The Book Report

I am not the only member of our family who was feeling more than slightly "out of sorts" this past weekend. Unfortunately, Child Number Two spent the time between Thursday evening until Sunday morning trying to figure out whether or not she would develop fully-blown strep throat, or just settle for a relatively severe virus instead.

Thankfully, she finally decided AGAINST the strep, after several long, mildly-feverish and nightmare-riddled nights. However, the struggle to fend off the infection seems to have taken a bit of the vinegar out of her.

She felt well enough to go back to school this morning, much to her relief and delight (and mine, too, let me tell you).

Because Child Number Two LOVES grade one.

LOVES. IT.

When she is not physically AT school, she is always THINKING about school. Or enlisting her little sister to PLAY school with her.

She is absolutely crazy about her teacher, she begged for homework on the very first day (and has continued to do so every day since then), and slaves over that homework like an academic obsessive-compulsive... I have actually seen the child erase ENTIRE PAGES OF PRINTING, so that she can do them all. over. again.

For fun.

She's a wee pistol of a student, and I don't envy her teacher having to try and keep up with her.

But today was different.

When I picked up the girlies from school at three-thirty, Child Number Two launched into a long and involved description of the new "book report" assignment that her teacher had given her. She now brings home four books in a little bag every Monday. She is to read one book per day, write a short description, and draw a picture of her favourite part of the story, every week-night. I am to check her report each night, and the notebook is to be handed in to the teacher for marking on Fridays.

Normally, this kind of "grown-up" assignment would be cause for great excitement from Child Number Two. But not tonight, it seems.

The sparkle wasn't in her... the enthusiasm seemed dulled... We returned home, she sat down at the table and ate her snack, then dutifully pulled the books out of her backpack and threw herself into her work.

As I tidied the kitchen, she silently studied her book. Then, I heard the scratch of her pencil and the scuffing of her eraser... She refused my offer to help with spelling, so I started the preparations for dinner.

When she was done, she solemnly handed me her notebook, then slunk off and curled up with a fuzzy blanket on the couch in the family room.

Tonight, it turns out, my poor girlie was even MORE tired and worn out than I had suspected, because on the page, she had written the title of the book, the author's name, the illustrator's name, and this unusually brief description:

My favourite part of the book

was the Last part.

I'll just bet it was, too.

Poor wee thing.

I said NO, Sugar...

Late this afternoon, I was poring over paperwork at my desk, while my youngest daughter was enjoying a half an hour with Mister Rogers on tv.

She suddenly appeared at my elbow:

Child Number Three: (hopping up and down) Mama? I have some chock-it milk?

Me: (gently) No, Shrimp. You had chocolate milk at lunchtime. How about plain milk?

Child Number Three: (grimacing) NOPE!! I wan' chock-it milk. How come I not have some MORE? Pleasepleaseplease???

Me: (looking straight. into. her. eyes.) No, sweetheart. No more chocolate milk. Chocolate milk isn't really good for you. It has too much sugar in it, so you should only have a little bit. You can have plain milk, instead, if you like.

Child Number Three: (pinning me with her best "Paddington Bear" VERY HARD STARE) Mama... You dwink LOTSA coffee. COFFEE not good for you...

**gulp**

Me: (turning towards the kitchen) Right. So, how many spoonfuls of Nesquick did you say you wanted in it?

Make the time STOP, already...

Overheard in the Loser Cruiser this afternoon, while driving home from school:

Child Number One: (out-of-the-blue) How old is Hannah?

My eldest child was referring to the amazing teenager who flew in from British Columbia to spend nearly three weeks with us this past summer. She is not only a Mother’s Helper Extraordinaire, and my Mostly Companion every August, but she is also Child Number One’s idol.

Me: Hannah is sixteen. Why do you ask?

Child Number One: Is Hannah allowed to date yet?

Me: I don’t think so… I think that she and her friends go out together in a big group.

Child Number One: When will she be allowed to date?

Me: (wondering where on EARTH this conversation with my eleven-year-old is going) Oh, I really don’t know. Any boy who wanted to go out on a date with Hannah would have to be able to get past Hannah’s dad and his great, big shotgun, first…

Child Number One: Ha, ha. (Innocently…) Mum, when will I be allowed to date??

Me: (absolutely flummoxed… I pause to think for a moment before answering… cautiously…) Is there a boy in school that you are interested in dating?

Child Number One: (suddenly embarrassed) Noooo!!! Eeewww!! I just think... I’m growing up too fast, that’s all…

Me: (thankfully, able to breathe again) You have NO idea how glad I am to hear that… How about we say that you will officially be allowed to date when you turn sixty-nine?

Child Number One: (laughing nervously) Why sixty-nine??

Me: (stopping at a stop sign and resting my forehead on the steering wheel in front of me) Because, all the tough, stubborn little Scottish women in my family live to be about ninety-five, and since I’m twenty-six years older than you, I’m pretty sure I’ll be at LEAST unconscious by then…

Fall fun...

Well, autumn has unofficially arrived in this part of Ontario, that's for sure. It's getting pretty chilly at night, and I'm just about at the point of bringing in all the more delicate potted plants from the patio, to save them from being frost-bitten. The leaves are changing colour like magic-- every morning the scene out my windows looks different, with the deepening yellows and reds taking the place of green on the trees, and then scattering on the ground.

This morning, the girlies and I were all sitting around our enormous kitchen table, and I was trying to cajole them into eating a healthy breakfast before carting them off to their respective schools. We were all discussing what our week ahead looked like, and all the various activities that everyone would be engaging in.

We turned to Child Number Three's school schedule, and tried to jolly her along by talking about her "Theme Of The Week". I was delighted to see that the theme for the next TWO weeks will be APPLES.

Apple season in Ontario is a wonderful thing. We've got plenty of farm-country surrounding the place where we live, and one farm in particular has the best orchards around. They grow every variety you can imagine, including the all-time classic, Macintosh, as well as Spencers, Honey Crisps, Paula Reds, two varieties of Delicious, and my personal favourites, Cortlands and Royal Galas.

My kids just can't get enough of apple-picking. We go many, many times every autumn, and our house is always filled with the aroma of "apple-SOMETHING" baking, from September till at least the end of November. I've even bought a hand-cranked machine that peels AND slices apples all-in-one-go, so that I can maximize my time-use. When we finally reach the point when we simply cannot cram another apple-item into our mouths, I start making up bags of sliced apples and freezing them for future use during the winter... And they don't do too badly, actually, so long as you use them quickly after removing them from the freezer, and you don't let the slices sit out to thaw long enough to turn brown and mushy.

The thought of apples, and lovely, long, sunny afternoons in the orchard with my children, made my heart leap up from its "Monday" heaviness.

Mother: (in an excited whisper) Just GUESS what your theme-of-the-week is at school THIS week, Wee one?

Child Number Three: (heartily mashing up her cheerios with the back of her spoon and spattering milk everywhere) Don't care.

