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The professor was staying up late preparing for an exhibit on Wednesday, so I went to bed. Because the cherubs are making me tired these days, what with summoning me to their chambers at all hours of the night….to find their pacifiers and cover them with blankets.
Jason came upstairs just before 10 to bid me good night. He started talking about some architect. It morphed into a discussion about what it takes to become famous in the world of architecture. I believe shortness may have been one of the criteria. It was past ten at this point and my initial dream of being asleep by 9.30 was fading fast, as the professor showed no sign of terminating the conversation and returning to his work.
So I turned off the light on my nightstand, thinking he might get the hint.
‘Well,’ he rubbed his hands together, ‘I can see that you’re really interested in this discussion. So how about I go downstairs and make us some coffee and then we can stay up all night and talk.’
I burst out laughing and bid him good night.
It’s good to see that he’s retaining his sense of humor in his old age. Because he is old. Another year older today. Now he comes home from his weekly soccer games smelling of muscle ointment. ‘Did you lose again?’ I ask each time. Because his orange team is on an epic streak…of defeat.
And then he holds his arms aloft and proudly declares: ‘our record is untarnished…by victory.’
It pleases me that he doesn’t take himself too seriously.
But the older we get, the lamer the birthdays get, it seems. ‘Did you get anything exciting for your birthday?’ his mom asked him over the phone. ‘Well, I got to sleep in,’ he replied.
As if sleeping until nine is the mid-thirties’ version of a really thoughtful birthday present.
It’s true, I entertained the troops so that he could rest his head until 9am. I made scones too. The Gort grabbed one off the cooling rack and took it upstairs, pressing it into his father’s hand. ‘Here’s a scone for you.’ (And a very random green marker drawing…of a triangle with legs?)
‘What do you want for your birthday dinner,’ I asked him. ‘Butternut squash ravioli, a good salad and creme brulee,’ he ordered. Apparently people in their mid-thirties have particular tastes.
So in lieu of a Porsche this year, you’re getting squash.
Happy Birthday professor hotness. I promise I’ll get you a (miniature) Porsche next year.
Balloons
I hate balloons. I’m not sure if it’s connected to a traumatic childhood incident or an OCD-like aversion to the sound and feel of a balloon. Whenever one is near me, I have an irrational fear of it popping in my face, and my ears want to crawl inside my head when I hear the rubbery sound of someone touching its exterior. Also, the presence of a balloon means a sibling fight is less than two minutes away. Someone’s balloon will pop or float away and they will try to take the other’s and fisticuffs will ensue. It’s just a fact.
And yet, Mr. Johnson still accommodates his boys’ requests for balloons. He obligingly takes the empty latex shell and fills it with air and leaves me to walk around the house fearing for my life. Or having to break up the inevitable fights. Like this morning. He went to a meeting. And I got to referee a balloon fight. Also, I have no voice. I may have stomped my feet on the floor at one point to ’stop the insanity’ as Susan Powter would have said. Who’s the kid here, I wonder.
The basement lights
The professor likes to think of himself as a bit of an environmentalist. By ‘bit’ I mean, he recycles roughly one percent of his trash. And occasionally instructs the rest of us to turn off lights when we’re not in a particular room. A suggestion he mostly fails to comply with. Especially when said lights are out of the way…like in the basement.
There was an episode on Everybody Loves Raymond where Ray went on a business trip. He came back and dumped his suitcase right by the front door instead of taking it upstairs. His wife got mad. But she refused to move it. So it became this ‘thing’ where they both refused to take the suitcase upstairs and it stayed there for a long time. Apparently that’s what the basement lights are, for us. To be fair, neither of us uses the downstairs much, it is our offspring who play there. And I understand at the end of a long night, it’s just unthinkable to have to walk downstairs and back up again just to turn off a light or two. I understand because I don’t want to do it either.
But the environment! Last night, after observing he’d left the lights on three nights in a row, I said to him: ‘can you please turn off the basement lights when you go to bed?’ I don’t remember his exact response but I think he agreed. I came downstairs around 3am. Lights on.
Gmail
We have four or five computers in our house at any given time. Roughly one for each member of the family. Herr Johnson rotates between them, depending on his software needs and his location within the abode. I use whatever computer is available for my important work of checking email and facebook and celebrity babies dot com.
For reasons I cannot fathom, Jason likes to leave his gmail ‘open’ all the time. He logs on and doesn’t log out. Apparently so he can know right away when an email enters his inbox. Or something like that. However, it is not possible to log into two different gmail accounts using the same internet browser. So I have to log him off so I can log on. I will not use Mozilla’s Firefox, dangit.
I then check my email and I log off again. I’m just polite that way. And this drives him crazy. To return to a computer only to find his email has been closed. Because by the time he enters his username and password (a 3.5 second process, I’m guessing) he may have missed that email from the Nobel committee saying his important environmental conservation efforts have won him the prize. But he only has two seconds to reply in order to claim the award?
Seriously.
He returned from his meeting this morning and saw me doing my important blog work. ‘What are we fighting about now,’ he asked. ‘The basement lights,’ I said to him, pointedly. ‘What, I went down there with the Hen this morning,’ he offered in his defense. ‘At 3 am?’
