Tonight at about 8:30, as I was getting the kids settled down for bed, and yes, at 8:30pm on a school night I’m still struggling to get the kids to bed,  I received a phone call from a telemarketer on behalf of Bill Smith asking who I was voting for.  And even that was better than the night before when I got an automated call from Gerald Keddy’s office asking the same thing.  I mean, if I’m not important enough that you can’t have a real person call me, than you won’t mind if I’m too busy washing my hair to vote for you.  I told the Bill Smith person that I would be voting for the party that doesn’t call me at 8:30pm when I’m putting my kids to bed.  And really, I did say that.  And really, that just might be my deciding factor.

 David spent the evening out campaigning because he is running for a second term on council for the town of Mahone Bay.  Having a husband on council is a double edged sword.  He spends a lot of evenings at meetings, and sometimes he has to deal with issues where I just shake my head.  But I have to be honest; I find some people engaged in government to be…how do you say…kinda hot!   Barack Obama, need I say more?

 David came home and we talked about what people in town were saying. He talked to a lot of people who said they were going to vote for him and one person who flat out said he was not, but was rather nice about it.  He met a few people he didn’t know including a nice young couple from Australia, which excited me because I love meeting new couples in town, and I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for an accent.

 You could tell that he was excited.  He enjoyed talking to the people in town.  He went on to tell me all the seniors that he visited, and one in particular who won’t be voting because she is blind.  I caught a glimpse of David’s tender side that he shows more often than most men.  He thought about the people who live here in the town he serves, some who are lonely, others even shut in’s.  He thought about the young couple that chose to make Mahone Bay their home along way from their family. And David wondered what we could do as a town and as citizens to better serve these people.

That.  That is why we run for politics.  The people.  Not the issues or AN issue, but the people.  The lonely couple, the scared elderly lady; this is why I struggle to put my kids to bed by myself at 8:30pm while David goes to late meetings.

 And so, listening to David talk about campaigning and seeing the glisten in his eye,  I let my husband have his way with me.

 Please Vote

Tonight at about 8:30, as I was getting the kids settled down for bed, and yes, at 8:30pm on a school night I’m still struggling to get the kids to bed,  I received a phone call from a telemarketer on behalf of Bill Smith asking who I was voting for.  And even that was better than the night before when I got an automated call from Gerald Keddy’s office asking the same thing.  I mean, if I’m not important enough that you can’t have a real person call me, than you won’t mind if I’m too busy washing my hair to vote for you.  I told the Bill Smith person that I would be voting for the party that doesn’t call me at 8:30pm when I’m putting my kids to bed.  And really, I did say that.  And really, that just might be my deciding factor.

 David spent the evening out campaigning because he is running for a second term on council for the town of Mahone Bay.  Having a husband on council is a double edged sword.  He spends a lot of evenings at meetings, and sometimes he has to deal with issues where I just shake my head.  But I have to be honest; I find some people engaged in government to be…how do you say…kinda hot!   Barack Obama, need I say more?

 David came home and we talked about what people in town were saying. He talked to a lot of people who said they were going to vote for him and one person who flat out said he was not, but was rather nice about it.  He met a few people he didn’t know including a nice young couple from Australia, which excited me because I love meeting new couples in town, and I’ll admit, I’m a sucker for an accent.

 You could tell that he was excited.  He enjoyed talking to the people in town.  He went on to tell me all the seniors that he visited, and one in particular who won’t be voting because she is blind.  I caught a glimpse of David’s tender side that he shows more often than most men.  He thought about the people who live here in the town he serves, some who are lonely, others even shut in’s.  He thought about the young couple that chose to make Mahone Bay their home along way from their family. And David wondered what we could do as a town and as citizens to better serve these people.

That.  That is why we run for politics.  The people.  Not the issues or AN issue, but the people.  The lonely couple, the scared elderly lady; this is why I struggle to put my kids to bed by myself at 8:30pm while David goes to late meetings.

 And so, listening to David talk about campaigning and seeing the glisten in his eye,  I let my husband have his way with me.