Mother: Oh, yes, you WILL care!! Because it's something that you all like very much!!

Child Number Two: (through a mouthful of toast) Is it CHOCOLATE?!!

Mother: No, silly. It has to do with what season it is. It IS something we can bake with, though!! And we can find them in the trees!!

Child Number Three: (EXCITED, NOW, with eyes shining) I know!! It MONKEYS!!!!

Child Number One: (rolling her eyes heavenward) I think you're going to need a new recipe book, Mum...

"HUH?!"

Early this morning, Child Number Three and I were making our breakfast-rounds of all the critters in the house.

We gave Georgia the fierce, bad cat a good, long pat, fed her, and filled up her drinking bowl.

We sprinkled flakes on the surface of the water in the guppy tank.

We dropped five tiny pellets into each of the three betta fish bowls, and waited patiently to see if Ruby, Sapphire and Opal each managed to consume their meals before the food sank to the bottom (bettas are strictly "top-feeders").

Throughout the process, Child Number Three kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation with her pets (if you don't count the purrs and wet, fishy, blubbing noises as "responses").

But the two guinea pigs, Cookie and Cupcake, are a completely different story. They are almost as noisy as Wee Three, herself.

As soon as Child Number Three's little footsteps could be heard on the floorboards of the hallway, the two guinea pigs jumped to attention in their enormous hutch (we call it the Piggy Palace), and began "woink-ing" enthusiastically. Their vociferous welcome always makes my youngest child practically collapse with giggles, and she kneels right down to talk to them while I quickly chop up a few cucumbers, apples and carrots for the gp's dining pleasure.

This morning, her opening line to Cookie and Cupcake surprised me, however. Indeed, I think it flummoxed even THEM...

She put her face very close to the bars of the cage, smiled at them endearingly, and cooed:

"Polly want a cracker?!"

She went back...

Well, I know you're all DYING to know if we survived the Friday back-to-school routine with Child Number Three...

And the good news is, SHE DID IT!! She went back. Happily. No tears, no screaming, no fuss.

She marched through those doors on her own two feet, wearing a suitable outfit, complimented by a pair of hot-pink mary-jane shoes. She was toting a box full of oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies that we had baked for the teachers-- and the teachers were thrilled, let me tell you (it's clearly been a loooong week for them, too).

We made a few changes here at home on Thursday, which I think really helped Wee Three feel more "in control" of the going-to-school situation.

First off, we went out for one more little spree at Old Navy... the big sale is now on, so I thought, "What the heck?" Child Number Three had a super time picking out a few more little pairs of jeans and long-sleeved shirts. We even found some gorgeous pairs of tiny little fuzzy socks, which will be very suitable for when the cooler weather sets in around here for "good". And I made it ab-so-lute-ly CLEAR that since THESE were the outfits that she was choosing for herself, THESE were the clothes that needed to be worn for school from now on.

Then we went home with our purchases, and tackled the closet situation.

Part of our problem over the past few weeks has been that the resident three-year-old has a love for summer clothing that borders on the obsessional. The smaller the garment, the more she loves wearing it (and I thought this sort of thing didn't kick in until girls hit their teenage years...) For example, while prancing around in a purple-polka-dot bikini is just fine when it's thirty degrees outside and the kids are all running through the sprinkler out in the garden (heck, I'm even fine with the kids putting on their bathing suits, grabbing towels and umbrellas and playing "beach" in the playroom while the blizzards rage outside in December), I have been unable to impress upon Child Number Three that skimpy beach attire has NO place in the nursery school classroom.

So, I did a little re-shuffling in the closet, and set up a shelf that is perfectly within the reach of my youngest child. We arranged all of her school outfits on it, and now, every school day, she will be able to go into her closet and choose her own clothes.

And all of her summer clothes went up high on another shelf, out of sight and temptation's way, where only Mummy can reach them. And who knows? With this wacky Ontario weather, we might just be needing them again a few times before the season is well and truly over... Dress-up clothes, too, came out of the closet, and have been put back down in one of the massive costume-bins in the playroom. If she wants her feather boas and high heels, she knows where to find them. I'm just hoping that the urge won't strike her to combine them with jeans and a t-shirt before 9 am on weekday mornings, if she can't see them lying in front of her on the closet floor.

Today started off great. She got up, she chose her clothes, and we put them on her with minimal fuss. She ate breakfast, and then followed her sisters up to the bathroom, where they helped her clean her face and teeth, and brushed her hair.

We actually arrived at the big school playground with time to spare, and I watched my girls racing around with their friends, whilst sipping coffee from my enormous pink-polka-dot coffee mug. When the bell rang and everyone lined up to go inside, I made mention to Child Number Three how nicely the other children were all behaving, and noted that no-one was crying as they walked through the doors!! I asked if she was ready to try going back to her school, and she grinned and nodded furiously!!

It was heaven, people.

She did it.

WE did it.

Weeelllll.... actually, if the truth be known, there was one more "person" involved in today's success. Want to know who?

That's right. The Dairy Queen.

I confess. I bribed my kid to go to school today. Call it "positive reinforcement" call it a "reward", call it whatever you want. I promised that if Child Number Three behaved herself beautifully this morning, I would take her to Dairy Queen immediately after school, and buy her the biggest, bestest ice cream they had.

Bonus?

If the plan worked, I would get one, too.

It worked. Thank God.

**burp**

I wonder what I'll be craving when it's time to go back to school again NEXT week?

And I wonder... how much I'll weigh by the time June rolls around...

God Almighty, the things we do for our kids. Ouf.

Toddler taming...

Boneless.

That is the only way to accurately describe Child Number Three's second colossal, screaming fit of the week, which occurred between 6.45 and 9 am on Monday, and then again this morning.

And WHAT has been the cause of this sudden and violent change of behavior?

Why, NURSERY SCHOOL, of course.

To say that Child Number Three does not WANT to go to Nursery School this year would not be an entirely accurate statement, however.

True, each horror-filled early-morning has begun with the tremulous screech from the crib, "ME NO WANNA GO A-SCHOOOOL!!!"

The resounding cry has continued, and indeed, ESCALATED, from that point onwards.

Through the trek downstairs to the kitchen, where she stands plaintively at my feet whilst I am blearily preparing the coffee. Through the pouring of Cheerios into a bowl, which is promptly refused and overturned, followed by her glass of juice (I'm threatening to just puree it all and stick it in a juice box for her, I'm getting so fed-up with the clean-up).

She even follows me into the bathroom and bangs on my shower door during my wild attempts to make myself presentable to the outside world... After I'm dressed, she howls and pulls on my sleeve when we're standing next to one another in front of the bathroom mirror, USUALLY at the exact time when I am trying to apply lipstick, or an accurate track of eyeliner.

Oh, she's been a treat, all right.

But the WORST part is trying to get HER dressed.

Because THAT, people, is when the words fail her, and the TRUE, boneless, screaming fit begins.