‘Oh, maybe not….Well, can you at least talk about how you leave the dresser drawers open and how annoying that is and how when I talk to you about it you say ‘yeah, that makes sense’ but then nothing changes?’
Done.
When I arrived home from church yesterday, I couldn’t walk. There was nothing wrong with my legs – there just wasn’t enough cleared floor space for me to put my feet. Such was the state of our home. Whenever this happens, it sends me into a tizzy – and I start cleaning and stomping around like a madwoman. Threatening to take every toy we own to Goodwill; threatening to convert our house into one of those minimalist homes with no ’stuff’ in it – a couch, a table, a few chairs and beds. That’s it.
The professor has grown accustomed to these rants and hardly bats an eye. At some point he suggested I take a nap. But I was too fueled by my outrage to even consider resting.
When you meet an attractive dark haired man in the cafeteria on campus during your freshman year of college, and you (eventually) contemplate being married to him, you really don’t think: ‘I bet we’re going to fight over some seriously dumb stuff.’
As I was stomping around the house, blaming my men-folk for littering my living space, I thought of all the weird stuff we’ve come to argue about over the last thirteen years.
Like pumpkin slash sweet potatoes slash squash. And unlined muffin tins.
Without fail, nearly every time I make food or baked goods with pumpkin or sweet potatoes in it, the professor carps about it. A revelation which would cause an objective outsider to say: ’so stop making things with pumpkin/sweet potatoes/squash in them.’ But it’s not that straightforward, of course. Living with another in holy matrimony rarely is.
For example, I made sweet potato muffins yesterday. And the professor ate three of them. If I make sweet potato chipotle soup, he pronounces it his favorite. And if I make pumpkin bread, the loaf manages to disappear even as he protests its existence. When I make curried squash soup he eats it, too. Even if he makes choking sounds while doing so and, inevitably, regales me with the tale of how as a young child he’d gag on squash.
Luckily I’d used paper liners in the muffin tin. Because Jason has gone on some serious rants when I haven’t. As was the case on Tuesday. I’d made mini frittatas in the muffin pan. Without liners. Because, frankly, there’s something strange about peeling paper wrappers off baked egg, There were violent sighs and accusatory stares at the sink that night. Culminating in his oft-used threat: ‘I’m throwing this away.’ I interceded. Possibly vowed never to make the frittatas again. And the pan was saved. He’s thrown away at least one or two pans over the years.
As I was cleaning the upstairs, I was confronted with the culprits of several more dumb fights. Open drawers, for one. I, apparently have this annoying habit of leaving my dresser drawers partially open. And I really don’t know why or how. Possibly because they’re too full to close? Or because I’m just too ‘busy’ to push the drawer completely shut?
The thing of it is…Herr Johnson is as guilty of this as I am. His dresser drawers are so crowded with balled-up clothes that it is not possible for them to shut all the way. Sure, he could quote that infamous public service announcement: ‘I learned it by watching you!’ but, really? I’d argue it was the other way ’round.
On the other hand, my major peeve with him is that he considers the bedroom floor – actually all floors – his personal laundry basket. A lovely habit he has passed on to our children: wherever you happen to be when you remove an item of clothing, just drop it right there. Someone (moi!) will pick it up and take it to the laundry basket. Eventually.
Honestly, I drop my share of clothes on the floor. But the difference is I eventually take the items to the laundry basket. Which is why I feel justified in pointing fingers.
Once I’d finished cleaning up the bedrooms, I made my way to the basement – where there’d been an explosion of toys and moonsand. The professor and I have long argued about moonsand; he’s publicly vilified me for purchasing the stuff and allowing it in our home.
While I tend to loathe the stuff, it has in its favor one little thing: it keeps my kids busy for a long time. Even the Hen can sit at the table for 30 minutes, maybe even an hour if I’m lucky, playing with the stuff. And the Gort. He could spend half a day playing with the sand; making roads and who knows what else. Surely they’re becoming more creative and genius-like by being exposed to these nano-particles?
But clean-up, as I’ve stated previously, is a pain. And that’s an understatement. Which is why I’ve always made sure the moonsand is used at a table. Set upon a floor covered in an easily swept surface like wood. Or linoleum. Never carpet.
But, apparently, Daddy-o didn’t get that particular memo. And when I got downstairs, the train table was covered in red and grey moonsand. As was the beige carpet beneath it. And every toy within a fifty foot radius.
While I appreciated the opportunity to utilize every one of the vacuum cleaner’s attachments, I still think unsupervised, out of sight moonsand is a bad idea.
Another rite of passage came upon us today: Picture Day.
That day of the year when mothers all over the world try exceedingly hard to get their offspring to look camera ready. A day when mothers speak through clenched teeth as they order, nay threaten, their children not to wear hockey jerseys or the green shirt with the huge grease stain on it. Hair is washed, or at least combed, all in an effort to produce a photogenic subject. A stressful process which culminates in the delivery of printed photos of said subject; sporting a strange smile, head tilted at odd angles, and squinty eyes.