 Please Vote

Colin has been in school for 3 shorts weeks.  And one evening, after his bath, he dropped the F-bomb.  What’s an anti-spanking but vehemently F-bomb opposed parent to do about this?  Lets just say I won’t be a nominee for the Mother-Of-The-Year Award I’m afraid.  I went to him, told him he is not ever to use that word.  Then I told him he would be losing his Guitar Hero for a week. 

 And he said so.

 If I were a cartoon character, fire would have shot out of my ears while I jumped up and down screaming “Dag-nabbit I’m going to get that rabbit!” I said that I would be giving his Guitar Hero away to a boy who doesn’t use the f-word.

Colin started bawling, the same cry he had when he hit his head on the corner of our stainless steel counter top and we had to rush him to the Lunenburg hospital to have 3 stitches. He looked up at me with his tear filled eyes and through his desperate attempt to breathe he said, “Do you still wove me?”

Even writing it I’m welling up.  I picked him up and hugged and kissed him trying to calm him enough to breath so he wouldn’t pass out. I told him how I loved him more than the sun, the moon and the stars.

 He slowly got his breath back and we hugged each other, and it occurred to me that any and all punishments I give them in the future have completely lost all credibility, and I didn’t care at all.  At that moment I realized that it wasn’t about the Guitar Hero.  I made him feel much worse than he made me feel dropping the F-bomb.  I made him feel I didn’t love him. 

So I don’t know the answer. In fact, all I know is enough to know that I don’t know (isn’t that in a real estate commercial?).  He lost his Guitar Hero for a week and I lost parenting control for the rest of my life.   I got him to believe that I love him again, but he got the valuable knowledge that how 5 little words can get him out of almost anything.

 After the week was up, he challenged me to a game of Guitar Hero.  The boys like to record themselves rocking it out with their friends, and I found this clip after they mistakenly left the video camera running.  You have to see it.  It’s hysterical.  It might very well win us $10,000 on Americas Funnies Videos, which is just as well, because we’ll need it to cover his therapy bills.

I’m on a diet.

And I’m angry.

It’s not so much a diet as it is rediscovering my inner will power.

I’ve come to this decision not because I’m overweight because I’m not, or because of the copious amounts of red wine I drank this summer.  It’s not even because of the Crunchie Bar that I have every day at 3pm from the office vending machine, or the case of office rage I had when a colleague ate the last one (sorry about that Liana).  It’s really because after taking the after pictures of the South Shore Greatest Loser, I realized that it’s amazing what can happen to a person in 3 short months with hard work and a bit of will power. 

SO I have made a pact- nothing after 7pm, and no sugar, including carbs after 5pm.  I have still allowed for my 3 o’clock craving, but the idea is with the other changes I have made in my diet, I shouldn’t need that Crunckie Bar.

 My first test: tonight the kids wanted to have a camp fire in the back yard and make Smores with their friends.  Have I ever told you that I am the world best marshmallow roaster?  I’m just saying.  And my second favourite thing to the Crunchie bar is a Smore.

I’m hoping my will power will kick in any moment now.

 And while they eat their ooooey-goooey Smores, I will be drinking this refreshing class of cold water.  Yes, that is me giving the bird to a glass of water.  I told you I was angry.

David was gone for a cruise on the boat leaving me without a lighter, so I did the only thing I could think of.  I walked through the path to my always-reliable neighbour, Keith Savory.

“Keith, I need a lighter to start a bon fire.”

“Yep, here’s a  Bic”

“No- you don’t understand, I need a lighter, I need YOU to light it.”  I said, playing the helpless women card, and no surprise to me, Keith saved the day while I sang Come-On Baby Light My Fire.  I told you, I’m no Girl Scout.

And I didn’t have one, not even a little dribble of melted chocolate or marshmallow.  It helped that Colin kept lighting his on fire and needed me to roast one for him.  Roasting the marshmallow is half the allure of the Smore. 

And because I can’t lie, I have to admit that later that night at about 2am I had to come down stairs and have some of the left over Hersey chocolate to ease my incredibly painful “lack of sugar headache”.

