Hydroponics

So, I've entered the fun and exciting world of hydroponics.

And no, not that kind.

Herbs. And no, not that kind.

Last summer, on one of those rare Saturdays when Neomom was off, we loaded the kids in the manly mini-van and headed out for a day of garage saling. Well, a morning anyway. It's all the kids would give us before the mileage-to-whine ratio exceeded our limit.

It was a beautiful sunny day and it seemed that everyone who was planning a summer garage sale chose this particular weekend. Entire neighbourhoods were doing it together. You could park in one spot and hit eight or nine sales before returning. Cool!

Anyhoo, at one of these sales, I spotted two AeroGarden hydroponic units. They're little commercial jobbies, available at Canadian Tire and places like that. I'd looked at them over the previous winter as a possible source of fresh herbs during the colder months. But they were more than $100, so I decided against.

I asked the lady how much she was selling these things for, cause they looked brand new. "

Oh, I don't know, she said. "How does $10 sound?"

"Each?" I asked.

"For both."

"SOLD!"

When I got home I looked this particular model, the SpaceSaver 6, up on line to see what they retailed for: $150 each.

So I got a good deal.

They sat for the summer and yesterday, after a little prodding from Neomom, I looked for the little seed pods while at Canadian Tire. Bought the Gourmet Herb pack and the Cherry Tomato Pack. Should have checked on line before I went. While the herb pack gets very good reviews, the tomato pack, not so much.

So I planted the herb pack yesterday in one of the units and am putting the tomato pack on hold until we get closer to spring. That way I can get them started hydroponically and then transplant to the garden.

For the record, I planted dill, thyme, oregano, mint and two kinds of basil. Looking forward to an improved spaghetti sauce in a few weeks.

Anyway, that's all I'm trying to think about this morning. But the minions are driving me stark raving freaking bonkers (as nice as I can put it). When Neomom works night shift, and is trying to sleep during the day, it seems these two just can not possibly speak in normal voices. Every fargin' word must be screamed, while they run, jump and stomp all over the blessed house. SHUT UP!!!

Maybe I did plant the wrong herbs.

Happy Hump Day.

I win!

The goal is to win. Beyond that, there isn't much to the brotherly battle that has invaded my home.

It's a game the boys play a thousand times a day. From the moment they crawl out of bed, I can hear the game commence.

"I win!" one will shout. Some mumbling, some running, "I win."

It used to be a simple game. One of the boys would recognize a situation in which he had an extreme advantage, announce the game and, seconds later, announce his victory. "I win."

For example, at lunchtime, Sonwun would recognize the fact the he had only one bite of his PBJ left. He sees Sontoo has half a sandwich in front of him. He says "I'm gonna win lunch," gobbles the last of his sandwich and makes the all important declaration . . . say it with me, "I win!"

This, of course, followed Sontoo's recognition of his five-stride lead toward the lunch table. At which time he declared his impending victory in the race to his chair. "I win."

I'll be honest. This game gets a little old in a hurry. Everything is a race. And I do mean everything. Putting on coats, getting in the van, opening a door, closing a door, hugging mom, petting the cat, feeding the dog, changing into pyjamas . . . the list goes on.

And I, unwittingly, seem to have changed the rules a few days ago. It was at lunch, I think, after about 75 rounds of the game in the morning.

"Everything is not a competition," I told them. "Breakfast? It's not a competition. Peeing? It's not a competition. Sitting? It's not a competition."

I did not kill the game, I merely created an "out." When Sonwun declares his victory now, Sontoo immediately throws a flag. "It's not a competition," he says. 

"You only say that when you lose," Sonwun counters.

Minutes later, Sontoo wins the race to jump into a laundry basket. "I win."

"It's not a competition," Sonwun argues.

"You say that because you lost."

And on it goes.

So this morning, as I listened from my cozy, comfortable, early-morning, book-reading, coffee-drinking couch, I heard the latest evolution of "the game," about one second after I heard the first pair of little feet hit the floor upstairs.

"First one out of the room wins, IT'S A COMPETITION."

Panicked scrambling of two sets of little feet above my head. 

"I win."

See what Sonwun's done here? He eliminated the possibility of a penalty with an additional declaration. Sontoo has no recourse but to lose and suck it up. And wait for his turn.

I have two boys. I kind of expected this, but I thought it would hit a little later. I wasn't prepared for every movement, from morning to night, to be competitive. But it is.

For now, it's feeding the dog, finding a marble, putting on socks . . . It's not important what it is. What is important is winning.

Down the road, it will be board games, street hockey and bicycle races. Beyond, it will be jobs, girls, cars . . . life. It's competitive whether you like it or not. 

And like everything else, my job, I guess, is not eliminating the competitive spirit, but tempering it. Keeping it alive, keeping it positive and ensuring that lessons are learned in winning and in losing.

First one done his blog this morning wins! It's a competition! I win!

Have a great Tuesday.

My little secret . . .

Another Monday morning. Day 16 of my 90 Blogs in 90 Days.

So I guess a follow-up is first on the agenda.

Idris Elba won a Golden Globe last night. Celebrate as you see fit. And check out Luther. Great show.

Personally, I made it through about two hours of the show before nodding off. 

But enough about that. 

This morning I indulged in one of my secret joys. At about 4:30 a.m., with the Whos still a-bed, all the Who's still asnooze, I snuck out of the house, and I loaded my sled.

Okay, it wasn't a sled. It was the manly mini-van. But that doesn't rhyme.

As I crept out of the garage and onto the street, the Northern Lights were decorating the sky. Haven't seen them since Thompson, more than a year ago. It was beautiful, although slightly muted by the streetlights.

I rolled down the road a few hundred feet before turning on my lights. Must be discreet, quiet. She'd be waiting a mere 5 kilometres away. She'd offer warmth on this cold, icy morning.

I'd had a spotty sleep. Pretty sure I got the requisite six hours, but it was broken. A few hours in bed, an hour reading, a couple of hours on the couch . . . she'd wake me up. Make it seem like I'd slept for a solid 8 hours. Make me feel alive again. She has that gift.

I can't do this very often. The stars must align, just so. Neomom must be on dayshift. So that I won't get caught skulking the streets as she patrols, looking for skulkers. I can't go any later than 4:30 a.m. The boys can wake up as early as 5 a.m. I must not get caught leaving, or returning.

The streets were empty as I cruised along Crescent Road, beside the lake. Not a soul around. No one to witness my secret journey.

I drove up to the checkpoint and rolled down my window.

"Good Morning," she said. "How can I help you?"

I smiled. Warmth and joy was only 20 feet away. 

"Extra large, two creams," I answered.

With my Timmy's in hand, I drove back along the lake, all by myself, no kids, no complaining, all the way home. The Northern Lights were brighter, the air a little less crisp as I snuck the manly mini-van back into the garage. 

Nice way to start a week. Have a great Monday!

