into my teenage memories of Sonic Youth, clutching the plastic wrapped tape in my hand, playing “Goo” and “Cool Thing” over and over again. Oh! How I loved my pink hair, combat boats, and Ramones t- shirts.

So, as I was about to say “Back in My day…”  I stopped and realized that if I finished this statement I was admitting I was getting older and my Peter Pan ways would have none of that….Instead, I bit my tongue and grimaced  prepared for  the inevitable Barbie Girl or Cotton Eyed Joe to invade my car space.

I slid the CD into the player and with gusto a whole other magical era of the mid-eighties appeared taking me back to my early youth. As soon as I heard the beat, the distinct voice, I knew it was “Somebody’s Watching Me!”  I remembered my grade three dance moves like it was yesterday, and didn’t miss a beat to the song.

So I began to drive with arms flailing, my body having some form of spastic attack, and the children looking at me like their mother had been possessed by some eighties pop god. However, this one song was relief from the monotony of the day and I let my freak flag shine!

 So, if you saw a mad woman in a little car, driving, belting out “Somebody’s Watching Me” to her heart’s content. At the same time exclaiming to her children, “Why aren’t you singing?” It was me!  I will not apologize for my smooth car moves !  It saved my day from bad food, tedious errands, and helped remove the grimace of bitter housewife syndrome.

Bargain Shop Panties! Oh My!

Every once in a blue moon, we put on CBC radio on a Saturday night, and we go out for a late snack. I love Saturday night Blues on CBC.  On this particular outing Little Miss Higgins popped on the radio with Bargain Shop Panties. It’s a fun, innocent, infectious song, which you will be tapping your feet and singing for weeks.

For the full recorded version of the song check-out Little Miss Higgins on CBC Radio 3.

It was to my surprise the little ears in the backseat were listening and began to giggle hysterically.

Robert exclaimed, “Did she just say panties”

Alex face blushed, giggling, “I think she did.”

They giggled, laughed, and giggled some more.

Robert exclaimed, “I can’t wait to tell my friends about it at school!”

I paused for a moment, “It’s probably not a good idea – they might not get the jest of it!”

“They will mom!”

I imagined school yard conversation and cringed.

“I just don’t think it’s a wise idea! Your teacher might not approve.”

“Oh!”

The song ended and the boys pretty much laughed themselves to sleep that night.  However, The song is so infectious and catchy – my boys sing it all of the time even at the play park.  It’s at this time I know my mother has gotten retribution for my torment of her granny panty shopping ways.

“Alex could you not sing it here…”

“Why?”

“Some people just don’t like to hear about bargain shop panties?”

“But isn’t that what you wear?”

My face went three cringes of red, as I looked at the parents three feet away from  me(wondering if they were eavesdropping), and wanted to crawl under a hole.

“No it’s not! Why are we having this conversation?”

I walked away, back to the bench, resumed my book, and pretended it was not my child.  I thought to myself karma has a funny way of getting you back, and began to hum a little Bargain Shop Panties.

 

A Lesson from Mother Nature

 I had ambitious plans this weekend which included completing my retaining wall, planting my garden, and enjoying a nice Sunday at Elk Island National Park. However, Mother Nature had other plans for me.

 I woke up Saturday morning ready to face the day but as I looked out my window. Gasped at the snow and rain. I felt a strong sense of defeat. I began to curse Mother Nature and the Sun gods, wondering only why? I realized no awkward sun dance, or rare offering of pistachio nuts would appease the gods to grant us sun.

After, I ranted, complained, and stomped my feet. I played three solid hours of board games from Monopoly to Clue and subjected myself to watching Little Hercules with the kids. After my Saturday afternoon of non -stop fun was complete. I came to the astonishing conclusion that if I can’t win over Mother Nature and her crew of Sun gods I may as well work with them.

It was on Sunday I put this theory to the test. I woke-up and it was still raining with a mixture of snow.

 My husband had a relieved smirk on his face, “I guess we are not doing that 10km death march today?”

I gave him the stink eye.”What are you afraid we are going to melt?”

He looked slightly panicked, “We’re not going out in that for a 10km hike with the kids!”

“Fine, Let’s compromise – We can do a short 3km hike, and drive the bison loop.”

“It’s raining.”

“So!”

My husband looked sceptical and was prepared for the worse as we hopped in the car, setting out on our Merry Way to Elk Island National Park.  The children were also not the most enthused bunch and wondered why we couldn’t do this on a sunny day.

My only pep talk was, “What are you wimps! Scared of a little weather! Chickens!”

My oldest responded with an eye roll and a “Whatever! You are, so, mature Mom.”

I ignored his passive complaint, and offered up a variety of Tim bits. They happily noshed as we drove on. Once we arrived, we hit up the Bison Loop.  We drove around the corner and were immediately greeted by a herd of bison.