And copious amounts of homeless wallet photos. Because, after all, a kid usually has a maximum of four grandparents. What to do with the remaining four or twelve wallet sized pictures?
Yes, it was picture day today. And I didn’t even forget. Because that’s so……preschool 2007…..to forget this hallowed day and send your child to school with regular (likely stained) clothes and uncombed and unwashed hair. The teachers, who helpfully offered to let me drive home and pick out another outfit, were not impressed with my breezy response: ‘Agh, that’s okay, this is what he really looks like, after all.’
But that was preschool. This is Kindergarten. I decided this first picture day warranted a new shirt. Why I felt the need to spend money on a shirt when I was also going to have to shell out money for funky pictures, I don’t know. Rookie performance anxiety, maybe.
But there weren’t any opportunities for kid-free shopping from the time I became aware of the photo session (Monday night) to when it would transpire (Wednesday at noon).
Which is why the whole family was ensconced in the car-van at 10.40am today, headed towards the Westhills Shopping Centre in search of a suitable shirt in a size 5. The professor hunkered down at the train table in the bookstore with the older two; I half-walked, half-ran into Mexx and Winners while toting B3 in his carseat. To see what I could see.
At 11.17am I emerged, victorious. The proud owner of a size 5 plaid button-up shirt. I hustled to the bookstore to corral the troops. It was approximately 11.37 when we pulled up to the curb in front of our house. And 11.56 when the Gort and I jumped back inside to drive to school.
What happened during that nineteen minute interval?
I ran inside the house like a madwoman (reminiscent of Elaine from Seinfeld trying to get her annoying boyfriend to the airport on time), grabbing leftovers from the fridge, which Jason reheated for the boys’ lunch. Then I ran upstairs to get a coordinating t-shirt to wear under the new purchase. After which I ran back downstairs, instructing my oldest to raise his arms so I could whip off the (hypothetical) green shirt with the grease stain, and put on the other two shirts.
Before he could finish protesting ‘I don’t want to wear this shirt’, he was wearing it. He started making a fuss about how the shirt still had tags on, so I used my Jack Nicholson voice (‘You can’t handle the truth’) about how I was just leaving the tags on to make sure the shirt fit and then I would remove them.
By the time the tears dried, the tags had been removed and all was well.
Except the hair. The hair!
I’d honestly meant to wash his hair the previous night. But there was a red alert meltdown at the Johnson home and the Gort was sent to bed before the clock struck 7. No bath. No hair washing. Which meant I could only try to comb his ’sandy’ blond hair into picture perfection.
Minor problem: the kid doesn’t like to have his hair combed, and the only time I ever comb it is after a hair washing. (Judge not, lest you be judged.) I figure there’s a reason God gave me boys instead of girls: He is tired of seeing me walk around with the same ponytail I’ve been sporting since first grade, and doesn’t want me to pass on my non-haircare to another female.
Really, I’m surprised I haven’t been lured under false pretenses to one of those makeover shows in order to be publicly ridiculed for being 35 and not having a discernible hairstyle.
But this isn’t about me. It’s about the kid who was batting away my hands as I tried to swoop in with the black comb. And tiny tube of hair gel. To combat flyaway strands. ‘You can’t comb my hair…I’m trying to eat!’
We raced to the Kindergarten drop-off line, to arrive at the appointed 12.03 time, only to stand around because the bus was late, again. I stood beside a couple of moms and we watched our kids line up and walk into the building.
‘Remember to take off your socks,’ the fellow mom called to her (adorably dressed) little girl. ‘No socks!’ she reminded-ordered. Because the socks were just to keep her feet warm in her fashionable but unsuitable-for-cold-weather shoes. ‘And remember – don’t wear your inside shoes for pictures. Wear your outside shoes. Because the inside shoes do not go with your outfit!’
Ugh. I hadn’t even considered what shoes he should wear.
I raced back home so the professor could leave for his 1pm appointment. Once home, I rabidly consumed six delicious oatmeal cookies, chased by my second cup of coffee for the day.
Until next year.
In order to round off what can best be described as ‘birth week’ on this blog, I thought I’d include an interview with a real, live labor coach. Seeing as I only really know one, my interviewee had to be the (slightly verbose) professor who kindly answered these questions.
‘Thank you for your interest in my labor coaching seminar. I am happy to answer your questions and should your readers be interested, to provide them with my new video on the subject “A Father’s Guide to Labor” in which I cover the various do’s and don’ts of your participation in the wonderful world of childbirth. (Hint: DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT EATING HER FOOD (even if she says she doesn’t want it).’
What has been indispensable in your role as labor coach?
I try and imagine passing a kidney stone, divide the pain by 2 and that gets me into the appropriate frame of mind for understanding what my lovely wife is feeling each time she squeezes the life out of my arm.
Our vast male readership (Shawn) would like an explanation from you about what shall be known as ‘the epidural incident of 2009′. Would you care to address the incident? Please note I will edit your response if needed.
Part of being a good coach is understanding your players and what they want now vs. what they will want tomorrow. Right now your team may just want the pain of man to man pressing defense to go away and just play zone. But tomorrow as they lick their wounds from the inevitable beating they took, they will wish they had stuck it out. (This isn’t a direct correlation of course but merely a metaphor for the vast male audience to get into the frame of mind for the real answer, just refer to the DVD chapter “Labor is NOT Like Sports (except when it is exactly like sports)” )
More to the point.