Post 15

I don't feel like blogging today.

Not sure why. Just tired, nothing exciting's happening, nothing's really pissing me off - any more than usual. I got a lot done yesterday, and am just not feeling motivated today. I managed to get the kitchen cleaned up, prepped the new drywall for taping and got the garage back to two-car status. But I'm done. Just wanna sit back, grab a beer and watch football, or nap.

So, a topic. Let's check the news. Okay, nothing there. Someone's suing the government, a teenager crashed his parent's Mercedes into a lake . . . blah, blah, blah.

Okay, after floating around in cyberspace a while, I see the Golden Globes are tonight. Generally not a big fan of these shows. If the host is funny, or interesting, I'll catch the opening monologue at least. If it's really good, I'll watch a while longer. But I just can't stomach all the "thanking" speeches. They come across as phoney as a YouTube apology from a Vancouver rioter.

But tonight, I guess I'll watch a little. Ricky Gervais is hosting. I can't say I find him funny. But it's interesting, for lack of a better word, to watch the discomfort he creates among the acting elite. The audience shots at most of these events show the celebs busting a gut at the softball jokes lobbed their way. With Gervais, who fires fastballs on the inside of the plate, you can actually see the confusion on some of the actors' faces as they laugh a little, glancing around at the same time to make sure it's okay to be laughing while a compatriot is being skewered.

Guess it's kinda like rubber-necking an accident on the highway. You don't want to look, but you just gotta.

If I can stay awake, I also want to see if British actor Idris Elba wins Best Actor in a Mini-Series Made for Television. He plays the lead character on a BBC cop show entitled Luther. Neomom and I stumbled across Season 1 of this show while searching around on Netflix. We both love it and anxiously await Season 2. If you have Netflix, check it out. Elba (playing the lead cop) is awesome and his psychotic female lead is equally so. Disappointed she didn't get a nomination here.

Anyhoo, don't know much about the Golden Globes beyond this. I honestly don't even recognize the names of 90 per cent of the movies nominated. Gotta get out more, I guess.

That's all I got today. Have a great Sunday. I'm going to watch football.

Ouch

Ooooohhhhh.

So sore this morning. Getting' older sucks.

Spent much of yesterday trying to get the drywall done in a small part of Sonwun's soon-to-be-new bedroom. One piece in particular, about a half sheet on the ceiling, gave me trouble. It was up and down about five times before I finally got it to fit correctly. Then holding it in place with one hand and trying to get it screwed down with the other . . . I used muscles that apparently haven't seen action in a while.

Back in the day . . . sit down and listen kiddies, an old person is speaking . . . I was able to spend an entire day hanging drywall and still come home and play baseball at night, followed by a few beers at the pub. I would awake the following morning feeling fine, refreshed and ready for another day of hard work.

I guess the definition of hard work, in my life anyway, has shifted slightly. Such is the life of a stay-at-home dad. I mean, by the current definition, I still have a big day ahead. I need to make banana bread, I need to make regular bread. I need to clean up the giant coffee spill in the front hallway, I need to keep the minions from fighting and I need to hang a couple more pieces of drywall and maybe start taping said drywall. There's also laundry, if I'm feelin' crazy.

But right now, I need to make pancakes. The minions are hungry and are not shy about telling me so. 

Have a great Saturday.

Life Ain't Fair

Well, apparently the whole disparage-the-Mom thing is a universal hot button.

Spent a little too much time yesterday fielding calls from India. Not angry calls, per se, but certainly more than the average number. Whoever it was I pissed off the day before apparently has the power to put my phone number on the top of the list - repeatedly. Lucky me.

I actually considered, briefly, changing my phone number.

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, check yesterday's post. Pretty self-explanatory.

And while we're on the topic of yesterday's post, I feel I should apologize. The language was a little too colourful and my conversation with "Bill" was really outside of my character. But I was pissed off. He interrupted my baking. That's my only explanation.

Anyhoo, I don't recommend following my lead. Don't antagonize, don't suggest their moms are involved in compromising positions. Just creates more trouble. Hang up on them, leave it at that.

You should also know that, if you live in Manitoba anyway, it's impossible to block their calls. Something about them using the internet to make calls, which can not be blocked by Manitoba Telephone Service. Who knew?

A friendly and helpful MTS representative told me yesterday that my only option, if I wanted to make the calls stop, was to change my phone number and change it to an unlisted one.

Gotta say it ticks me off, again, that criminals in another country, so far away, can do this crap with impunity. I mean, they are obviously screwing over enough people, who don't know any better, to make their little game profitable. It just ain't right.

But life ain't fair, so I've been told.

Anyway, it's Friday (the 13th). Have a great day.

Don't Fall for This . . .

WARNING: This one contains some colourful language. If this offends you, read something else. You've been warned.

Okay, so got a call from one of those lovely call centres in India yesterday. They piss me off.

Don't know if you've received this one or not, but the caller, in a thick East Indian accent, opens with something like, "Hi Mr. Robinson, my name is Bill."

Um, yeah, right. And my name is Rajish. Go ahead Bill.

"Bill" then explains that he is from the National Internet Security Task Force, or something equally ridiculous, and then tells me that they've been receiving messages from my computer.

"Is that right Bill? Fascinating."

And, according to Bill, I've got a virus and he can help me.

Now I've been receiving these calls for more than a year. Usually at least once a week. Sometimes, when I'm really bored, I'll take up an hour of his time, asking lots of questions about the security of my computer, thanking him for saving me from this horrible virus and making idle conversation about his wife and kids. The conversation usually ends when I explain that I don't know how to use a computer.

Sometimes, when I don't have time to play, I'll just hang up. Sometimes, when they call during nap time, I'll tell them to fuck off and then hang up.

Sometimes, I'll tell him I'm busy and ask if I can put him on hold. I'll then put the receiver down in front of my iPod player and leave it there for a good hour or so.

Now I've looked this scam up on the Internet. Not really all that sophisticated. The victim is directed to a web site, where they are asked to download a program that will help "Bill" fix this virus issue. And the program is basically one that gives "Bill" complete remote access your computer - your passwords, banking info, etc, etc.

So these fuckers are criminals. Plain and simple. And, apparently, are successful enough to keep going.

Anyhoo, got a call yesterday from my friend "Bill." He called while I was baking bread, and I was a little pissed 'cause the dough wasn't rising properly. Bad time to call.

I told "Bill" to leave me the hell alone, forget my fucking phone number and fuck off.

And yesterday, for the first time, I seemed to have touched a nerve at the old Calcutta Call Centre. Fifteen seconds after I hung up, I got another call. Same routine, same response.

The next call took a little longer, maybe 30 seconds. I suspect the conversation in Calcutta went something like . . .

"Bill": "Hey, this guy just swore at me, I think. Does anyone here know how to swear in English?"

"Trevor": "Me!"