Now, before I get going on this "getting dressed" thing, allow me to explain something first. I am a theatrical costumer by trade, and have ALWAYS encouraged my children to dress creatively whenever the urge strikes them. For example, I LOVE IT when they decide they want to try wearing their snowsuit pants, combined with a sparkly tank top, and a voluminous ballerina tutu, inverted, and placed squarely on their heads. (This, by the way, is apparently the costume for "Magical Trees" in one of their many productions they have put on in our basement).

I have absolutely NO PROBLEM with allowing my children to dress themselves when we are here at home, or going somewhere relatively unimportant, like the grocery store. "Mis-match" away, kiddos, just keep in mind that you might run the risk of either sweltering or freezing to death if you choose clothing combinations that are inappropriate for the season.

However, I have made it clear to my children that there ARE a few exceptions to the "clothing-free-for-all". And they are: School, Church, and Grandma's House (when Grandma is in residence, and hosting an "event").

This morning, the "School" clause was in effect.

And my usually calm, collected, agreeable third child completely took leave of her senses, collapsed her entire skeletal system, and mutinied on me.

It was chilly outside this morning, people, and it took nearly an hour to wrestle Wee Three into a tiny pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt with a bunny on it, and a sweater. And this was an outfit that she herself had CHOSEN just the other day at Old Navy. It was one of her "FAVE-WIT!!" back-to-school outfits. She actually BEGGED me to purchase it, and of course, I caved.

But, today?! You'd have thought I was trying to drag her to the electric chair, not to her closet to put on her clothes. I gave up completely at the point of socks and running shoes, and jammed her feet into her little pink crocs, instead. Mainly because crocs don't leave bruise-marks on my shins when she kicks.

Spawn of Satan, she was, people. I half expected her head to start spinning 360's.

It was BRUTAL.

Her father watched us, speechless, as we marched out to the driveway. The first two children, beautifully turned-out, hair brushed and faces shining, pulling their brand new backpacks-on-wheels, and The Goddess following up the rear, with a still-screaming toddler tucked not-so-neatly under her right arm, and a Strawberry Shortcake rucksack dangling from her left.

We must have been quite a sight for the neighbours to behold. Especially when the squirmy, I'm-not-gonna-be-buckled-into-THIS-carseat battle began.

It was a LOUD car ride, to put it nicely, and the two older children tore off down the street to their school playground as soon as I had parked the loser cruiser and opened the automatic escape-hatch... presumably to avoid been seen with their apoplectic, sweaty, cross-eyed mother and their way-WAY-gone baby sister.

One and Two: (not even attempting to hide their relief) 'BYE, MUM!!!!!

Little traitors.

Wee Three and I continued on our way to the Nursery, tears still flowing copiously from the back seat.

And during the drive, although I had to shout to make myself heard, I assured Child Number Three that Senior Nursery is JUST THE SAME as Junior was last year. Same nice teachers! Same friends!! Same fun crafts and toys and activities!!! Same damn ROOM, for crying out loud!!!! NOTHING has changed since last year, except that a little bit of time has passed.

It was a red-faced, sniveling child I pulled out of the back seat of my car in the nursery school parking lot. Swollen-eyed and hiccuping, she asked me to carry her into the building.

Child Number Three: (snuggling her damp little face into my neck and sighing a BIG sigh) ... I wanna be a BABY 'gain...

**Choke!!**

I ALMOST CRACKED at that point. I confess. Because this is my last child; this IS my baby. And there's nothing in this world that I want more than to hang onto my children, for as long as they will let me.

But instead, I took a deep breath, strode through the school doors, and set Child Number Three down on her own two feet.

And she took one look at the delightful surroundings, smiled an ENORMOUS smile, let go of my hand, and skipped off to join her friends at the cutting-and-pasting table.

Little brat.

At THAT moment, dear readers... there was nothing in this world that I wanted more than a couple of Valium and a shot of Jack Daniels.

We get to do it ALLLL over again on Friday morning.

I think I'd better make a liquor store run before I go to pick her up at lunchtime.

Happiness is... The Farmer's Market.

Gladiolas

These are the flowers that I bought by the dozen at the Stratford Farmer's Market yesterday morning. I say "by the dozen", because I originally intended to buy ONLY A DOZEN of them.

Sometimes, I have to "plan ahead" to curb my enthusiasm... Otherwise, things get more than a LITTLE BIT out of hand. Usually, this sort of planning involves food items. Most often, chocolate food items.

But on Saturday morning, it was gladiolas. Because there's a fine line with these enormous, spectacular blooms. Too few makes you look as though you skimped on the bouquet. And too many makes your house look as though you might be hosting a funeral sometime soon.

My love of gladiolas came from my great-aunt, who was one of the finest and most diligent gardeners I have ever encountered. She lived alone on her enormous farm long after her husband passed away, and although her fields were rented out, she continued to cultivate her flower gardens and mammoth vegetable patch until she was well into her eighties. She was tiny, my little Auntie, but she was Mighty.

A few years ago, I telephoned her at the farm, and was dismayed when she answered my call sounding more than slightly out-of-breath. I immediately inquired if she was all right, and whether she was feeling faint or tight-in-the-chest.

"Goodness, no, dear," she replied with a laugh, "I just ran in from the garden when I heard the phone-- I've been out there for an hour digging trenches for five or ten more rows of gladiola bulbs!!"

She was sharp as a tack until the day she died at the age of 102, and I think of her bright, cheery spirit every time I see a vibrant, colourful bouquet of "glads", as she used to call them.

But, back to the Market on Saturday...

The girlies and I wandered through the maze of enormous plastic buckets, which were crammed full of gladiola stems, in every colour of the rainbow. There were so many varieties to choose from, but eventually, we carefully selected twelve to take home in a bunch.

We approached the wooden desk, where a tall, thin farmer stood. He greeted my children with a wide, warm smile.

"Leetle girls!!" he said delightedly, in beautiful, Dutch-accented English. "Leetle girls who love FLOWERS!"

"Come," he beckoned to them, "Come and pick some more for YOURSELVES!"

And he allowed my girlies to pick out MORE gladiolas for their very own selves. Then, he carefully packaged the three bunches up in newspaper to make them easier to carry. It was quite a comical sight, seeing as Child Number Three was nearly as tall as the package she was determined to hang onto... with a grin on her face so big, you'd think her round, pink cheeks would split.

I thanked him profusely, and offered to pay for the extra flowers. But the gentleman would have none of it, and simply said, "I like to see people HAPPY."

Glads make people happy.

I knew that.

Bought today...

"Family and Company"

It will come as no surprise to any of you that I am just a little girl trapped inside a 38-year-old's slightly worn-out frame.

Hey, at least my girlies can relate to me, right?! Maybe that's why we get on so well... It's DEFINITELY why we ate soooo much Chocolate Barr's candy today, and FOR SURE why we were still swinging at the park with ice cream dripping down our chins at a QUARTER TO NINE tonight...

