Who Needs A Map?

In what can only be described as a momentary blip of insanity I decided my children and I needed to escape our house and hit the road in a quest to break up the humdrum of summer vacation.

Since my sister, Mouse, had the week off of work, I decided to make it a real family vacation and invite her and my nephew along for the terror. I admit I wasn't just being nice. The idea of being alone with three kids and no father figure to help supervise was less than palatable. I've never vacationed with my children without their father. I wasn't quite sure I was up for the task without a little adult supervision.

Knowing me, I'd likely revert back to childhood myself and feed my children nothing but cotton candy and gummy worms for the duration. Although Fric and Frac would surely appreciate the lack of effort, Jumby requires an adult who is capable of remembering his medication schedule.

So with great excitement we piled into the vehicles earlier this week and set off on the open road with no discernable destination in mind. Because nothing says family vacation quite like wandering from one highway gas station to the next with no map, no plan and no destination in mind.

Hours later and the realities of traveling with children quickly set in. The whole 'discover Alberta' with no real plan was not going to fly since my children actually wanted to get out of the vehicle at some point.

Just as Fric and Frac were attempting to murder one another in the back seat and Jumby was trying to escape his car seat by gnawing through his straps, I looked in the rear view mirror and snapped, "You are acting like you belong in a zoo! Stop that!"

It was like a light bulb went off in my head. The Zoo! We can go to the zoo! And so the destination had been set. I always knew my children behaving like rabid monkeys would one day work in my favour.

The upside to taking the kids to the zoo is if they misbehave you can always threaten to leave them behind. Or feed them to the lions. The zoo is a magical place for a stressed out mommy's imagination.



Of course, the Calgary zoo isn't a regular zoo. It has dinosaurs. That roar. And twitch. And cause four-year-old nephews to lose their dinosaur-loving minds.

I admit, I wasn't thinking of the swarm of screaming ankle biters that would be running lose in the zoo, alongside my children when I decided to take the kids to the zoo.  I mean, why would other parents want to take their kids to a public place to run alongside the exotic animals? Who does that?

Nothing makes a parent feel old like realizing they can't keep up with a herd of excited, sugar-high stampeding children as one navigate the slopes of the zoo.

My children were in heaven. They have a twisted sense of humour.



Turns out if you place me in a public park with hoards of children that don't belong to me, I tend to get annoyed. Quickly. I sucked at this road trip business. After tripping over one small child after another, I knew that an attitude adjustment was quickly needed before I threatened to put my foot up some random innocent child's arse.



The best way to adjust one's attitude when stuck in a dinosaur park in a huge zoo, with no coffee or alcohol and the sun is rapidly sucking the life out of you? Kiss a dinosaur. Heck, since my husband is out of town it's the most action I've had in weeks. A girl can never bee too choosy you know.



Apparently all I needed was a little love because the day seemed to improve after I slipped the monster the tongue. What can I say? I enjoyed making a public arse out of myself.

We wandered the park and eventually made our way from the dinosaurs to the living-breathing animals. The kids got a kick out of seeing all the exotic animals and I got my kicks from watching all the other harried mothers wander about the park.

Misery does love company and I am a bit of a sadist.



Eventually, all the animals had been seen, all the parks had been played in and all my dollars had been spent on soggy hotdogs and snow cones. It was time to seek shelter at a family friendly hotel.

Which meant navigating a foreign city during rush hour traffic.

Have I mentioned I'm a nervous driver at the best of times? Here's where I desperately wished for my own little GPS machine that has a Darth Vader voice. Trying to cross the freeway would have been much easier if only I had Darth breathing out instructions like "In five hundred meters turn left Luke!"

Fate was merciful though, and a hotel was quickly stumbled upon. A hotel with a pool. My children were in heaven. It became abundantly obvious as they ooh'd and ahh'd over the minibar and the pre-wrapped soaps and sample sized shampoos that my children really need to get out more often.

Somebody get on that for me, will ya?

It was hard to be jaded and cynical (and face it, completely bitchy with fatigue) when the world was just. so. exciting. to my kids.

Oh, to be fourteen (and perky) once again.



The thing is, as much as I grumped and groused and as exhausted as I still am, from all the merriment, I wouldn't change any of this for the world. I want my kids to experience life, and I selfishly want to be there to witness when they do. They are growing up faster than I can slow them down and no family knows better than we do how quickly life can suddenly end.

My time actively parenting Fric and Frac is quickly coming to an end and I want to take advantage of the few years I have left.

Plus it is so much more socially acceptable to gorge out on junk food while watching Glee in your jammies and have a pillow fight when you are in a hotel room. If my kids tried that at home I'd likely lose my mind.