So the next guy calls, and he wastes no time:

Him: "You a motherfucker. You a mother fucker.

Me: "Your mother never complained."

Him: "You go fuck your dog."

Me: "What will your mom do without me?"

Well, things just kinda went down hill from there. Seems they forgot about helping me with this computer virus.

** Okay, 7:18 a.m. and I just got the first call of the day from them. I expected as much. Actually I expected a call at 2 a.m. Told them they had the wrong number, there was no Mr. Robinson here. Didn't seem to matter. They still wanted to help me with my computer problem. "Mr. Robinson's computer problem?" I asked. He got confused. And then I hung up.**

Anyhoo, I've got a call in to MTS (Manitoba Telephone Service) to see about having this number blocked. I expect to hear from them today.

So, take this as a warning. Don't fall for this crap. They've got your name and telephone number, and that's it. Play with them if you like, hanging up on them is probably best. Me? I'm just kinda thinking about what can piss them off even more next time. They've pissed me off enough. I just want to return the favour.

Have yourselves a great Thursday. I expect I'll be spending my time fielding a few calls from India.

More Renovation . . .

So apparently Sonwun needs his own bedroom. **sigh**

Okay, let's be fair. He doesn't NEED one. He would like one. And, considering there is one available, with only minor renovation required, it looks like he'll get it.

And when I say only minor renovation required, I mean we've already done some major renovation and there's only a small part left. It used to be the guest room. But it's not exactly like we're running a B&B here. If we get a guest or two a year, it's a big year.

But Sonwun has reached the stage in his life where he wants to express some more individuality. He wants his room to be HIS room, without any input, mess or toys from Sontoo. He wants Batman on the wall, Batman on his bedspread and his precious Lego creations displayed for all to appreciate.

I have spared him the speech about growing up with two brothers in my bedroom. About having to sleep in the same bed with one or the other for periods of my young life. Times are different. Fewer children, more bedrooms.

I worry a little about Sontoo. To this point, he's had his older brother for night time security. Sonwun's bed is closer to the closet, so Sontoo has ample warning when the monsters come out. He doesn't have to be faster than the monsters, just faster than Sonwun.

The big question is what to do with that freakin' futon we bought two houses ago. It just doesn't fit anywhere in this house and was stored in the guest room. It never worked properly and got used only when my snoring became too much for Neomom to sleep through - or vice versa. I just have no idea where to put it.

So, that's my plan for today. Pick up a little drywall, remove a few 2X4s, tape, mud. Oh, and bake bread. We're running low and I'm proud to say that we have not purchased a loaf in 2012. I need to keep that record alive.

And while I'm on the subject, Bread Baking Tip of the Day:

Don't listen to those stupid recipe instructions about placing a dish towel over the loaf pans while the bread rises. Last time, my bread rose beautifully, but collapsed catastrophically, when I removed the towel, which was stuck to the top of the loaves. Made me very sad.

Today, I'll try using Saran Wrap, spritzed with some cooking spray, to cover my rising loaves. Will let you know how it goes.

Anyhoo, things to do.

Have a great Hump Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

Flounce

Here it is, Day 10 of the new year and again I'm blocked. And there is now no question in my mind that the schedule is to blame.

I wanted to sit down this morning and write away. But other things (I'm looking at you Sonwun and Sontoo) required my attention. Could not focus. And then I had the trim to finish downstairs, clean-up the mess I made while trimming downstairs and then Neomom (she's off for a few days) wanted to take Sontoo skating at the local outdoor rink.

To make a boring story a lot shorter, here I am at 4:30 p.m., racking my brain and trying to meet my commitment for 90 days of blogging.

And you know what keeps coming up in my head? The word "flounce."

I blame the book I'm reading, or maybe it was the last one. The author used the word . . .

Sontoo: Dada, dada, dada, I'm going downstairs, don't turn my game off.

Me: Mmhmm

Sontoo, halfway down the stairs: Dada, dada, dada, are you going to turn my game off?

Me: No.

Sontoo: Dada, dada, dada. DADA! Why aren't you going to turn my game off.

Me: Grrrrrrrrr.)

And that's why I don't like writing with the minions scampering about. Just can't concentrate.

Where was I . . . oh yeah, flounce.

I like the word, but I don't like the fact that I can't get it out of my head. So let's just fully explore it.

It's a good word. It tells a story, provides a visual - at least for me.

And while it's been rolling around inside my head, I've come to a few conclusions. Women are more likely to flounce the men. I just don't see a man flouncing. Maybe that makes me sexist. Pretty sure I never flounced.

And the woman who flounces, can not possibly do that before showering. Flouncing, in my mind, involves are certain amount of hair movement. You can't flounce with flat, greasy hair. The hair must be fairly poofy, at least shoulder length and more often blond. A woman with short, straight, dark hair would find it difficult to flounce.

I'm not 100 per cent certain, but I'm gonna guess the word is some hybrid of flirt and pout and maybe bounce. There's playfulness, there's . . .

Now, Sonwun is whining that he's hungry, moaning, carrying on like we haven't fed him for a week. Supper's still an hour away. I don't think he realizes just how difficult it is to fully explore the word "flounce" when someone's whining and moaning. They just are anti-flounce emotions and, therefore, make my writing difficult.

No consideration. Where was I?

Oh right, the dictionary definition. And this is interesting (just looked it up).

Flounce (verb): go or move in an exaggeratedly impatient or angry manner: he stood up in a fury and flounced out.

You see, I may have it wrong. The dictionary folks used the male pronoun. Apparently guys can legally flounce. And he's angry, furious in fact. Hmm. It seemed like such a playful word.

Second definition:

Flounce (verb): • move with exaggerated motions: she flounced around, playing the tart and flirting.

See? That's more what I see in my head. But now "playing the tart" is gonna be stuck in my head for a day or two. That's just too visual to pass up.

Anyway, that's all I've got for today. Once again hoping to get back on track tomorrow, or you may just get a full exploration of playing the tart.

Your assignment for tomorrow is to work the word "flounce" into at least one conversation. If you can pull it off, please send me a note. Dying to hear how it went.

Enjoy the rest of Tuesday.

Sorry

Gonna be a short one this morning, I think.

Sonwun heads back to school this morning. Back to the routine.

With a little more than two weeks off for Christmas, we've all become a little accustomed to a more relaxed way of doing things. So this morning it's a bit of a scramble to get lunches made, breakfast consumed, coats, hats and mittens rediscovered.

Have to admit, I backed off on the rules, maybe a little too much, over the break. Beds weren't made in the morning, the dog wasn't fed by Sonwun and the Wii got more than a little too much exercise. Back to crackin' the proverbial whip. And not just with the kids.

I'm proud to say I've kept my promise to blog daily now for two whole weeks. No surprise, I guess, that it coincides with Sonwun's Christmas break. I've had a little more time each morning to sit, ponder, blather. All good.