- The nurse for all her great qualities (pushiness, sweet accent, positive thinking, uhh shortness) wasn’t very good with the needles as the puncture wounds on your forearm will attest to. In my one run in with the Canadian health care system (see the kidney stone incident of 2008) I also noted a lack of skill in inserting needles into my arm which was particularly vexing given my general fear of needles. Yada, Yada, Yada, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing someone line up and try to hit you in the spine with a thick needle, while you were having painful contractions, sure people do it all the time, but I was worried
- There is the matter of what happens next. Bedpans and an audience are not really your thing.
- I can’t even get you to take an aspirin on most days and these years of seeing you build up an ethos of non intervention, just led me to interpret that what you really were saying was “Jason I know you aren’t going to let me have one, so I feel it’s safe to ask, get me an epidural. Your refusal will give me a good subject heading for my blog and will also make me feel ok about ripping all the skin off of your arm.”
On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the worst possible offense and 10 being the most egregious offense) how would you rate your most recent remark to me: ’so, when are you going to start jogging again’, six days after I bore you a third son?
In my defense I was unaware that in addition to our third child leaving your body, so had your ability to detect sarcasm, as in “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I see you are up and walking, when are you going to really be all better and go for a jog (and maybe make some sort of awesome cake with frosting and caramel to congratulate my excellence in husbandry”…..)
Any tips for smooth and successful umbilical cord cutting? Do you do special exercises ahead of time, or do you just go in and wing it?
It always seems so cool in the movies, like it might be a moment where the room goes quiet and you become one with your wife and child. In reality this of course makes no sense. First of all the baby has just exited a nice warm hot tub where he is constantly supplied with food, and entered a world that is cold, with bright lights and a tiny Indian nurse, a lanky doctor and some weird unshaven guy all staring at him and you are about to cut him off completely….. also it’s a bit like cutting through a bratwurst so these are my tips for properly observing the decorum and appropriate manliness/sensitivity of the moment.
- Do not refuse the request. The doctor/midwife will ask if you want to cut the cord. You may at the time be standing in something of a mess, the baby is possibly not as cute as you had hoped, maybe he’s covered in white sticky stuff… but you must suck it up an proceed.
- Now is not the time for jokes. You may be tempted to ask if you can use your lucky pocket knife, or maybe even chew the cord in two caveman style. No one will laugh at these jokes, not even in retrospect, so save them for the pub night with the guys in a couple months when you can safely leave the house.
- Cut it to the outside of the potato chip clamp they have affixed. Don’t worry the doctor will point to the exact spot multiple times like you are a moron or something.
- Hand the baby directly to the mother so they can both exhaustedly bask in one another’s glow. This is the actual moment when the room seems to go quiet and the baby starts to look cute and the gentle sounds of violins can be heard in the background.
Would you like to comment on the anchovy incident of 2004?
Nope, that one was totally my bad. I panicked.
One of the boys comes to you and says, ‘Dad I want to be an urban planner.’ Your response?
Four immediate retorts come to mind all of which are unprintable and involve references to the Banana Republic, figure skating and fascist dictators…But based on the piles of rocks, blocks and sticks I seem to trip over in every room and nook and cranny of the yard and the drawings of burning buildings, crooked streets and stacked housing with scribble surfaces they seem to favor at this point, they would make great urban planners… Certainly better than Corb anyway.
Another boy says he’s going to have a recurring role in ‘Days of our Lives’…your response?
“Can you buy me a Porsche?”
Would you rather have twin girls or send me to Canyon Ranch Spa for a long weekend by myself?
That one’s easy. A weekend of mancation mayhem, beats a lifetime of miniskirt/sweats with bizarre words like “ouchie” written on them, acne covered boyfriends with Camaros, shopping for dresses and movies about fairies and princesses any day. Are you asking this as a real question? If so then I may instead call your bluff….
Would you rather be married to Sarah Palin or Ann Coulter?
Is rupturing my ear drums and option?
What about Ann Coulter or Hilary Clinton?
What about gouging out my eyes?
What’s the best thing about being married to me?
That would be like choosing a favorite child. It’s all so good I could never choose.
The worst? Oh, sorry it looks like we’re out of time…
Well thank you very much and don’t forget for only $19.99 all this wisdom and more can be yours…
The middle-aged girl with the lazy uterus
In the end, I went into labor. Maybe because I changed the sheets on our bed, or because I made scones and had a friend over, or because Jason cleaned the office. I’m pretty sure it was because he cleaned the office. That, and my third cup of raspberry leaf tea.
I woke up at 3am on Thursday, after dreaming I was having some pain. Turns out it wasn’t a dream..it was a contraction. Maybe.
After waiting around for a while to make sure it was the real thing, we gathered up the boys and dropped them off at a friend’s house. We arrived at the hospital shortly after 8am.
While I was familiar with the location of the hospital, I had not set foot in it. In keeping with our tradition of winging it, I decided against informing myself about the location of the birth unit.