And it's also the reason why, whenever we are in this beautiful town, we always make sure to stop by the most brilliant toystore in the entire world: "Family and Company".

People, they've got it all. And I'm not talking about that Mattel crap that has been recently recalled because the lead in it KILLS PEOPLE.

I am talking about wholesome, hilarious, fun, Fun, FUN. They've got board games and tinker toys and wooden puzzles and magic tricks and dress-up and craft supplies and rubber chickens and... did I MENTION the rubber chickens??! Rubber chickens are my absolute favourite toys. Except for whoopie cushions, of course. Suffice it to say that they've got 'em both, and everything else you can imagine, too. The place is crammed, floor-to-ceiling, chock-a-block, with the most incredible variety of kid-friendly STUFF that I have ever. seen. in. my. entire. life.

The girlies and I always set aside a few hours of time for a trip to Family and Company. We ALWAYS have a blast, and we ALWAYS come out with the most incredible variety of treasures, all packaged up in a big brown bag, tied with a couple of neon-pink-and-orange plastic strings (suitable for making a boondoggle bracelet at a later time...)

Look what I found today!! And this is just one of the things I bought for MYSELF:

The Voice-Changer Megaphone.

This thing is The Bomb. And my kids are NEVER getting their little hands on it, either. At the press of a button, I can change my voice to sound no less than 10 totally different ways!! And a whole heck of a lot LOUDER than my normal voice, too!

If this thing will make my kids sit up and take notice when I say stuff like "Right!! Time for bed!!" or "Hustle out to the car, we're going to be late!!" or "Dirty socks go in the hamper, not on the bedroom floor!!" or even just "AAUUUGH!! STOP RIGHT THERE, YOU LITTLE CHUCKLE-HEAD!!" then I will have gotten my money's worth and more.

And if The Husband, who, let's face it, tuned out the sound of my voice well over fifteen years ago, suddenly begins acknowledging me when I speak, well then, I'm going to have to buy stock in the company. I think I might not use voice number three on him, though-- it is the "Very, Very Low" setting and sounds not unlike the Satan character in a cheap horror flick. Hell, it's probably the one he would recognize as my "PMS Voice", anyway...

She's gone back home... Sigh...

Life is considerably less sparkly around this household today, because Hannah has gone back home to her parents.

It was tough to let her go. We've had such a wonderful couple of weeks, and I can honestly say, going forward, I don't know how I'm going to manage without her.

I'm sure SHE'S happy to be going back to the life of a "normal" teenaged girl, although from my experience, Hannah is FAR from the teenaged "norm". I mean that as an extremely high compliment, of course. She is lovely and kind and full of good humour and common sense. She is gentle and patient with children, but has a wonderful sense of silliness and an imagination that absolutely transfixes my three girlies. She is, as Lola (from our favourite TV show) would say, "our favourite and our BEST!"

The scene at the airport yesterday was a pretty sad one, all right. I was trying desperately to put on my "brave face", which I'm certain wasn't very brave at all-- especially when it came time for The Hug. Child Number One was downright weepy, and Number Three was sitting silently and grimly in the front seat of "The Bus" (our double stroller). Child Number Two was fully reclined in the back seat, looking pale and greebly, as she had managed to contract my gastro bug, and wasn't fully over it yet.

Poor Hannah. She had a rough final few days with us, with me being ill. She basically held down the fort while I was in bed. Her final week with us turned out to be FAR from the adventure-filled extravaganza that we had planned. But, I don't know how we would have managed without her, and as soon as I was able to stand up again, we started a list of things we all wanted to do with her NEXT year... Which I guess means she's willing to come back (this fact never ceases to amaze me).

As I write this, Hannah is home once again, and off on a camping trip with some of her friends. I hope she has a thoroughly splendid time... because boy, does she ever deserve it.

And as for us? Well, in the 24 hours that she has been gone, we have managed to turn her name into an adjective. During the drive home, I told the girlies that going forward, we would have to try extra hard to be kind and helpful to each other, since Hannah was no longer with us to jolly us along. One, Two and Three all solemnly agreed, and this morning, I saw the plan in action.

Whilst at the local mall, where we were stoically rounding up stationery supplies for school (CRINGE!), Child Number Three suddenly decided to throw one of those boneless, spineless fits that only a pre-schooler can throw. It was a sight to behold, people, and nothing I could do or say could coax her out of it.

And that's when her oldest sister stepped in. I can't even remember exactly what she said, but it was some sort of lovely promise that included doing puzzles and colouring-in and playdough games together, but the POINT was, that the fit would have to END in order that we should get home to PLAY.

And that's all it took. Child Number Three got up off the floor, grabbed her purse and popped one of her many pacifiers (CRINGE!!) into her mouth, found her tiny flip-flops and put them back on her feet, and marched off towards the nearest exit.

As we hurried to catch up with her before she hit the parking lot (DRAT those automatic doors that open on the push of a button placed at little-people height), I turned to Child Number One:

Mother: (in awe) Well! That was a very... Hannah thing to do.

Child Number Three: (proudly) Thank-you.

Yes, THANK-YOU, Hannah, for all you have done for us, and that includes all the things you don't even REALIZE you've done for us. We love you.

And we can't wait for next summer.

Let the countdown begin!!

Gimme, gimme, gimme...

This afternoon, Hannah (the mother's helper extraordinaire) and I took the three girlies on an outing to the mall. Not just for something to DO, mind you-- I had been actively looking for a specific piece of computer software, and had phoned ahead to secure that a copy of it was waiting for me in one of the stores. The girlies were game to get out of the house for an hour or so, and piled into the Loser Cruiser in an agreeable and orderly fashion.

I should have known better than to think that their pleasant demeanor would last longer than the car ride... Because their very finest Whine-and-Beg Act began like clockwork, as soon as we crossed the threshold of the shopping centre. They wanted every single toy they saw in the shop windows we passed, and they were apparently fully prepared to harangue me until I agreed to acquire them.

Now, allow me to clarify something. These are by no means deprived or even remotely hard-done-by children we're talking about here. My three girlies have an immense playroom, the contents of which rival the stock of our local Toys-R-Us and Mastermind, COMBINED. I assure you, there is nothing left on this planet for them to pine FOR, as they already own some sort of variation of every possible type of play-thing available on the common market.

However, this did not stop them from whinging and cajoling me throughout the entire expedition, INCLUDING during the short period of time that I was ripping a computer-store salesperson a new arsehole, as the software he had assured me was in stock when I had spoken to him on the telephone exactly one hour before was NOWHERE to be found once I actually set foot in the store...

The begging continued as we made a top-speed bee-line back to the car, and continued even as I made my way out of the parking lot...

Finally, about half-way home, I had had enough. My many versions of answering with a NEGATIVE response had been completely exhausted. I was not prepared to expound upon the multitude of reasons behind my answer any longer. In short, The Goddess' patience snapped.