My children now know to fear my pillow-swinging prowess. Heh.

The road trip was a success. Defined by me not losing my mind, children sleeping soundly and a sister who is still alive even after snoring loudly beside me all night long.

The only down side of the trip, besides not having Boo along to share the memories with us, was realizing, I'm not as young as I once was.

There was a time when I'd stand in a hotel lobby and young men would approach me to flirt.

Now young men approach me to ask how old my daughter is and if she has a boyfriend.

She's never allowed to swim in a public pool again.

A Boy and His Hair and His Mother's Remorse

There once was a boy who had a lot of hair.

Everywhere he'd go, people would tell him what a pretty little girl he'd make. It didn't help that his mother would routinely pull his hair into pony tails to keep the hair out of his eyes.

Just call me Mowgli.

While his long hair covered the scars on his head and added volume to his unusually small sized cranium, the boy grew to loathe his hair. Perhaps it was because he hated having to sit still to get his hair brushed, (he was a free spirit after all), or perhaps it was because small animals routinely called his head their home.

I'm fairly sure there is some critters in there somewhere.

The birds kept circling his head, wondering if it would make a suitable nest for their offspring.

It became a tiresome game of picking twigs and grass out of the mat of hair the boy sported so in a fit of annoyance the boy's mother declared it was time for a hair cut.

The boy wasn't sure he liked what his mother was proposing because he wasn't sure he entirely trusted her with scissors. After all, he'd seen what she'd done to her own hair last month when she decided to trim her own bangs.

The boy loved his momma, but love only stretches so far.

I'm not so sure of this idea, Mom.

The boy's mother was not to be deterred. There was only so much stick pulling from her son's hair that she could take, so she sat down to convince her son why a haircut was indeed, a good idea.

Mostly she just blew raspberry kisses on his belly and tickled his feet until he saw the light she was shining on his head.

I'm trusting you woman. Heck, you can't do worse than the mullet Dad gave me.

Before the boy could change his mind and his mother could chicken out, he found himself freshly bathed and sitting at his aunt's house waiting for the axe to fall.

I really am a rock star.

At first the boy wasn't too sure about what was going on with all the activity buzzing around his ears, but suddenly, the weight of the world seemed to be lifted off his shoulders.

Dude! It's like a free head massage!

Suddenly this haircut was the greatest idea ever!

The boy laughed and bounced and giggled as his poor aunt tried to hold him still to cut his hair. The boy's momma watched it all and wished for a stiff drink.

When it was over, there was hair (and drool) everywhere. But the boy couldn't get over how much cooler his head felt and wondered why they hadn't done it sooner.

The boy's mother sat silent, knowing she had done the right thing, but still missed his long beautiful locks.

I'm the best looking one in this family. Just don't tell my siblings I said that.

The boy couldn't stop rubbing his head against everything, so enthralled was he with his new follicle freedom.

The boy's mother couldn't stop wishing she had hair like her son's.

The birds stopped circling the boy's head and moved on to look for a new nesting ground.

His father sighed with relief, knowing he'd never again have to tell people his child was not a girl.

His mom can't wait to grow it all back again.

What can she say? She misses the rat nest she called her son's head.

Get over it Mom, and stop living vicariously through my hair.

Grade Eight Science Project

There are some moments in a family's timeline that beg to be documented for posterity.

Please read that as: there are just some decisions your husband makes that are so certifiably insane that you need to publicly mock them and document them so that you may relive them forever and hold over his head for the rest of his life.

Thankfully my husband, bless his cotton socks, has seen fit to provide me with such fodder. He's so considerate that way.

My daughter Fric recently came home with a grade eight homework assignment. A science project.

Now back when I was hip deep in junior high science, I dreaded any type of science project I was assigned. My parents weren't hands-on with my academics and experiments or projects meant I had to buckle down and suffer alone. I hated science, which meant I was always the kid who did a project that revolved around growing mold on bread.

Needless to say, I didn't excel in science.

My daughter, however, loves science and proves that in some cases, the apple does drop and then roll far, far away from the tree it was grown on.

Her assignment was relatively simple. Design and construct a simple catapult. You would have thought her teacher asked her to create a weapon worthy of military use.

I admit it, being the homework-hating mother I am, I cringed when my daughter walked through the door and excitedly told me about her assignment. I'm pretty sure the blood drained from my face like some sparkly vampire was sucking at my carotid and I was immediately teleported back to the days of potatoes as batteries and mason jars filled with bits of mold.

My husband, being the over-achiever he is, took one look at the assignment and shot his hand up to volunteer to help like his life depended on it. Way to make me look bad dear husband.