And our ignorance showed. We emerged from the parking garage elevator, and walked out onto the main floor of the hospital, where we got on the wrong elevator…headed for the parking garage. The medical personnel walking out stifled a laugh. They took a look at my gut, announced ‘6th floor’ and pointed us in the direction of the (clearly marked) correct elevator.
We got to the sixth floor, where additional strangers took pity on our ignorance and pointed us to the correct ‘unit’. Not so clearly marked, I must say. I saw a heavily pregnant woman standing at a desk, getting checked in and figured we must be in the right place.
I took a modicum of satisfaction in noting the woman had a bump that was larger than mine. The satisfaction waned, however, when I found out the woman was carrying twins.
After another jaunt downstairs for paperwork, we were sent back upstairs. They admitted us, fortunately, because if they had sent us home ‘to wait’, I may have chained myself to the triage bed in protest.
We were introduced to our attending nurse. I liked her immediately, despite her obviously pushy nature. Apparently she is a former midwife, highly supportive of natural deliveries. It figures I’d get assigned a pushy epidural hater the one time I actually thought a needle in my spine sounded like a good idea.
After reviewing my medical history, she sent me to shower for about an hour. I think it’s something to do with hot water and contractions. I don’t really know. But I was getting pruny. And bored. Finally, around 11am the doctor handling deliveries came in and introduced herself. She also seemed like a very nice person. She announced I was 5cm dilated. And offered to break my water. Because apparently my labor was taking a little too long for their liking.
I’d spent nine months telling anyone and everyone that I did not want my water to be broken again, because after the Hen’s birth, I swore I’d never do that to myself again. (And, I swore, if I did have my water broken, I’d get an epidural.)
But, at this point we’d already been at the hospital for 3 hours. The Gort was due to start Kindergarten at noon. I’d half expected to be ‘done’ with the whole thing in time for Jason to run him over to the school for a bit. Sensing hesitation on my part, Nurse Pushy stuck her head in my face ‘let’s have a baby!’ she urged me on.
Suddenly, I understood the pressure of those fraternity drinking games.
And, so, my water was broken. And I steeled myself for the horror to come. The Hen was born roughly four hours after they broke my water, and that time I was only 3-4 cm dilated.
Around noon, nurse P waltzed back in the room and announced she was going to lunch. She instructed Jason to time my contractions for two periods of fifteen minutes, roughly 12.15-12.45.
And that’s when the going got rough. All of a sudden there were contractions every two minutes. Supremely painful ones. Nurse P had left a canister of ‘laughing gas’ by my bedside; ‘fifty percent oxygen and fifty percent nitrous oxide’ she’d announced. (I think). I put the mask on my face once, and inhaled. It smelled terrible, and I felt claustrophobic. It reminded me of my failed experiment with the TENS machine in London during the Gort’s birth.
‘I want an epidural’ I told the professor, thinking he’d run out into the hallway and find the anesthesiologist. Instead, he said: ‘no you don’t, you can do it without one.’
Will the contestant with the actual uterus in labor please stand up? Thanks for playing Mr Johnson and Nurse Pushy. You can go home now.
A sub-nurse came to check on me, and saw that I wasn’t quite as ’stoic’ as two hours before. ‘I’d really try the gas,’ she encouraged me. So I did and, though it did absolutely nothing for the pain, it provided a nice loopy feeling…sort of an ‘I’m about to implode with pain, but man my head feels woozy’ feeling.
Only caveat, apparently the person in labor is supposed to hold the stupid mask while inhaling and exhaling, not her labor coach. To prevent the woman from passing out, I guess. Which makes sense, for people with regular labor coaches. But if you’ve ever seen Jason in action as a labor coach, you’d know that he was quite up to the task of holding the mask over my face.
It seems 13 years of marriage to a woman with extraordinary non-verbal facial cues has more than adequately prepared him to be a labor coach. He can look at the way I squint my eyes and know exactly what I need. Which is supremely useful since I spend most of labor with my eyes shut, unable to ask for anything.
Sadly it’s a gift he only seems to have when I’m in labor.
Laughing gas or not, I still had my wits about me. And heard everything the professor and the nurse were saying about me. ‘Is the contraction over,’ she asked him. ‘Must be,’ he replied, ’she stopped crushing my fingers.’
‘She’s got a lazy uterus,’ the nurse informed the doctor later on.
‘I’m right here!’ I wanted to say. But didn’t.
Around 1pm they determined I was 9cm dilated and at 1.18 the B3 Bomber emerged into the world. Superman style, with his arm extended above his head, apparently.
An hour or so later, after everyone was settled, the nurse looked over at us. ‘So, are you going to go for a fourth, try for a girl?’
‘No,’ we replied, in unison.
‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘You are 35.’
As she took leave of us, she kissed me on the cheek and pronounced me superwoman. ‘All woman should do labor that way,’ she praised.
Whatever. I wanted an epidural.
As of 3pm or so on Monday August 3rd, we ceased being home owners. International home owners, at that.
If you’d like some helpful hints on how to sell a home in just 450 days or less, feel free to send me an email. Or call 1-800-slowhomes. And for only 3 easy installments of $19.99 (payable by credit card) I will share my secrets with you.