I pulled the loser cruiser over to the side of the road, turned around in my seat, and faced The Progeny:

Mother: (with more than a hint of hysteria) Right!! Fine!! I give in, YOU WIN!! You may have it all-- everything you want!! I'll just hand my bank and credit cards over to YOU all, and you can spend as MUCH money as you like on TOYS!! Forget about food or clothing, because you'll be MUCH to busy playing, right? And of course, your Dad and I won't be around, because we won't be able to pay our bills or our taxes, and that's what HAPPENS to people who don't pay their bills and taxes... But HEY, whatever makes you guys HAPPY!!

Child Number Two: (suddenly panicked, turning to her older sister) Would Mum'n'Dad go to JAIL?!

Child Number Three: (ecstatically) DAT'S okay!! HANNAH can look after us!!

I. Give. Up.

Ain't life sweet...

Our time at the cottage is strategically planned to coincide with two things: first, the end of haying season in South-Western Ontario. To my mind, there is nothing quite so beautiful as a freshly mown field, all ready to be scooped up and rolled into gigantic "muffets" for the barn animals during winter. The colour of that hay is the most beautiful golden yellow you can imagine, and there have been times when I have been so overwhelmed by the beauty of a "perfect field", I have been compelled to pull my car over and take a photo of it.

And speaking of beautiful golden yellow, the most IMPORTANT thing that we plan our time at the cottage for is the beginning of our Sweet Corn Season.

People, there is absolutely nothing in this world that is more delectable to eat on a hot summer evening than a perfectly prepared ear of Ontario Sweet Corn. I don't know why, but it just seems to me that our farmers do Sweet Corn better than any place else on the planet. I've eaten corn all over. Don't get me started... I've been to a lot of places, and each place I go, I look for CORN before I start feeling tempted to put down any roots at all. No good corn? I pack up and go home. The slogan goes, "Good Things Grow In Ontario", and they're not kidding, ESPECIALLY when it comes to Sweet Corn.

Two weeks ago, my girlies and I began our yearly Quest for The Best. The cottage is located right smack in the middle of one of the finest farming districts in the province, and we scoured it for as many varieties of Sweet Corn as we could find. We tried common-a-garden yellow Sweet Corn from the local Independent Grocer's. We tried a variety called "Bodacious", which, in spite of its compelling monniker, failed to impress the family critics. At a local market, I was "wooed" by a farmer selling what he called "Candy Corn: The Sweetest Corn You Can Buy!" He claimed that he had picked it himself that morning, and loaded a dozen into a bag for me to try, free of charge... When we got home and peeled the husks back, we discovered that not only were the kernels a bit on the small-and-mean side, there were also little patches of mildew on a few of them, thus bursting the bubble that they were even remotely fresh. Yick.

Now that we are home once more, the unpacking is done, and we're settled back into routine, I decided that it was time to throw the kids into the loser cruiser and take them up the road to a local farm, which, in the summertime, sells a magnificent variety of locally-grown produce.

And today, we FINALLY found the best Sweet Corn of the 2007 season.

I stood there as they unloaded the ears out of the tractor-wagon that had pulled up out of the fields when we arrived. I carefully picked out six, and was told that it was nothin' more than regular "Peaches-and-Cream". Not "Super-Sweet-Bodacious-Candy", just plain old yellow-and-white.

We bought the corn, some beautiful tomatoes still warm from the vine, a gigantic cucumber, a handful of red potatoes and a link of summer sausage, and brought it all home for dinner. I sliced and dressed the cucumbers and tomatoes, boiled the potatoes with mint from my own garden, and the corn with a spoonful of white sugar thrown in the water... All of that, with a big dish of cottage cheese, is what my girlies call a "Farm-Fresh Supper". It's what they like to eat best in the summertime, with plates on their knees, sitting on the patio steps, their hair still wet from swimming.

Oh, the CORN, people, THE CORN...

The Corn was purrrr-fect. I smothered it with butter and salt and pepper, and handed each kid an enormous ear. We sat munching and slorping noisily, butter running down our chins, and waxing ecstatic.

We compared notes as to what technique each of us uses to eat corn. I have long been a devotee of the "typewriter" technique, as, long ago, my elderly grandfather explained that being meticulously careful about keeping track of all the kernels would allow me to eat them all, without missing any on the cob. Child Number One and her six-year-old sister are fans of the "round-and-round" method. They explained to me that it keeps them from getting butter up their noses as they eat, so long as they work downwards and not upwards. I tried it, and damned if they weren't absolutely right. Child Number Three, aged three, is still just developing her corn-eating technique, but suffice to say that this evening, she just chomped away haphazardly, cramming as much into her mouth at a time as she possibly could.

We ate the half-dozen ears I had bought in about five minutes flat. We COULD have easily eaten more... And we WILL be eating more, when I go back tomorrow morning to buy another dozen or so (Daddy will be home for dinner tomorrow night, so we'll be needing all twelve, I have the feeling).

I knew we had found our Winner of the Sweet Corn 2007 contest when Child Number Two turned to me in the evening sunlight, her face glistening with butter, and kernel-skins stuck between her wiggly little front teeth:

Child Number Two: (earnestly, with her brown eyes shining) Mum, can we have corn for BREAKFAST tomorrow?!!

Bring it on, baby, bring it on... And pass the butter, please...

We're here... and it's wonderful!!!

Oh, it's so good to be back at the lake...

We can hear the waves lapping down at the bottom of the garden, the flowers are all in fragrant bloom, and there are riots of birds and butterflies everywhere you look...

No sooner had we arrived and thrown the contents of the loser cruiser into the front hallway, the girlies demanded to hit the beach. We found the bathing suits and towels, grabbed the sand toys, and headed out into the beautiful afternoon sunshine.

The girls frolicked in the water for awhile, and then with my help, proceeded to create an enormous and amazingly beautiful sand castle. We used the "dribble technique" that my father had taught me when I was a child (you get a bucket of sand-and-water, then "dribble" the wet mixture out of your hand to form an eerie-looking, asymmetrical sort of structure. Think of candle wax melting down the side of a candle...), and the whole thing looked like something out of a Gothic novel when we were finally finished, some two hours later.

The two older girlies immediately went back into the water to cool down and wash off the layers of sand sticking to their skin and swimsuits, and Child Number Three and I were left to guard and admire the castle.

Child Number Three walked around and around the structure, looking at it from every angle, and shaking her head solemnly. Soon, she was muttering, "Oh, dear... Oh, dear, dear... Oh, no...", and I couldn't help asking her what on earth was the matter.

She turned to face me with an anguished expression.

"Mummy... Oh, dear... Because, I just HAVE TO... SMUSH IT!!!" she squealed at the top of her lungs, while at the same time, taking a running-leap and sailing feet-first through the air, into the main section of turrets.