I self diagnosed. 

Colin met me as I got home from work.

“Daddy buyed us penis protectors!” He exclaimed with excitement.

I thought ‘they’re a bit young for condoms.’

Then Colin put on his new jock strap and that’s when it occurred to me that I have been forced into Hockey-motherhood.  But I promise not to be an angry hockey mom like Sarah Palin.   Didn’t I see her on Deliverence??

In going in the house I noticed that our tree in the front yard has mysteriously vanished, leaving us with a crop circle.  And just before I had time to call the police to report a tree napping, David explained that he removed it to make room for a hockey rink, because, well, the tree was in the way.

Last year we had one of those Make Your Own Rinks from the Super Store, and it may very well have been the best 20 bucks we ever spent.  Every Saturday and Sunday morning, the boys would throw on their skates and practice skating while I would watch from the porch-swing with my coffee and my paper, while still in my jam-jams and sporting a wild case of bed-head.  See, that’s how I want to spend my weekends. Now, thanks to an over-zealous hockey-equipment-buying, tree-murdering husband, I will be spending by Saturday mornings in cold rinks, drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup instead of my very cosmopolitan coffee mug and my fuzzy bathrobe.

AND I’ll have to shower!

As I walked into the Lunenburg Hockey rink to register the boys for hockey, I had a mild panic attack, thinking about the lowering of my bank account balance and my heightened blood pressure due to my fear of the boys getting hurt.  I signed a million forms that go with registration.  I racked my brain to remember our family doctor’s and dentist’s phone number and the date of their last shots (I mean, do parents really memorize this stuff??)  I knew a number of people who were there to sign up their kids- really good people.  There was a sense of excitement in the air.  I mean parents were actually eager to sign a big fat check.  No one else had the same deer-in-the-headlights look that I had.  What did they know that I didn’t?

So for the first time, I was actually looking forward to the kid’s hockey experience. 

And it didn’t hurt that I got a tax receipt!

Colin met me as I got home from work.

“Daddy buyed us penis protectors!” He exclaimed with excitement.

I thought ‘they’re a bit young for condoms.’

Then Colin put on his new jock strap and that’s when it occurred to me that I have been forced into Hockey-motherhood.  But I promise not to be an angry hockey mom like Sarah Palin.   Didn’t I see her on Deliverence??

In going in the house I noticed that our tree in the front yard has mysteriously vanished, leaving us with a crop circle.  And just before I had time to call the police to report a tree napping, David explained that he removed it to make room for a hockey rink, because, well, the tree was in the way.

Last year we had one of those Make Your Own Rinks from the Super Store, and it may very well have been the best 20 bucks we ever spent.  Every Saturday and Sunday morning, the boys would throw on their skates and practice skating while I would watch from the porch-swing with my coffee and my paper, while still in my jam-jams and sporting a wild case of bed-head.  See, that’s how I want to spend my weekends. Now, thanks to an over-zealous hockey-equipment-buying, tree-murdering husband, I will be spending by Saturday mornings in cold rinks, drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup instead of my very cosmopolitan coffee mug and my fuzzy bathrobe.

AND I’ll have to shower!

As I walked into the Lunenburg Hockey rink to register the boys for hockey, I had a mild panic attack, thinking about the lowering of my bank account balance and my heightened blood pressure due to my fear of the boys getting hurt.  I signed a million forms that go with registration.  I racked my brain to remember our family doctor’s and dentist’s phone number and the date of their last shots (I mean, do parents really memorize this stuff??)  I knew a number of people who were there to sign up their kids- really good people.  There was a sense of excitement in the air.  I mean parents were actually eager to sign a big fat check.  No one else had the same deer-in-the-headlights look that I had.  What did they know that I didn’t?

So for the first time, I was actually looking forward to the kid’s hockey experience. 

And it didn’t hurt that I got a tax receipt!