I find my best writing time is about an hour after my first coffee, when the caffeine's fully on board, I'm awake and sort of thinking.

This time has now diminished. I have to concern myself with lunch-making, child-dressing (they do it on their own after five or six reminders) and breakfasting on schedule. Blogging, therefore, falls to a back burner.

And that, my friends, is why today's post is so damn boring.

Sorry about that, will work to improve under the new schedule.

Have a great Monday.

Where Do They Come Up With This Stuff?

**Disclaimer**

If you're not a parent of young children, if you've never seen Treehouse, just skip this one. If not, read on.

" . . . and then we would steal Caillou's cake. (Much laughter.)

Sometimes, when I'm not really paying attention, these little phrases from the minions slip past my subconscious. My well-honed practice of blocking of all things Treehouse, and subsequent commentary, fails me. Last night was one of those nights.

It surprised me to hear my innocent (ha!) three-year-old hatching a cake-theft plot against a four-year-old cartoon character on television.

"I wanna punch him in the face and steal his cake," Sonwun responds, to more evil laughter.

Now they've got my full attention. What, exactly, did Caillou do to warrant such action? Where do they come up with this stuff? And how good is that cake?

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a Caillou fan. The bald little brat whines way too much and, I'm afraid, I've heard the whiny echoes in Sontoo's voice as he protests anything from taking a nap to going to the library. It seems he does it out of habit anymore. Any suggestion I put forth these days is met immediately by "but I don't waaaanna (fill in the blank)."

It's kinda like Caillou's catch phrase. And I don't like it.

Anyhoo, last night, after hearing my boys' plans for theft and assault, I decided to reacquaint myself with Caillou, just to see what had inspired this cake-theft plot.

The cake episode had apparently ended, but thanks to the miracle of Netflix, a new episode was beginning. And in this episode, it was bath night at Caillou's house.

"I don't waaaanna take a bath," Caillou told his way-to-accommodating parents, before running away and hiding.

So, to make a long, insipid story short, Caillou's stupid parents do their stupid best to make bath time "fun." They supply bubble bath (fair enough) and then they allow the little brat to start splashing around in the tub and, in the end, everyone ends up soaking wet.

Now, it's not shown, but experience tells me if the parents are soaking wet, there is serious water damage in the bathroom. And here's the kicker, rather than scolding the bald little brat Caillou's parents laugh at the kid's wacky antics, much to the delight of my minions. I mean, how much fun are Caillou's parents? They not only allow tidal waves in the tub, they encourage them! They're the best parents ever!

Did I mention last night was bath night?

As such, I delivered a longer-than-usual pre-bath speech/warning. Sure, they got bubble bath. I'm not an ogre. But tidal waves, as usual, were forbidden, as was splashing, squirting and bathing of the cats.

For the most part, the speech worked. But still riding the Caillou high, there was a little more splashing and a little more water on the floor when it was all over. This does not make me happy and this episode at my house does not end with laughter.

I just wanna punch Caillou's daddy in the face. And then steal his cake.

Step 1: Turn off the Breaker

New year, back to the same old stuff.

After taking a lengthy Christmas break from the many renovations under way around the house, it's time to get back at it.

And thanks in part to my checkered career path, I'm fairly capable of handling most of the stuff myself. In my youth, and a little beyond, I worked in a kitchen cabinet factory, as a labourer for a construction company, as an apprentice carpenter for a building/renovation company and as a roofer and framer.

But I'll be honest. The one thing I tend to avoid is the electrical part of the game. Again, at various points in my life, I've come away on the short end of the short circuit. When working for the renovation company, I foolishly listened to the lead hand, when he told me it was safe to touch the yellow wire while removing a fluorescent light fixture.

"Hmm," he said, after I was blown off the ladder, "maybe not."

That was where I learned that "Step 1" is always, turn off the breaker before you start. Seems obvious now.

More memorable was the time I went hunting with a buddy in Wisconsin. On the way out, I was dry. So when we crossed the fence, that had a weird little wire running through it, there was no problem. On the way home, after the rain, I was soaked. And when I started climbing that same little fence, my wet leg touched that little wire.

It felt like someone, a very large someone, had whacked me with a, eight-foot, 2X12 piece of spruce. I landed on my back, about five feet from the fence. My ever-compassionate hunting buddy did not stop laughing for about three hours.

And that's when I learned that climbing an electric fence while wet is a very bad idea. Seems obvious now.

But back to the renovations. Over the years, renovating some part of every home we've lived in, I've grown tired of paying electricians. Yes, they're good. And it's easier. But they're also expensive.

And so, a couple of days ago, faced with two little electrical problems, I hit the Internet to learn a few things about do-it-yourself wiring.

Step 1 is always "turn the breaker off before you start."

I also learned that "black to brass will save your ass." Didn't know that one. And I'd explain it further, but I don't carry liability insurance. As such, my advice for anything electrical, is hire an electrician.

The point, if there is one, is that I was successful in restoring power to two kitchen outlets. I was also successful in relocating one outlet in the laundry room, and installing a new one in the rec room. For you electricians, I'm sure it seems like nothing. For me, it was a major victory, and probably saved me several hundred dollars. Yay me.

Today, I'm back in my wheelhouse. I need to trim out the new built-in entertainment cabinet I made in September and then attack bedroom 2, which needs a few studs removed, new drywall, mud, tape and paint.

And then I have to bake banana bread. And clean the kitchen. And keep the boys entertained. And get to the library.

Have a great Saturday.

Mommy and Me

So, I thought I'd wait a day or two after my "Bestest Night Ever" post before writing this one.

Not to take anything away from Daddy-Sonwun night, but I enjoyed the following day, Daddy-Mommy day, just as much.

We called in a babysitter and, by 9:30 a.m., Neomom and I had dumped the kids like a bad habit and were in line at Tim Horton's drive-through. Armed with coffee and a couple of breakfast sandwiches, we headed for Winnipeg for a leisurely day of kid-free fun. (Love my kids.)

At Timmy's, we didn't hear one whine from the back seat about apple juice, cookies or muffins. As we headed east on the TransCanada Highway, there were no fights, no one was looking out anyone else's window, no one was spitting, no one was "talking too loud" or "looking at me."

We talked without interruption, all the way to Winnipeg. At the St. Vital Mall, we walked at a leisurely pace without having to tell anyone to stop playing hide-and-seek in the clothing racks, we shopped and could actually concentrate on what we were looking at.

I love my boys, but every now and then it's nice to be out in public, doing mundane things, with my wife.

I realize for many of you, this is normal. Maybe you get a "date night" once a week, courtesy of Gramma, or Uncle Buck. But part of the joy of the RCMP lifestyle, with all the moves and being so far from family, is that lining up a trustworthy new babysitter or two, in each town you move to, takes a little time.

You know, as I contemplated writing this post, I did my usual brain scan for funny, unusual, wacky events that took place during the day. When I wrote for the newspaper, we called it the hook.