The first time we sold a house, it sold in exactly one day. The first people who looked at it bought it at the listed price. In the dead of winter. The second time we sold a house, it sold in about 450 days. For 22% below asking price.
The first time we made a nice profit. The second time, we went in the hole. Maybe ‘buried ourselves in the hole, 3 feet under’ would be a better description.
Well-intentioned people have said: ‘at least it’s off your hands’ but of course they’re not the ones sitting 3 feet deep in a hole.
But, ’tis true. It is off our hands. When I went upstairs to brush my teeth in our Calgary home a few weeks ago, there was water dripping from the ceiling. My first thought was, ‘why did this have to happen when Jason’s out of town’. My second thought was ‘thank goodness no one will be calling me from Muncie, Indiana at midnight to inform me there’s water dripping from the ceiling.’
Which, they wouldn’t have anyway since the roof is brand-freaking-new. But it could have been a leaky toilet or a flooded basement. Or a rat infestation.
It was a nearly two-month journey, the selling of Alden Road. Beginning with an out of the blue call from our realtor – after the house had been taken off the market. Someone who’d looked at it previously had tried to buy another house and it had fallen through. Would we be interested in letting him look at our house again?
He did, and made an offer that day, which we chose to accept. After some minimal countering on our part. An appraisal followed, and a home inspection. Some minor repairs were made. Closing was scheduled for late July.
And then, in what can only be described as: ‘the worst week we’ve ever had’. When bad news came at us from all angles, the house closing was also canceled. Because, as it turned out the buyer had never actually filled out the paperwork for the loan.
How appraisals and inspections and closings got scheduled without anyone bothering to figure out that the buyer hadn’t actually completed the necessary paperwork……I shall never know.
Strongly worded emails and terse phone calls followed. And then, following a trip to yet another notary to re-assign power of attorney for the closing, we got a phone call saying they’d misunderestimated the taxes on the property and closing costs would be about $700 more than the previously quoted amount. Which was already about $3000 higher than we’d anticipated.
And to think we had – at one point – expected to make a modest profit on the house.
Jason ended up flying to Indiana over the weekend and so the (second) closing of Alden road was scheduled to coincide with his presence, for 2pm on Monday. He called me when all was said and done.
When he got to closing, he found out the amount was still $10 higher than the last amount he’d been told. Being as we were 3 feet under at this point, he didn’t even have $10 on him. So the realtor had to write a personal check for the $10.01 we still owed.
It was the lone funny moment in an un-funny process. We may buy a house again.
When Brett Favre returns to the Packers.
Rather than while away each day being annoyed that B3 still hasn’t arrived, I’m trying to ’squeeze the marrow’ out of these last days of summer. Days with no schedules or obligations; days where I wear my pajama pants and tank top for the entire day (unless I have to venture out of the house); days when the Hen can nap when he wants, for as long as he wants, and I don’t have to wake him in order to pick up his brother at school.
Days with only two children to care for.
So, because we’re insanely fun parents at least once or twice a year, we had an end-of-summer-extravaganza-of-fun last Thursday.
It entailed watching ‘Coraline’ and ‘Superman’ on the ‘big screen’ in the basement. The big screen being the white wall against which the projector was projecting. One reason I don’t want my kids to go to school is because they’ll realize other kids have televisions and Wii’s and Playstations. And the gig will be up. To be honest, G already realizes other kids have Wii’s. ‘Remember that Darth Vader game we played at Ben’s house,’ he told me yesterday. ‘Can we get a game like that?’
Uh….
After watching ‘Coraline’, we announced it was pool time. It sounded like horses running up the stairs, that’s how fast those blondies moved to find their swimming pants.
Only problem….the promised 30 degree weather never materialized; the water was freezing; and the Hen was exhausted. He dipped his foot in the water and began screaming like a rabid dog. Jason was convinced he was mad about having to wear a swim diaper. But the second I placed the boy in his crib, he was content as a lamb. Lying there like a little old man clad in exercise shorts. His shirt still lying on the deck by the pool.
So the Hen took a nap and my oldest halfheartedly played in the pool for a bit, until he reached a nearly hypothermic state.
Then we had a picnic on the deck: tuna fish, sweet pickles, cheddar cheese and Ryvita crackers. G’s favorite lunch in the whole wide world. ‘I don’t think we have a lot of sweet pickles left,’ I informed him after grabbing the nearly empty jar with the world’s tiniest sweet pickle floating forlornly inside it. ‘Well, I guess we can’t share then,’ he said.
His way of letting me know that the tiny sweet pickle would be his, and his alone. So I had tuna fish, cheese and crackers. No pickle.
On the deck, I decided it was time for some ‘Mom lessons’ – not to be confused with ‘Man lessons’. ‘So, let’s talk about Kindergarten,’ I gracefully began the conversation.
‘I think big school is going to be really great,’ he informed me. ‘Really great’? Where does he come up with his phraseology?
We talked about meeting new friends, and having snack, and not getting to ‘play’ as much as at preschool. At which point I had to backtrack a little…I didn’t want to give him the impression that big school wasn’t going to be ‘fun’. So I inserted the world’s lamest parentism: ‘but learning is fun, too’ or something pathetic like that. I made myself cringe, really.