To be fair to my husband, (because I'd like to ensure he remains my husband,) he was thrilled to be home to help his daughter with her homework. Working out of town 26 days of each month does not tend to lead to a lot of hands on daddy time and by golly, he was bound and determined to make the most out of what he had.

My daughter was just thrilled one of her parents was as excited about the project as she was.

For the next two days Boo and Fric sat at the kitchen counter, heads together and working through one piece of graph paper after another as he helped my daughter design her catapult blue prints.

It was rather adorable really. Especially since every time I tried to peak at what they were up to they both hissed at me and covered up their work like I was some secret agent spy looking to sell their master plans to the highest bidder in the grade eight class.

When my daughter had finally created a design my husband deemed viable, they headed off to the store to pick up building supplies to bring the project to life.

I expected them to come back with a handful of popsicle sticks and some elastics.

I was wrong.

Turns out, they had much grander ideas.

As construction of the grade eight science project began, I watched my husband and my daughter organize their tools and supplies, and I admit, I laughed at my husband.

"You do realize this design may be a wee over the top?"

"Sure, but it's gonna be fun!" he grinned as he ordered Fric to round up some welding rods.

"But the idea of this experiment is for her to learn something. I'm a little worried you may have bitten off more than she can chew, Boo."

"Honey," he said in that patronizing way he does when he figures he is smarter than me, "even babies need to learn how to chew. That's what I'm planning on doing. Teaching her to chew. While making the best damn catapult known to mankind."

That's when I rolled my eyes at him and went back into the house to wash my hands of the entire thing. If anyone asked, I fully planned on telling them I don't know whom those people were outside on my front lawn.

And so the project went. Them working side by side from sun up to sun down with me inside, rolling my eyes and shaking my head.

I tend to be very helpful like that.

It turns out my husband had an entirely different idea of his own. While I only saw 'lame annoying science project', he saw 'potential to introduce his child to the basic tools of his trade.'

Go figure.

After the materials had been organized and lined up, the tools carefully laid out and the safety equipment procured and fully explained, my husband set my daughter loose. With power tools. While grinning.

First there was the cutting and grinding of the metal rods that were to make the frame.

Fric (and Frac, because let's face it, Dad was home and letting them play with expensive toys and there was no way he was going to let his big sister have all the fun) took to grinding like a duck to water. You could tell the kids were enjoying themselves because they not only sat through Boo's safety lectures but they never rolled their eyes once.

Whose children are these and where did mine go, is what I want to know.

Once the pieces had been cut to specification, the welding fun began.

At first Boo held the torch as he guided the kids through the basic principals of welding.

Then he let them have a go at it by themselves.

When I later asked how the welds held up, he grinned and said it looked like basic chickensh!t. But the welds held and that was all that mattered.

(This of course, only reinforces my belief that any monkey can do his job, so thanks for that honey. You totally proved my job is harder.

*Cackles gleefully.*)

Once the basic frame was assembled, the two of them got down to business of putting the guts in.

I admit, by the time the frame was together and I could see the vast scope of the project the two of them had undertaken, I stopped rolling my eyes. I was too busy trying to remember to close my gaping maw. I swear I swallowed a few flies as my mouth hanged open.

Eventually, the catapult was finished. It took the entire four days my husband was home for my daughter to finish this project. Apparently, creating genius is a time consuming project, especially when one's father insists you do the work yourself and sits on the steps with a beer as he supervises.

Welcome to your first taste of the real world Fric. Some things never change.

It took three people and an elephant to get the catapult off my unfinished wheelchair ramp (which, at this point, I have decided doesn't need safety rails) and onto the lawn for the initial launch.

As Frac, Jumby and myself stood far, far away, we watched as Boo and Fric excitedly set the contraption up and I readied myself for the tears that would follow if the launch failed.

Apparently, I worried for nothing.

There is a dent in the side of my house proving just how effective this weapon catapult really is. Thanks guys. I will tell myself it just adds character.

In the end, my husband got to spend some serious quality time with his oldest children, my kids learned equal parts science, trade skills and the art of military tactics and I may have learned a thing or two myself.

Never underestimate your child's creativity. Given the chance they will surprise you as they launch egg missiles half a mile down the road.

And never ever underestimate a father's willingness to unleash his own inner 13 year old on his family. As he's launching eggs at your house.

I still maintain popsicle sticks and rubber bands would have sufficed.

However, my band of merry over-achievers aren't listening.

*Note: My daughter also had a partner for this project, a girl who all but moved in (and whom I forced to eat my poorly tasting tofu dinners) while she participated in the project as well. Due to privacy laws however, I didn't include her in the post. However, if her science teacher is reading this, she can grind and weld just as well as any monkey can.*