But honestly, there really wasn't anything that stood out. It was just the regular old stuff, sans kids. But I guess that's the point. Spending almost a whole day alone with my wife is not just a breath of fresh air, it's a hurricane. It's rare, it's appreciated a whole lot more.

Anyhoo, we finished up the day with a nice lunch at Earl's, a place I've wanted to check out since we moved to the area, and then headed over to the casino to lose a little cash. Mission accomplished.

As I realized on Sonwun-Daddy night, it's great to do things as a family, but it's equally important to find time to connect, on an individual level, with each family member, as well as yourself.

Have a great Friday!

I'm part of the problem . . .

Aw crap!

I had planned a cop-out blog this morning. You know, something like a Top 10 of 2011, a look back at my favourite posts from the previous year. Turns out I only did 12 posts last year. Bad, bad blogger.

Thus the resolution to stay at this every day for 90 days. So onward.

As is my custom, I sat down with my coffee at the computer this morning to check out my favourite sites, check the weather, read a little news and check my blog stats. I mean, I write mostly for myself, but I can't help but take a look at how many people actually read this stuff. And I had a good day yesterday thanks, I'm sure, to my buddy Patrick's social media assistance. He tweeted and reposted yesterday's ramblings on his Facebook page.

On an average day, I see about 20 visitors, if I post the blog to Facebook. That number goes down to about 10 if I don't. Yesterday, I had 30 readers: 22 from Canada, six from the U.S., 1 from France and one from the Cayman Islands (Hi Steve!).

As for the news, well, I don't even want to talk about it this morning. Toxic, just toxic.

And then there's Facebook. I love some of the little posters or pictures that some folks find and share. Saw one this morning and thought, I've got to steal that and share it. Why? I actually thought about it this morning. It's this one:

Now I didn't repost this, even though I really wanted to. After all, it would make me look smart, superior. I honestly have no idea who the drunk chick on the right is. Pretty sure I've seen that pic in the tabloids in line at the grocery store checkout. But I don't know who it is.

But the kicker is the fact that I can only identify two folks on the left. Einstein and Hawking. That's it. And as much as I'd like to create the illusion that I know them all, just by posting this, I had to stop myself. Maybe after I figure them all out, I'll post it and then feel pretty smug. But for now, I just have to pride myself in NOT knowing who drunk chick is.

I guess I'm only partly what's wrong with the world today. If I learn who the rest of the good people are, I will in no way be responsible for what's wrong with the world today. It's a good goal.

Have a great Thursday. I've got some studying to do.

Bestest night ever!

Last night, I had a part in creating "the bestest night ever!"

Wasn't really the plan, and I wasn't even sure I was capable of such a feat. But I did it and it feels good.

Neomom got a call from a girlfriend here in town in the afternoon. She was invited over for dinner. The girlfriend has a son about Sontoo's age, so he was tagging along.

That left Sonwun and I to fend for ourselves. Cool! Sonwun seemed very, very excited by the idea. His level of enthusiasm actually surprised me.

But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. With Sonwun going to school five days a week, any of my individual, one-on-one time, is spent with Sontoo. He takes it for granted. And I guess I just didn't realize that Sonwun never, ever gets time alone with me. Sontoo is always there.

Gotta say that it's a bit of an ego boost to know just how much he seems to crave alone time with Daddy.

Anyhoo, as soon as Neomom and Sontoo had cleared the driveway, I headed downstairs and grabbed a coke out of the fridge for Sonwun. A rare treat. But this was man time. He could belch with impunity and needed fuel.

And then, after stuffing a piece of toffee in his mouth (too close to supper - HA!) we sat down on the couch and fired up the Wii. MarioKart! Game on! We played, side by side, cheering each other on, to first and second place finishes in a bunch of races. Sometimes he took the win, sometimes me. I actually had a great time. Excited high fives all around with each victory.

He loves to play games with me. And he loves to cook with me, given the chance. But juggling schedules, kids and hot pots is not always an option. Last night, on the other hand . . .

Phase 2 of "the bestest night ever" was the cooking phase. We worked together, Chef and sous chef, to make pizza dough from scratch. And, after scouring the fridge, came up with ingredients for a cheese and pastrami pizza, heavy on the cheese. Sonwun doesn't like too many things cluttering up his pizza.

And finally, we headed downstairs, just the two of us, to eat our pizza in the rec room, drink more coke, burp freely, and watch five or six episodes of Batman, The Brave and the Bold. A perfect end to the bestest night ever.

And that's where Neomom found us when she got home. Curled up on the floor, together, watching Batman rid Gotham City of the Joker.

You know, being the stay-at-home parent, you sometimes take the kids for granted. They are there 24-7. You don't get the excited "MOMMY'S HOME!!" at the end of every working day. You spend the day refereeing squabbles, encouraging the minions to clean up their toys and making sure they finish their vegetables, brush their teeth and get to bed on time.

So it was a gift, to me, to be able to spend one evening alone with Sonwun. To be able to relax the rules and get to know him just a little better. I plan to make Daddy-Sonwun Day a regular thing. And Daddy-Sontoo Day as well.

Well it's 5:30 a.m. and Sonwun has just stumbled out of bed. He smiles at me, still sleepy eyes.

"I had an awesome time with you yesterday," he says.

Worth its weigh in gold.

Have a great Hump Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

Day 3

So, Day 3 of the New Year and day 3 of my 90-day blogging commitment/resolution.

And Day 1 of being blocked.

So far this morning, I've written two and a half blogs. But they were written more in an effort to meet my commitment than from the heart. So I deleted them. And I'm starting again. And I'm getting annoyed.

The boys are behind me fighting over who gets the "controlling" controller in the two-man game of MarioKart. And that's pissing me off too.

I don't mind being pissed off when I write. It actually has produced some of my better stuff. But it's gotta be the right kind of pissed off. MarioKart squabbles are not the right kind.

So, back on track. A blog, after all, is little more than a journal.

I guess today I'm feeling a little out of sorts because my family, much of my family anyway, is together back in southern Ontario. I've seen the photos on Facebook of my brother, sisters, brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews touring around Toronto, enjoying dinners out together and having a good time.

The photos made me smile, but I wish I was there.

I've mentioned here before, I think, that my two brothers, two sisters and myself are spread fairly thin throughout North America. Sister in Kansas, sister in BC, brother in New York, brother in southern Ontario. Me in Manitoba. We don't get together for Sunday dinners.

As such, I suppose, we don't get into the mundane little spats that many families do. But we do miss each other, especially during the holidays and during times of stress.

And right now, we've got both. The holidays are obvious, but the stress added this year is that my dad, who also lives in southern Ontario, is fighting stage four, metastatic, renal cell carcinoma. Cancer. And, if you can qualify this shitty disease, bad cancer.