The rapidly-drying sand didn't stand a chance against The Attacker. Within a matter of seconds, she had flattened the entire castle, and was happily wiggling like a large worm on the damp remains.

Luckily, her older sisters were like-minded, and they each took turns schmucking the remainder of the sand-pile with their feet, accompanied by bloodcurdling shrieks of "COWABUNGAAAA!!"

It took a LOOONG time in the shower to get those kids relatively sand-free and calmed down enough to have their suppers and get into bed. But, once they were all asleep and I was snuggled into a quilt out on the deck, wine in hand, watching the sun set over the water... I just couldn't help thinking how lucky I am to be able to do this with them, all over again, tomorrow.

Mummy's Treat...

Late Saturday afternoon, once I had finished painting the master bathroom and dressing room, I loaded the two youngest girlies and my mother-in-law into the Loser Cruiser, and set off to scrounge up a few ingredients for dinner.

Once we had made a stop at the local gourmet shop (one of my m-i-l's favourite destinations when she comes for a visit), I decided to take a "detour" on the way home. Because, after a couple of hard days' work, even MUMMY needs a little reward.

Child Number Three: (from her carseat in the second aisle) Mum?? Where we go NOW?

Child Number Two: (shouting from the third aisle) We're goin' to Mummy's HAPPY PLACE!!

Mother-In-Law (hereafter known as "The Pearl"): WHERE are we going?!

Child Number Two: You know, Gramma!! The LIQUORICE store!!

Mother: It's the LIQUOR store, you funny little kid, not the LIQUORICE store. Mummy's been working hard, and even Mummies need a treat every once in awhile.

Child Number Three: (eagerly, at the mention of c-a-n-d-y) OOOhhh!! I come in, TOO? I not stay in da car wif Gramma?! I get a treat, TOO??!

I should have known then that I was in for it. Child Number Three was convinced that SHE was getting a treat, and I happened to know for a fact that our local LCBO did NOT, in fact, stock liquorice... not even one lousy lolly pop.

The Pearl and Child Number Two opted to stay in the car and read books rather than coming into the crowded shop, while my youngest and I ventured in. Once I had convinced Wee Three to actually SIT in the shopping cart, and not careen around the store PUSHING the cart into large displays of expensive bottles, we were in business.

I set off up and down the aisles in search of my current favourite white wine, "Cat's Pee on a Gooseberry Bush".

Okay, I confess. I initially chose this wine the same way I do MOST of the wine we drink. I liked the label. I LOVED the name. It was semi-revolting; a name that was DEFINITELY going to make an impression on any host I brought it to, and one that I was CERTAINLY not going to forget. The same goes for another of my favourites, "Fat Bastard". Luckily for my husband, BOTH of these wines actually turned out to be quite delicious, and we now happily converse over dinner:

Me: A little more Fat Bastard?

Him: I think I'll take a little Pee, actually...

Needless to say, people hate coming to dinner at our house, and if and when they do, usually wind up bringing their own bottles.

I was once asked to bring the wine to a party being held at my parents' house, and of course, arrived armed with a case of the "Cat's Pee". My father was completely horrified by his eldest daughter's complete lack of taste and sense of decorum, but had no choice but to serve what I had brought him... He wrapped a large white napkin firmly around the label of every bottle, apparently to "catch the drips..."

But I digress.

As I wheeled the cart around the store that Saturday, Child Number Three became increasingly distraught at the apparent lack of child-friendly merchandise. In order to distract her from her Quest For Candy at the Liquor(ice) Store, I attempted to show her some of the very pretty wine labels that we passed on our way down the aisles.

We found beautiful birds and different kinds of animals, and even scenic landscapes... But it was a tiny ladybird printed on a bottle of blush wine from the Niagara region that finally captivated her:

Child Number Three: Dat bottle for ME??!!

Me: Well, I don't know, sweetie... This isn't a bottle that's good for little people.

Child Number Three: (begging, clearly unconvinced) You get dat bottle for my BIRFDAY?!! For my TREAT??!

Me: Yes, sweetie. For your twenty-first birthday. 'Kay?

Yessir, it's great to see that at least ONE of my children has inherited my "delicate palate" when it comes to fine wine...

Next time, I'm just going to buy her one of those boxes of chocolate liqueurs, and enjoy the nap that hopefully follows.

Freak-out Friday...

It's Friday morning, and in a matter of hours, my mother-in-law will be arriving for a weekend visit.

A few minutes ago, I was engaged in an "animated" telephone discussion with the Husband, regarding the battle between US and CAPITAL ONE MASTERCARD, regarding the fraudulant use of our credit card, that came to light upon the arrival of our last bill... Don't go there with me right now, I'm saving up all my anger and frustration for one "Alex", a Mastercard representative who will soon be feeling the FULL EXTENT of the Goddess' wrath (and subsequently resolving the situation in MY favour, or die trying to screw me, if he so foolishly chooses...)

ANYWAY, I was on the phone.

And when I got OFF of the phone, just GUESS what I discovered in the kitchen?!

Child Number Three, standing over the Banana Cake with Fudge Icing that I had baked for tonight's dinner.

She was holding the largest spoon she could find.

And she was polishing off the very last of the fudge icing, which she had been not-very-neatly scooping off of the top of the cake, and shovelling into her mouth as fast as she could.

Mother: "*&%$#@@@???!!!!!!"

After the kind of morning I've had, and no doubt, the kind of afternoon I am IN FOR, I've got half a mind to whip up another batch of fudge, and just pour it over the train-wreck of a cake that's left in the pan...

But you know I'd NEVER actually DO it, don't you??!!

Cookie Conundrum...

Child Number Three, aged three, loves to bake. There is absolutely nothing that she enjoys more than donning her tiny little Mennonite-style apron, pushing a chair across the kitchen and positioning it in front of the counter, where she stands and helps me to carefully measure, pour and stir together just about any recipe. "The Messier, the Better" seems to be about her only unspoken guideline. This is a kid who is not afraid to get her hands dirty-- or anything else dirty, for that matter. She can stir and dump and roll and knead with the best of 'em. My kitchen usually looks as though a small hurricane has passed through it when we're done, and she is finally positioned on the same chair, only seated this time. She holds her favourite blanket, with a pacifier firmly planted in her mouth (the other thirteen are kept in her purse), and watches the baking through the oven window with the same kind of rapture that most kids her age watch "Dora The Explorer". She's generally a little flour-y, and definitely more than a little sticky by the end of the process, but no other activity satisfies her like a little productivity in the baking department.

One of our favourite recipes is for a soft ginger spice cookie, which I found in last year's November issue of Chatelaine Magazine. Wee Three loves it because there is plenty of hand-mixing involved, as well as rolling the dough into little balls. It's just like playdough, except it smells good, and you can actually EAT IT!! Best of all, however, before the little balls of cookie dough are placed on the baking sheet, each one is rolled in GRANULATED SUGAR. This is, without a doubt, my youngest daughter's favourite part of the entire recipe. She rolls those little suckers around with such incredible enthusiasm, the cookie dough balls are far from the only things that are completely coated with sugar by the end of the process.