I know that I’m not going to be popular for making this statement but I absolutely hate the show Extreme Makeover Home Edition.  I know, it’s a nice thing, they help people, they make people feel great, that’s terrific.  But I’ve seen some of the befores and I think, hell they’re not all that bad.  I mean, there are certainly people in more need.  There are homeless people out there who have no homes for the Extreme Makeover people tare down.  Build them a house, now there’s a tear jerker!

My sister and I once watched an Oprah special (I love Oprah) and she was talking about the fact that she grew up without much money and that’s how she discovered her love of reading.  That all they could afford were books.  My sister and I looked at each other and were all, “Dang, Oprah had books? Lucky!”

I’m only kidding.  We don’t use words like Dang.

Lets face it, it’s all about advertising.  I wonder if Maytag would be so willing to give away $100,000 in appliances if Ty Pennington didn’t say Maytag five times fast at the end of each sentence.  And sometimes I wonder, just how are the homeowners going to pay for the increase in their property tax?  I’m just sayin’.

We re-did the kids bedrooms for back to school.  They each picked out their own colours and their own themes.  Evan loves soccer and wanted a soccer room.  Colin picked an outer space room…because….we’re not sure why.  Perhaps because we often say, “Colin, what planet did you come from”, and he’s homesick.

I had these great ideas for their rooms as I tend to get carried away.  I told Evan we’d paint his walls green like grass and I’d order an inspiring wall mural and hang a shelf for all the medals and trophies that he’ll be sure to get.

“Yeah, and when you open the door to my room there can be a voice that yells SCORE, right Mommy?” Evan said with excitement.

Fast-forward a couple of years and I picture him bringing home a little girlfriend and showing her his room.  A voice yelling SCORE is NOT such a great idea in a hormonal boys room.  A nanny-cam, now that’s more like it!

I have to say that the Debbie Travis paint from Canadian Tire is fantastic! And no, they have not given me any money to say that and yes, I paid for the paint myself.  But oh, how I wish for some brand new Sealy mattresses from Lahave Furnishings.

Sealy Sealy Sealy Sealy Sealy.

Evan has absolutely no appreciation for how tedious these soccer balls were to cut out of white and black vinyl, and later told me that they really didn’t look much like soccer balls.

This is a magnetic soccer field done with magnetic paint from Gows, and I cut the black stips out of black vinyl.  Evan told me that the lines should have been in white.   I only cried for about 20 minutes, no biggy.

A few nights ago Evan asked me what a premiere is.  I told him that it’s a big party where Hollywood stars celebrate the opening of a new movie.  He looked confused.  “So what’s a Prime Minister?”  he asked.

“Ohhhh, you meant, Premier like the Premier of Nova Scotia?”  I asked somewhat embarrassed.  He shook his head yes.  I told him it’s someone who is elected to govern and hoped that was a good enough answer, and I asked why he asked.

“Cause I think I’m gonna be one when I grow up.”

Some mothers might be happy about this.  Me?  All I could think is that I wished I took Political Science in high school instead of Oceanography (I mean really, when does algae testing come in handy anyway?). It sucks looking stupid in front of your kids- a feeling I know well.  Very well.

Admittedly, I know very little about politics.  I’m sometimes unsure of what political figures are Liberal or Progressive Conservative.  I have no idea who the Governor General is, what they do or why we have one.   And I always think I should learn more about the NDP’s and the Green Party, but I never do.  Why is that?  But one thing is for sure, I am completely and utterly riveted by the American election, and I am a smitten kitten over Barack Obama. 

I watched the Democratic convention and barely blinked.  If any of you saw Barack’s speech and were not moved, we can no longer be friends.  I kept saying to myself, please give our American friends the good sense to elect this man.  I have to believe they will.   I have to believe that more than 50% of Americans are embarrassed for their current president, and see the resemblance in the current republican candidate to George W. 

So all the cowboy-boot-wearing republicans out there might want to stock up on ammo and start making more pro-life signs, because come November, I have a feeling that hope will reign.  That men can marry men and that lowering the tax on middle-to-low income families won’t make the fortune 500’s any less rich. 

And as for me, the mother of the soon to be Premier, I’m starting to brush up on my politics and trying to convince Evan that I look much better in red.

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