And ya know, I really didn't want to go here. I'm not really ready to talk about it in a blog. There are so many factors, so much crap going on . . . let's just leave it here.

So, plans for today . . . it's garbage day. And I've already taken out the garbage. I plan to bake bread again today, as my minions have destroyed the first two loaves and are demanding more. I'm also hoping to get them over to the skating rink and am praying that the skates we bought last year still fit.

That's all I got for Day 3. Have a good one!

The Year of the Loaf

Well, what can I say. Day 2 and it's been a busy 2012 already.

Before coffee this morning, I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing, I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu. And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter, and I gave forgiveness I'd been denying. Basically, I lived like I was Mayan.

Thanks, Tim McGraw, for the suggestions.

So I can check those off my list.

Yesterday I played, once again, with my new Christmas toy: the KitchenAid Pro 5 Plus mixer. I can actually hear angels singing when I write that.

Anyway, baking bread. I consider myself a novice. I've done it a few times with reasonable, although not exceptional results. Sonwun loves it. That's good enough for me.

But the breads of 2011 were a little dense for my taste. So I've been doing some reading in hopes of improving the loaves of the New Year. Based on that reading, I figure temperature has been my enemy on many levels. First off, when dissolving yeast, I've learned that the water should be around 100F. I kinda played fast and loose with the temperatures in the past, and probably killed a lot of innocent yeasts.

And letting the dough rise . . . again, temperature issues. Don't think the house was ever quite warm enough to let the dough rise properly, just sitting on the counter. So this year, this brand new year, I've learned that I should put said dough in the oven, over a pan of hot water. Done.

And finally, I wasn't putting the dough in the loaf pans properly. I just kinda plopped it in there. But my research tells me I should be rolling out the dough into a rectangle, and then rolling up said rectangle into a loaf shape. Who knew?

But I did it all, and I gotta say the results were spectacular. At lunch, the boys were absolutely silent. Never happens. But they were so focussed on the warm bread, with butter and grape jelly. They only spoke to ask for more. Cool!

It's cheaper, it's better for them and it's not all that hard to do.

2012 - The Year of the Home-made Loaf!

Cheers!

Wow, what a day! It oozes potential, drips with possibility. It is the first day of the rest of my life. WOW!

Already, in the few short hours since the birth of the new year, I have experienced the first wind storm of 2012. I woke up for the first time in 2012. I took my first pee of the new year, brewed my first pot of coffee, put on my first pair of socks and settled my boys' first argument of 2012.

Still flush from all this excitement, I plan, later, to cook my first breakfast of 2012, shower for the first time and then, wait for it, brush my teeth. I may even vacuum. For the first time. In 2012.

And with all of these accomplishments behind me, I will resolve to do great things in the coming year. I'll quit smoking, quit drinking, cure diabetes, run a marathon, backpack through Europe, buy a yacht and figure out how they get the soft, flowing caramel inside the Caramilk bar.

Now last year wasn't a complete loss. For example, as one of my final acts of 2011, last night I cooked supper. I made ribeye steaks with a red wine reduction pan sauce. And actually, that was a first and it was delicious! Can't wait to make that for the first time this new year.

So, Happy New Year all. Hope you had a great night last night and I hope your head isn't feeling two sizes too small for your brain. Me? I'm clean. Neomom worked last night, so I was home alone with the boys. In bed by 11. Very, very exciting.

To be honest, the last time I remember actually doing anything for New Year's Eve was in 1999, when I celebrated the impending doom of Y2K with Patrick, Wendy and my girlfriend at the time, now known as Neomom. That was back in Fort Erie, Ontario, in the little house on Brock Street, in a different life. I was a newspaper editor. Neomom was an archaeologist. We had no kids, comparatively little responsibility.

Yeah, a lot has changed. But I'm pretty sure that, having survived Y2K, I vowed to quit smoking, quit drinking, cure diabetes, run a marathon, backpack through Europe, buy a yacht and figure out how they get the soft, flowing caramel inside the Caramilk bar.

This year for sure.

Enjoy 2012. Live it like the Mayans knew something we don't.

Ugh

If you thought I rambled yesterday . . .

Good, uh, morning. And Happy New Year's Eve, 2011. And, if you believe those wacky Mayans, enjoy your final New Year's Eve on this planet. Live it up.

So, it's been a long night. Woke up at 3:30— bad. And a bad habit I've managed to foster. But I've been training myself to get back to sleep. So I picked up my book and started reading. Got maybe one chapter done before I was sleepy again. Turned off the light and started to drift off . . .

"Daaaaaaadddddddyyyyyyyy. I want Daaaaaaaddddddddyyyyyy."

Aw crap. Someone had a bad dream, or slept on his arm wrong, or the cat is bothering him, or he's worried about the whole Mayan thing. Who knows?

So, like any good daddy, I yell up the stairs: "Go back to sleep or you'll wake the monsters in your closet."

Now two kids are screaming.

Just kidding.

I crawl out of my nice warm bed and head for the boys' room. It's Sonwun this time. His face hurts. He's not really awake, but he's irritated. And noisy. I ask where it hurts and, in the dark, it seems he's indicating his jaw. I rub the sore spot, try to be soothing and soon he's less irritated and, it seems, back to sleep.

I ponder the possibilities: grinding teeth, maybe he whacked his face while we were tobogganing yesterday, whatever. He's asleep and I'm still pretty sleepy myself.

Back to bed, move the cats out of the warm spot, crawl in . . . start to drift off . . .

"Daaaaaaddddddy."

Aw crap.

Well, to make a long story a little shorter, this went on two more times before Sonwun drifted off for good. And, as I write this at 6:08 a.m., he's still sleeping like a baby. I, however, have not been back to sleep, although I did manage to finish reading several chapters in my book. wahoo.

So I don't know about you, but, with Neomom on night shift, I've got no major plans for this evening, except for watching the Canada-USA World Junior Hockey game. Here's hoping it's a little more interesting than all of the games so far. Nice to see Canada dominating, but it's making for some boring games. Hard to watch the third period when we're leading 8-0 after two.

Anyway, that's all I got this morning. Have a great day, and I'll see you next year.

Eight of Eight

Watched a disturbing movie last night. Had disturbing dreams. Coincidence?

Anyhoo, last night I was the tooth fairy. No, not in the dream. In reality.

Seems Sonwun spent most of yesterday's nap time tugging at a loose tooth, keeping himself and Sontoo wide awake for the duration. I, on the other hand, took advantage of nap time and had a lovely sleep. But awoke to Sonwun wailing just outside my door. He'd lost the tooth.

No tooth = no cash.

Seems he'd dropped it on the berber carpet that, as you might expect, is remarkably similar in colour to a young boy's canine. So we had to spend five minutes searching the stairs and lower level carpet for said tooth. We found it before one of the cats batted it around the house and under the lazyboy, and order was restored.