About a week ago, we took an "assembly line" approach to ginger cookie-making. I rolled the dough, and then handed each little cookie ball to Wee Three, who did her usual job of the sugaring. She then placed each cookie onto a baking sheet, ready for the oven. It wasn't until after we had finished, and she was settling herself on her chair in front of the oven window, that I noticed a little "bald" stripe down the middle of each sugared cookie-dough ball. The bald patches weren't all on the tops of the dough balls-- some were on the sides as well. I didn't think much of it, and figured that she just hadn't done her usual, practically-perfect job in our haste to get the recipe completed (we had company arriving, and still had the rest of the house to tidy up, as well). I just shrugged, and put the baking sheets into the oven.

It wasn't until we were actually SERVING the cookies to our friends about an hour later, when Child Number Three offered her four-year-old cohort a "Lick-it Cookie", that I came to the horrifying realization what that little "bald patch" on the cookie dough balls had actually BEEN... My little Christer of a daughter had licked nearly every. single. one. before placing them on the baking sheet.

My visitor, who is a dear friend, a mother, AND a family physician, laughed hysterically when I snatched the plate off the table, and explained why we would be having cheese-and-crackers for our tea as an alternative... She insisted on eating the "Lick-it Cookies" ANYWAY, and assured me that any evil cooties my daughter may have transferred would have been eradicated during the cooking process... All I can say is: Dr. Gummy, babe, you're a brave woman, one HELL of a scientist, and an even BETTER pal. xoxo

So, here, dear readers, is my recipe for "Lick-it" cookies... Enjoy them warm, with a big glass of milk. Or, what the heck. Forget about the baking and just lick 'em instead.

Ginger Spice Cookies

2 c all purpose flour

2 tsp baking soda

1 tsp each cinnamon and ginger

1/2 tsp nutmeg

1/4 tsp salt

1 egg

3/4 cup vegetable oil

1/4 cup molasses

1 cup packed brown sugar

1/3 cup granulated sugar

1. Arrange oven racks in top and bottom thirds of the oven. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly spray or coat 2 baking sheets with oil (*I use parchment paper on the baking sheets first, then spray the paper*). In a medium bowl, using a fork, stir flour with baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and salt. In a large bowl, beat the egg. Then beat in oil and molasses. Beat in brown sugar until evenly mixed. Gradually stir in flour mixture until well mixed.

2. Place granulated sugar in a small bowl. Pinch off about 1 tbsp dough and roll into a ball. Then roll in granulated sugar until evenly coated. Place on baking sheet. Continue with remaining dough, placing balls at least 2 inches apart.

3. Bake on two racks in preheated oven, switching the position of the sheets halfway through baking, until the cookies begin to crack and set around the edges, about 7 to 10 minutes total. Remove baking sheets to a rack. Let cookies cool on the baking sheets. Store in an airtight container at room temperature up to 5 days, or freeze up to 1 month.

Them's fightin' words...

Yesterday, I was posed an unexpected question by Child Number Two:

Child Number Two: Mummy, how come you and Daddy fight sometimes? Don't you LOVE each other??!

My mind went immediately back to a book by Fred Rogers that I have recently read. It is a brilliant, sensitive compilation of little snippets of his wisdom, and in it, he deals with this very subject. I tried to paraphrase as best I could...

Mother: Of course we love each other. Sometimes, people who love each other fight, just like you and your sisters do. Fighting doesn't mean that you three don't love each other anymore; it's not possible that you will agree with each other all the time. Sometimes we ALL have angry feelings, and that's okay. It's important to let those feelings out, but it's also important to let angry feelings out in a way that doesn't hurt anybody else... I guess you could say that we fight sometimes BECAUSE we love each other. We trust that we won't stay mad at each other for very long. We let our feelings out, instead of holding them inside...

Child Number Two: (grinning HUGELY and looking me RIGHT in the eye...) You guys sure must love each other an AWFUL LOT, then!!!

There is no friend like a sister...

This evening, my three daughters, ages eleven, six and three, were hard at work outside on the patio with an enormous box of coloured chalk. I left them to their artwork, and went into the kitchen to tidy up the aftermath of dinner. It wasn't until I glanced out at them from the window over my sink, that I realized that instead of drawings, each child (including the three year old!) was composing enormous "LISTS", each on her own little section of the stones.

I continued rinsing the plates and loading the dishwasher, until I could hear a scuffle breaking out, and the voices of the two eldest girls rise up.

Moments later, Child Number Two came charging in through the back door, hackles-up and hands balled into little fists.

Mother: (bracing for the worst) What-ho, kiddo?

Child Number Two: (indignant) They're making a Club out there, and they asked ME to join!!

Mother: So what's the problem with that?? Everyone Being Included is a GOOD thing, right?

Child Number Two: Yeah, but I DON'T WANNA be in that club!

Mother: Why not? They want you to join!

Child Number Two: Well, they called it the "GOOD SISTERS" Club, and I don't wanna be a good sister!

Mother: Why on earth not?

Child Number Two: (exasperated) C'mon, Mum, how DULL and BORING would THAT be???!

Always stirring up the pot, that kid, ALLLLWAYS stirring up the pot...

Work it, baby-girl...

This evening, I was in a bit of a conundrum about dinner... The shops were all closed for the official Canada Day holiday, and I suddenly discovered at about five o'clock that I was SERIOUSLY low on groceries. The rest of the family members were oblivious to this crisis, as the majority of them were busy working up intense appetites in the swimming pool, where they had spent most of the afternoon.

The Goddess was in deep doo-doo, people.

Because, there ain't NOTHING in this world that can kill the atmosphere of a fun-filled holiday weekend like three exhausted, starving kids... THAT spells Meltdown City, and THAT was a place that The Goddess simply didn't. want. to. go.

So, I did what I usually do in most crises. I plugged my ipod into the big speakers we have in the kitchen, and cranked up the file marked "PANIC MODE".

Rocking out to loud, raucous music has a miraculous effect on me, as a rule. It seems that the harder it is for me to hear the negative, stressed-out voices in my head, the more effective I become at problem-solving. There are many selections on my Panic Mode list. I find most tunes by OK-GO extremely effective, and also artists like Pink and Aerosmith. Basically, in general, I find the Higher the Attitude, the Heavier the Beat, the better.

It was while I was shaking my booty, and simultaneously sticking my head deep into the depths of my refrigerator to see what "still-edibles" lurked within, that my little three-year-old daughter wandered in the back door. She was dripping wet, but when she heard the irresistable strains of Nelly Furtado's "Maneater" and saw ME dancing, she promptly dropped her towel and joined in the fun.