The kids eyes lit up and they went wild with excitement!  They were thrilled to see the Bison so close to our car. However, petrified at the same time, my husband and I debated, how close is too close to these woolly creatures. Needless, to say they grazed, lumbered, and ignored us for the most part. We were just another group of humans passing through for the bison show.

After our encounter with supper, we decided on a short 3 km walk on the Amisk Wuche Trail. It was still pouring rain and my husband saw his last chance to convince me to opt out.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

I sighed, “It is just rain!”Suck it up!”

We hopped on the snow cover trail, wandering across the boardwalks of kettle lakes, and beaver ponds.  The kids delighted in snowball fights, the family of chipmunks, and the loons on the lake. We were raucous and loud being the only people on the trail.

As we hopped back in the car, muddy and drenched from the rain, my oldest son looked at me and said, “This maybe one of the best days ever.”

So, thank you Mother Nature for teaching me to go with the flow, and to work with the weather.  I know without the rain-it wouldn’t have been nearly such a fun day. However, I’m ready for a little sun. Please!

Apologies for the poor quality of pictures. My camera fizzled this weekend and I had no choice but to use the blackberry.

Prince Charming and the Kiss

It was just another average Thursday afternoon for me as I waited for my boys at the bus stop.  But all of that changed as soon my oldest ran off the bus exclaiming “Mom! Guess what?”

“What?”

My youngest gave Robert the stink eye, “You promised not to tell!”

My interest peaked, “What did you do now?”

Robert exclaimed, “Alex kissed a girl!”

My face went pale and I thought my six year old kissed a girl. This can’t be happening.  I tried to keep cool surely there was a misunderstanding. My boys don’t kiss girls.  I needed details, had to assess the situation, and ensure it would never happen again until he was thirty.   

I looked at Alex his face went beat red and I knew at that moment my little prince did kiss a girl.

“Did you kiss a girl Alex?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

“You have to talk about it. I’m your mother.”

“I don’t want to tell.”

“It’s okay honey.  You are not in trouble. Just tell me about it.”

His face went another shade of red, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

At this point, I needed info, who, what, when, and where? He wasn’t budging and if he had his way he would never talk about it again. I knew this moment was my only window of opportunity and I pulled out my skill tool box – communicating with children 101.

“Mommy will buy you a slushy if you tell me.”

His eyes lit up and I could tell my bribe was about ready to work.

“Fine! I’ll tell you! But only if you don’t tell anyone else! Especially Dad!”

I crossed my fingers and agreed it would be our secret.

“So when did this happen?”

His face went to another shade of red and mumbled, “Just now!  On the bus.”

“Oh! Well who was it?”

“Do I have to tell?”

“Yes if you want that slushy.”

“Fine! It was Lexi! She kissed me good-bye when I was getting ready to get off the bus! Can I have my slushy?”

“Not yet, what did you do?”

“I looked at her, told her DON’T, and ran off the bus! Please! Can I have my slushy?”

It was at that moment my little six year old looked mortified that he had to have this discussion with his mother.  I took deep breath, feeling relieved, my son was no Rico Suave.  And exclaimed “Slushy Time!”

The Phone Call

 

It was last weekend my eight year old son came home and said the dreaded word no mother wants to hear.

“Margaret is calling me tonight and we are going to meet in the Club Penguin chat room for a date.”

I looked at him and blanched.

“You know that you are only allowed on the computer for forty minutes a day. Did you want save your computer time for this?”

He looked at me like I had said the dumbest thing in the world.

“Yes! Mom! Yes!”

“Okay!”

He spent the whole weekend waiting for this girl to phone.  I was relieved when she didn’t, and wondered if I called boys when I was eight? It seemed so long ago.  He went back to school Monday and seemed to have forgotten the Club Penguin Chat Room date. I let out a sigh of a relief and was happy that my eight year old was not dating.

Unfortunately, he came home this afternoon, and declared she would call him tonight! They would have their date.  I looked at him and said, “Sweetie, you know she might not call!”

“She will call mom! The reason she didn’t this weekend was because she was cutting her stuffed animals hair!”

“Oh!”

I thought to myself the excuses we make begin early. But I couldn’t help to laugh! I might even use that line the next time I have some odious task that I do not want to complete.  I then ushered him out the door.

“Maybe, you should go outside and play!”

“Okay, but can I take the phone out?”

“Fine, take it with you.”

I watched my little eight year old from the kitchen as he jumped on his mega bouncer, clutching the phone waiting for it to ring. But it didn’t.  He came inside for a snack and forgot about the phone.  He then went back out to play.

It was at that moment the phone rang. It was her!  I knew I could answer it and let him have his Club Penguin Date. I would be the Mom that saved the day!  But I realized at that moment I was that possessive mother that will chase all of the girls away!  I looked at him happily playing in the Mega Bouncer, thought to myself dates can wait, and I didn’t pick up the phone.

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