For the record, at barely six years of age, Sonwun has now lost eight of his baby teeth. Many in his Grade 1 classmates haven't lost any. Not sure if this is a good thing, bad, or indifferent. Just a fact.

In any case, Neomom has decided to keep all of the teeth. Not sure why, but she has. So we do. Thus, if the tooth had remained lost, it would have been a problem, not only for Sonwun's cash-flow, but for Neomom's collection.

I should also point out that, of the eight, this was not the most difficult tooth to find. That one came out when we lived in Thompson, Manitoba. And it did not come out naturally. And by that I mean it did not get loose, get looser and get pulled out by Sonwun. It was knocked out.

For a kid who, in his six short years, has broken an arm and very nearly broken a foot, having a tooth knocked out seems almost natural.

Anyhoo, in Thompson, I had constructed a swing for Sonwun. A rope swing. And seeing as his little butt was too small for a regular tire swing, I used a lawnmower wheel, a steel one with rubber around the outside. Kinda like those old pommel lifts on the small ski hills.

(I feel like I'm rambling. Seem that way to you?)

And it was this swing, tossed by a little friend, that crashed into Sonwun's mouth, taking out his tooth. After applying my vast medical knowledge to the afflicted area with a popsicle, I took a cursory look in the grass near the swing and declared the tooth missing, gone, a financial loss. Neomom, on the other hand, spent a few hours on her hands a knees, separating blades of grass in an ever-widening circle.

For that reason, last night as Sonwun slept, I reached under his pillow and pulled out number 8 of 8 for Neomom's collection and replaced it with a little cash.

Have a great Friday. Sonwun will.

The Cats are safe . . .

I read the news today . . . oh boy.

Not sure why I do this. Maybe my morning is starting off just a little too nicely. Maybe I'm too relaxed. Maybe I feel a pile of crap dumped on my soul at 6:44 a.m. is just what the doctor ordered.

But, whatever the reason, I find myself checking headlines on an number of news sites as part of my morning routine. And ya know, I never come away feeling good about the future.

So let's skip the news. Just accept that it was a craptastic day yesterday on planet Earth and move on.

Instead, let's review Christmas toys, just for fun. And we'll start with the Finn McMissile remote control car that shoots real missiles. And let's start with the bottom line: Don't buy it. Or ask Santa for it.

Santa brought two such toys to our home last weekend. A Finn McMissile for Sonwun and a missile-firing Towmater for Sontoo. They were thrilled. They'd seen in on TV in the months leading up to Christmas and the devices had made both lists - in Volume I of said list.

Now, Santa's decision to purchase these items from a third-party supplier, as opposed to having the elves make them, was a poor one. It is my understanding the elves make quality toys. Clearly, these are not of elvin decent.

Not sure what Santa paid for them, but they retail for 49.99 at Toys R Us. Plus tax.

The allure of these Disney-Pixar-licenced items, is that not only do you get a remote control car, but these fire missiles, again, using the remote control.

I was a little nervous for the cats in the house, knowing they would be immediately identified by my boys as sympathizers of Sir Miles Axlerod, the Cars 2 villain, and marked for execution.

The good news is, the cats are surviving. The bad news is that they are surviving because the missile function on the cars isn't worth a crap.

Difficult to load, impossible to fire and jams often. A little frustrating, not only for two young boys, ages 3 and 6, but also for Daddy, the mythical Daddy who knows all and has magical fingers that can fix any piece of crap that toy manufacturers put out.

This Daddy has enough trouble separating these toys from the packaging. I swear, they put more engineers to work on the packaging than they do the actual toys. Wires, plastic ties downs, industrial grade plastic wrapped all around . . . Neomom and I equip ourselves with scissors, knives and a cutting torch before we even begin opening presents.

Anyhoo, bottom line on these things is, if you want what is promised— a remote control vehicle that fires missiles— pass. If you just want a low-grade remote control car, and you're willing to pay $50 for it, go ahead. But my boys have only been using them for 4 days, so I can't say they'll necessary last more than a month.

Now, depending on how breakfast goes this morning, tomorrow's product review might just be the PiggyWiggy Microwave Bacon Tray and Splatter Lid. I've only used it once since Christmas and the results were less than spectacular. But before panning the Piggywiggy, I feel I should give it a few more chances, varying cooking times, before I review. Stay tuned.

Anyhoo, that's it for Thursday. Have yourselves a great day!

Huh?

"Pricks . . . pricks . . . pricks!"

It's 6:30 a.m., it's still dark and it's snowing outside. It's my time, daddy time. It's a time usually reserved for checking emails, facebook, fantasy football and blogging. But, as so often is the case, I am joined by at least one of my early-rising progeny. I count myself lucky if they sleep past 6 a.m.

And, as I sit here, Sonwun is racing for his life in MarioKart. That doesn't disturb me. It's Christmas vacation after all. But his mumbling is beginning to make me nervous.

"Pricks . . . pricks."

I mean, I understand getting a little frustrated with the other racers in the game. I've played, I know it's annoying when you get bumped off a bridge, or someone throws a turtle at you. We've all been there. But maybe his response is a little harsh.

So I glance toward the TV.

Now you have to understand, Sonwun is in Grade 1 and learning to read. And he loves it. Every car trip, to the store or to the library, is a reading adventure. He reads street signs, billboards and the bags the groceries come in. He's good, but he's not yet perfect.

And right now, as he decides which MarioKart mode to race in, he's reading.

He has no trouble with the word "Grand" but the word "Prix" is giving him some trouble. So he repeats it and repeats it, trying to understand.

"Pricks."

Anyhoo, at least I get to start my day with a smile. Have a great hump day. Celebrate as you see fit.

P.S. Not sure why I can't get the size and font I want throughout this blog. Must be a bug in the designers' system. Pricks.

Playing with the new toy . . .

And so, first full day with the KitchenAid Pro 5 Plus. Loving it.

First recipe: Banana bread. Had a couple of over-ripe bananas kicking around, so what else can you do?

As has become my practice when cooking and baking, the first stop was allrecipes.com. Borrowed "Cathy's Banana Bread" recipe, as it had a 4.5-star rating. I never make anything with fewer than 4.5 stars. And I've never been disappointed with this site.

Now then, I did alter the recipe, just a touch, as is my custom. First off, I didn't measure the bananas. I just guessed and went with two. Should have been about right.

Second, I baked in a standard 9X5 loaf pan, rather than the two 7X3 pans in the recipe. I also used butter instead of margarine (everything's better with butter) and I cut the sugar down to one cup. I think I could have cut it even more, but we'll wait for next time.

Oh yeah, and as a result of the larger pan, the cook time went from 50 minutes to an hour and 15 minutes. No problems.

But most importantly, I used a Sous Chef: Sonwun. This increased prep time just a little, but it was well worth it. I made him say "YES CHEF!" in response to every order given. I felt like Ramsay!