After our picnic, the Hen woke up. And it was time for ‘Superman’ and cookies. Regular-ish cookies: chocolate chip…but with oatmeal (and a little bit of coconut). When Superman finally ended we chased them back outside to play (fight) in the newly constructed sandbox.
And then it was time for faux-camping. Jason brought out the tent-we’d-never-used and, with the boys’ help, set it up by the sandbox.
After being inside it for a while, they eventually lost interest. All the big talk about ‘going camping’ faded into nothing. Instead, I found myself sitting alone on the deck, with nary a Johnson boy outside. Because they were all lying in front of the laptop watching ESPN.
Seriously?
I looked on my watch and realized dinner wasn’t going to make itself. And the professor had a soccer game, which meant he wasn’t going to be around to make dinner, either. So I whipped up some hummus, pita bread triangles, apple slices and mediocre chicken. And lemonade. Because those boys think lemonade is the drink of all drinks.
We ate (the Hen ate his weight in hummus, but avoided the chicken like the plague) and they played and then it was time for bed.
Suddenly the Gort brought out his pillow and announced his intention of sleeping in the tent. Outside.
The upside of a summer extravaganza? Both boys were fast asleep by 7.30pm.
When Jason returned from his game, I informed him that he needed to retrieve his son from the tent. ‘He slept out there…alone?’ he asked incredulously.
When Jason retrieved him from his tent-digs, a very sleepy G protested heavily. ‘It’s too cold out here,’ we told him, all parent-like. Not to mention there was no way in Hades that we were going to leave him out there on his own.
Or, join him in the tent.
*Most likely
My morning started off pretty well. I got an email from my mom. She’d read my blog and the handy statistic about how women are 14% more likely to give birth on a Tuesday than any other day of the week. It just so happens, she informed me, that she, my sister and I were all born on a Tuesday.
Well, I took that as a sign from the heavens that today was going to be the day.
I’d scheduled a play date with another mom and I considered calling her and cancelling. The reason? Because there was a 14% chance I could go into labor, and because I, my mom and sister were all born on Tuesdays. But I thought that sounded ridiculous. So I didn’t call. And she came over. And the kids played. And I didn’t go into labor.
The professor had important business to tend to at the University. So he left mid-morning. With our car-van. ‘Make sure you leave your email on,’ I reminded him. Because we haven’t yet come to terms with the 21st century and do not have that all-important lifeline accessory known as a cell phone. So our labor contingency communication plans include the phone numbers of his departmental secretaries, cell phone numbers of the guys that he plays soccer with once a week. And gmail.
When he’s at the University, he’s supposed to leave his gmail ‘on’ so that I can send him a message if I need him to come home.
We really are ridiculous.
As the boys ate their lunch, I checked gmail-email. A message from my better half popped up on the screen. ‘How’s it going,’ he said, ‘I’m still in a meeting.’
‘Oh, fine,’ I replied, ‘I had the baby a couple of hours ago….he seems okay, if a little funny looking.’ ‘Unibrow?’ my clever half responded. ‘Yes,’ I wrote back, ‘and black fuzz covering his entire body.’ Reminiscent of a conversation we’d had with friends on Friday night.
After I put the Hen down for his afternoon nap, I reclined on the bed for a rest of my own. Eventually I had a couple of contractions. Sure enough, I thought, this was going to be THE DAY. I grabbed my laptop. I thought about emailing my mom ‘you were RIGHT’ but decided against it. Instead, I sent Jason an email.
Jason, who was not online at all. I sent him a lame message, about how I’m sure it meant nothing but I’d had a couple of pains, so he should at least be prepared for a quick exit. I didn’t hear from him until he walked through the door around 3.30pm or so. Completely oblivious to my minor SOS. Clearly on red alert these days.
By 4.30pm all of the Johnsons were lying on the carpet in the living room. I’d never seen four people so overcome with sheer boredom; so paralyzed by the absence of a life-changing event. Where was the entertainment, the fifth wheel, the main attraction?
And so we went to Zeller’s. Because we couldn’t think of anything else to do. Or, put another way, none of the XY chromosomes was interested in any of the other activities I’d suggested.
So, to recap, here’s my list of failed labor induction tactics thus far (don’t try these at home…they do not work.)
Drinking Raspberry Leaf Tea
Eating salmon curry
Buying two new laundry baskets at IKEA
Doing all the laundry
Watching ‘The Reader’
Cleaning all the toilets in the house
Cleaning the lid to the trash can
Mopping all the floors
Eating a bowl of frosted mini-wheats
Drinking a cup of coffee
Eating a raspberry pop-tart
Drinking a glass of water on the deck while watching the kids play
Setting up a coffee date for Wednesday
Playing Bejeweled Blitz on Jason’s Facebook account
Eating ice cream and Milk Duds
Stepping on an industrial-strength staple with my bare foot
Here are the remaining things I will try in order for this baby to be born:
Reading the latest issue of Oprah magazine
Making scones for my Wednesday coffee date
Cleaning the microwave
Changing the sheets on all the beds
And, barring visible results, chaining myself to the doctor’s reception desk until they schedule a bonafide induction date that meets with my approval.