Now, we play a lot of grown-up music in this house, as a rule. It is my firm feeling that Children Cannot Live By Raffi Alone, and parents definitely SHOULD not, for the simple reason of maintaining their sanity. My kids are intimately familiar with MOST of my favourite songs at any given time, but there is no doubt that there is SOME music out there in the popular culture that is not entirely suitable for young ears.

But, all that aside, I cannot even BEGIN to describe how hilarious it was to watch a soggy three-year-old perform a flawless shimmy-shimmy to old Nelly's kind-of-inappropriate tune. I think it was the droopy diapers that REALLY "sealed it" for me... Nonetheless, the beat was THERE, people, and baby-girl had it goin' on! The song was HOT, even to a pre-schooler, and she just couldn't help herself any more than I could.

We grooved till the song was over, attempting to outdo each other with more and more ridiculous moves, and didn't have the foggiest notion that we were being watched by my incredulous husband, who had entered the back door just after Wee Three. Now, my husband is a child of the sixties, and is of the very firm opinion that there are NOT many popular bands worth listening to beyond about 1975. And NO DISCO. That in itself makes him redeemable in my eyes. Other than that, though, let's just say our tastes DIVERGE.

Once the ringing in our heads stopped (YES, we had it turned up THAT LOUDLY), he was able to find his voice and queried:

Father: What. The. HELL. Was. That????!!!

Child Number Three: (with the innocence of an ANGEL) C'mon, Daddy!! It SHARON, LOIS, AN' BRAM!!!

ps. We ordered a pizza while Daddy was still unconscious.

Techno-trauma...

Tamagotchi?

They should be called Tama-GOTCHA.

The day that school ended, Child Number Two had one of her little pals over to play... and he brought his brand spankin' new Tamagotchi toy with him. To say that Child Number Two was enraptured with the tiny piece of computer wizardry is a wild understatement. She may be mighty, but she is a nurturing little soul by nature, and the IDEA that a little "creature" could be HERS to look after all by herself... Well.

Her verdict came quickly: She HAD to have one.

I resisted madly. After all, my husband and I have declared this house a "Game-free" zone (and by that, I mean NONE of this "-Boy", or "Wii" technological brainwashing for OUR progeny). So far, we have stuck to our vow. After all, the computers that we have in this house are WAY too tempting for people to become mesmerized by, as it is.

I spoke to the little pal's mother, who is a very good friend of mine. We share a similar parenting style, and I can always trust hers to be a level-headed, well informed opinion. She said that she felt that a Tamagotchi was a fairly harmless toy... her little boy was enjoying it, but its presence in the household did not diminish his enthusiasm of other activities.

Yesterday, when we stopped off at our favourite toy store for a look around, I broke down and allowed Child Number Two to blow her allowance on a Tamagotchi. We chose a nice red one, with a pattern of little folded paper cranes all over it. I even sprung for a lanyard for her, so that the tiny piece of plastic could hang around her neck, and lessen the chance of it being accidentally dropped and lost.

Child Number Two launched into parenting that tiny little "blob" on the screen with great gusto, and with the tendency for obsessive perfection that she has with all activities she sets her mind to. She named the blob "Stela" (we couldn't fit in two L's), and she "fed" it and "played" with it and "cleaned up" after it... It was actually astounding how quickly she figured it out, even though she had only just barely glanced at the instruction sheet.

The novelty had not worn off even this morning, when Stela was brought outside to see the guinea pigs on the lawn, and then on a trip with us to Home Depot. It wasn't until the car ride home, that the unthinkable happened:

Child Number Two: (SCREECHING AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS FROM THE BACK SEAT, with all the power and emotion of Marlon Brando) STEL-LAAAAAA!!!! SHE'S DEAAAADD!!! AAAAAUUUUGGGHHHH!!!!!

Mother: (wildly gripping the steering wheel and trying to avoid going off the road) GAAKKK!! WHO'S DEAD?? What??!! Where??!! What's happening???!!

Child Number Two: (weeping tears of grief) MY TAMAGOTCHI!! She's DEAD!! A picture of an egg with wings came down and took her away!! I must have over-fed her!! Now she's DEAAAD!! WAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

Mother: (Hugely relieved) My God, child!! You didn't HALF scare me!! Put that thing on "pause" and put it away until we get home!! Right now, or I'll have an accident!!!

Child Number Two: (hysterical) WAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! Now Stela's DEAD and it's ALL MY FAULT!!!

Mother: (Getting crosser by the minute, mostly with herself, as it was SHE who allowed the g-d toy in the first place) Child Of Mine, you put that thing away THIS INSTANT!! It is a TOY, it is NOT REAL. Put it away, and I'll take a look at it when we get home!

The irrational flood of waterworks and wailing and gnashing of teeth continued, and became so irritating to me that I promptly confiscated the cursed toy as soon as all four wheels hit our driveway. Child Number Two was sent to her room to regain her composure and clean herself up.

I was left in the kitchen, with the Tamagotchi and a set of instructions that were about as "clear" as Chinese to me...

I just pressed the buttons for awhile, until all at once, to my complete surprise, the Tamagotchi sprung back to life. The little tiny "blob" known as Stela was somehow treated with a little "medicine kit", and immediately started jumping around on the screen, smiling and waving at me.

"That's nice," I thought. "At least SHE'S grateful for something I've done around here... even if it WAS pretty much by accident."

I realized, all of a sudden, that the entrancing little creature jumping and beeping at me had HOOKED ME for a second. It was a TOY!! A plastic TOY, powered by an overly-expensive, likely irreplaceably-sized button battery!!

"My God..." I thought, "I actually FELL FOR IT!!"

And I jammed the offending toy into my cavernous purse.

When Child Number Two came back downstairs, calmer and with an absence of tear-stains, I suggested that she leave the toy in my purse until tomorrow, and hooshed her outside to the garden where her father and sisters were preparing to head down to the pool for an afternoon swim.

After she had gone, I heard a little chirp coming from the depths of my purse.

I eyed the bag, and continued the task of clearing off the kitchen counters.

More chirps ensued.

Soooo... I gingerly went over to the bag, and pulled out the Tamagotchi.

Awwww... It was hungry. Sad little eyes and everything. I poked at the buttons until the word "snack" appeared, and "fed" Stela a few pieces of what looked like sushi. Immediately, familiar beeps and whistles filled the air, and Stela did a dance of joy on the screen and rubbed her tummy. I swear, I could almost see her "grow".

This has been going on for a couple of hours, now... I've folded the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, prepared the dinner, and responded to at least eight or nine of Stela's little requests...

Tonight, though, I SWEAR, I'm going to press that pause button and stash the Tamagotchi in the depths of my sock drawer, just so that if there are any little "cries" in the night, I won't be tempted to answer them... And of COURSE, I'll have to weigh the options before I decide whether or not Child Number Two can handle the "responsibility" of caring for this little thing... And, whether it will impede on any of her other important daily activities...

We'll see.

We'll see if I can part with Stela. After all, she's the easiest to please of all the creatures that live in this house...