In all of pregnancy I don’t think there is a day that is quite as difficult to get through, with a baby still in-utero, as one’s ‘estimated’ due date. The medical establishment makes this big deal about how the date is just an ‘estimate’, and that 50% of babies arrive before, and 50% after that date. Well, according to my slightly unreliable sub-doctor here in Calgary. The one who couldn’t quite figure out that if I was 40 weeks pregnant on August 21, I’d be 41 weeks pregnant on August 28.
But, I digress.
I just think, if the medical world really wanted to keep you from holding fast to a delivery date, they should give you a one or two-week window instead of an actual date. ‘You’re due the last week of August, most likely’ they could say. Instead of allowing you to fixate on a particular date for nine (ten!) months.
So, though I steeled myself for going well past my due date…I still managed to be highly irritable when my ‘estimated’ due date arrived. And I was still ‘with whale’. I went to my weekly appointment with the doctor who couldn’t do basic math, and felt my zen-like attitude slip away. Quickly.
I arrived home to tell Jason the details, which amounted to ‘not much to report’ and he actually had the (in)sensitivity to say: ‘why are you so irritable?’ Has the man not endured two pregnancies with me, with similar outcomes?
And then I made the mistake of logging on to Facebook. Only to learn that a Facebook friend, due 3 weeks AFTER me, had gone into labor. On my due date. The cruelty. The nerve. The unfairness of it all.
But I displayed an unusual level of maturity and perspective about the situation; choosing to email only four or five (likely disinterested) individuals about the terrible fate that had befallen me. One friend took pity on my petty-ness and brought me a frapuccino. Which helped my mood considerably.
Friday passed and with the breaking of Saturday’s dawn, my mood lifted. The Hen had tossed us a bone by ’sleeping in’ until 7.30 and I felt ready to face the world. I decided to go for a walk. Maybe walking the dreaded hills by our old house would help evict B3. But of course, the minute I put on my walking shoes, I had two children clamoring to join me, which was not what I’d had in mind.
So I ‘compromised’ and put Jason on playground duty, while I turned to the hills. He was beyond excited to be sitting on a park bench before 8am on a Saturday.
I walked down the two hills and crossed the footbridge over Bow Trail, and walked up to the start of the trail towards the river. I decided to turn around. I also decided I was too tired to go back up the hills to the park, so I walked along Bow Trail instead, circumventing the hills altogether.
I arrived at the playground, ready to walk home with my boys. Except they were gone. They were nowhere to be found. And I knew….they’d ventured downhill to look for me. And wouldn’t come back until they’d found me.
Ugh.
A jogger was walking up the hill, so I asked him: ‘did you see a guy with a stroller and two kids, by any chance?’
‘Yeah, he was just crossing the bridge,’ the man replied.
Ugh.
So, back down the hills I went, and across the foot bridge. I saw my posse heading up towards the trail. Noooooooo, I wanted to scream.
Since it was not within me to run and catch up with them, I decided to use my lungs instead. ‘Jasooooon’ I yelled, hoping he’d somehow hear me above the din of Saturday morning traffic; in spite of the considerable distance between us.
He turned around. I waved my arms like a desperate idiot, which I pretty much was. He saw me and turned the boys around. We walked back up the hills, together.
‘I need to take a break,’ my oldest demanded.
Really. You need to take a break?
As I was lying in the bathtub that evening, with bubbles up to my eyeballs because I’d pressed the ‘jets’ button after dumping in some bubble bath, I began to sing a song. My usual ‘borrow another tune and make up some ridiculous lyrics that speak to my current situation’.
‘I think you’ve officially gone insane’ the professor called from the other room. He hadn’t even seen that I was playing with the kids’ bath toys. Strangely therapeutic, I must say.
‘Whatever,’ I yelled back. ‘I’ve been in the best spirits of all the Johnsons today.’ Which was mostly true.
See, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear Jason’s actually the pregnant one these days. All grumpy and cabin-feverish, asking me every five minutes ‘anything? Anything at all?’
Seriously. Have we not done this twice before?
By Sunday he’d formulated a plan for evicting the baby. Pronto. We got home from church, and he started looking on the internet for Thai or Indian restaurants. He’d latched on to the ’spicy food’ induction technique. We went to the grocery store and he insisted I purchase raspberry leaf tea. (Complete waste of $3.99.) He even drank some (labeled a ‘uterine tonic’) with me. ‘I’m starting to feel it’, he said. ‘Feel what exactly?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Do you think you can just gnaw on the tea bag,’ he asked, as if that might speed things along.
As Sunday waned, he tried to make an excuse for his failed tactics. ‘Well, I’ve said all along it was going to be the 24th. Didn’t I?’
And, so, the 23rd turned into the 24th, and, with only four hours to go until it’s officially the 25th, I’m guessing his prediction will not be realized. Though, I did come across a helpful statistic today; that women are 14% more likely to deliver on a Tuesday than any other day of the week.
So, there’s always the 25th.
Or the 1st.