Anyhoo, long story short, banana bread was a success. The KitchenAid Pro 5 Plus was awesome, and I can't wait to make regular ol' bread. Sonwun, fetch my hat.

"YES CHEF!"

Box on . . .

So, it's Boxing Day. Celebrate as you see fit.

The unbridled greed of Christmas Day (with young ones) has drawn to a close. I'll need a Bobcat to move the empty boxes and crumpled paper from the rec room. So that's on the list.

Neomom's back to work today and Sontoo is off school for two weeks. But at least the two boys have a whole new crop of crap to wade through. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

As for me, Daddy got a new KitchenAid stand mixer. And, as luck would have it, there are four old bananas on the counter, turning black. So, banana bread it is. I've wanted this mixer ever since I started baking my own bread. While kneading dough by hand can be therapeutic, it gets a little old after a while. I only have so much anger in the bank to transfer to my dough.

So, after a quick shop this morning, Sonwun and Sontoo in tow, my plan is to bake stuff. Probably the aforementioned banana bread and then a loaf or two of regular bread. The price of the stuff at the grocery stores has just gotten out of hand. I can do it cheaper . . . and better.

Anyhoo, not gonna spend much time blogging this morning. But I have accepted the New Year's resolution of daily blogging for 90 days. After that, we'll see.

I know I enjoy writing and blogging, for whatever reason, makes me feel good. And I need that.

So, not sure if anyone's still reading this, but if you are, you should know that the next few will not be up to my regular standards. (Check back in my archive for "regular standards.") But I will improve. Read if you like, ignore if you don't.

Happy Boxing Day all!

Christmas is coming . . .

**DISCLAIMER**
Not sure what font or type size will appear on this one. Blogger seems to have changed the way it does things since my last posting. We'll see.**

Well, another day begun. This at 4:30 a.m., with the loud proclamation from upstairs: "Daddy, I'm done peeing and pooping!"

And even though it is the sweet little voice of my three-year-old and it's a cute little sing-song sound that floats down the stairs, at this time, it hits my ears like a smoke detector on steroids.

But I am daddy, and I now must take care of the paperwork. And then I must utilize my best gentle daddy voice to try to soothe Sontoo back toward sleep. And I fail.

As I type this, I am listening to a discussion between Sonwun and Sontoo. Seems Sonwun wants to sleep and Sontoo, now fully awake, would like to offer up a personal opinion on his recent viewing of Thomas the Train: Steamies versus Diesels.

Diesels are bad! Just in case you were wondering.

Well, Christmas countdown is on. Seven days until Christmas Eve. Seven days of Sontoo asking if he can open the presents under the tree. Seven more days of Sonwun repeating, "I wish I had that," with every salvo from the myriad marketing departments fired down from satellites to our television set.

Six days to get a turkey, wrap up the shopping and settle in for a few days of rest and relaxation.

And in spite of the fact that Sears' Christmas Wish Book arrived in September, and we've been bombarded by Christmas movies, commercials and specials since late October, we have managed to save one or two things for Christmas Eve, and maybe Christmas Eve Eve.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, for example. And no, I'm not talking about the creepy, crappy 2000 version. I'm talking about the 1966 classic, that my brothers and sisters and I used to gather to watch the ONE OR TWO times it was on in maybe the week or so before Christmas. (Not 45 times starting in mid-November). So we're saving that one for Dec. 23 or 24.

I admit that, in the last week, we have watched Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman and Elf. Unfortunately my copy of Scrooged was on VHS. Must buy DVD, or Blu-ray.

We are also holding off on our trip to Island Park, here in Portage La Prairie. It's a new tradition, started last year when we loaded our pajama-clad crew into the mini-van and drove through a pretty impressive Christmas light display. The boys loved it and have been pushing for it for the last week or two.

Why wait?

Well, the weather's just not cooperating. We're experiencing and unusually snow-less December here. And to fully enjoy the Island Park experience, I need a blanket of the white stuff. Cross your fingers.

Anyhoo, that's all I've got this morning. Enjoy the season. And don't let anyone take the Happy out of your Happy Holidays.

I saw it coming . . .

You know, I saw this one coming. I should have put a stop to it, but I didn't.

Sure, I threw out a half-hearted, "Sonwun, that's probably not a great idea." But in hindsight, I should have done more. I should have taken the rope, the harness and the rocks and put them away, in a safe place.

So when I heard the screaming from the front lawn, I had a pretty good idea of what awaited me outside. It was the kind of screaming that tells you something is seriously wrong. No one threw sand at someone else. No one took someone's toy. No one was looking out someone else's window.

No, this was the real thing.

Sonwun loves trees. He loves to climb them, hang from them, break branches from them and find bugs in them. He also loves ropes. He loves to tie things to ropes and drag them around. And he has combined these loves on our front lawn.

Using his mother's rock-climbing harness, he will toss a rope up over a branch and actually haul himself up to said branch to get into the tree. I'm actually proud of this. It takes some effort and he keeps at it until he succeeds. I know it's dangerous, but I've watched him do it and he's pretty careful.

But he also likes to tie the rope around large rocks and try to haul them up into the air. I've seen this. I've sent out the half-hearted warning. But I should have done more.

Last night, after supper, he tied up a 20-pound rock and began hauling. It apparently reached a branch about 7 feet up before it broke loose. And it fell. And it landed on his little foot. And it smashed that little foot, breaking at least two bones, possibly three. (The radiologist wasn't in last night.)

I am thanking God today that the rock landed on his foot and not on his head. And not on Sontoo's head, as Sontoo was playing under the same tree.

I'm also thanking God that Sonwun's a normal, adventurous boy. He doesn't shy away from challenges, he continues to ask himself, "what happens if . . ." and then works to answer that question, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day. It's not a bad way to live.

But I guess that, maybe a little more often, I need to step in and answer the question for him. The answer this time, I knew, was "The rock will eventually break free and fall. And you better not be under it when it does, because it will do some damage."

And I guess that this is one of the fine lines of fatherhood. I've got to figure out when to answer the question and when to let him figure it out on his own. I think I dropped the ball on this one.

Anyhoo, it's still dark out now, but when the sun rises I plan to take pictures of the victim, the offender and the crime scene. And maybe I'll post them tomorrow.

It's 5:45 a.m. and both boys are already up. Sonwun has a hard splint on his foot, and I've been told he's not allowed to put weight on it for two or three weeks. So, in the next few days, we'll be testing out the crutch thing. Sonwun's mentioned that Uncle John used crutches when he hurt his foot, so he's anxious to give it a go.

As for me, I need to take a deep breath, be thankful for guardian angels and let him keep asking himself questions and experimenting to find answers. But I think I will answer just one for him. "NO, you are not going down the stairs with those crutches! Because I'm your father and because I said so."

Nature or Nurture?

So, in an effort to make life more "interesting," we've made a few additions to the family. Namely, Paws and Puffy. Two more cats.

That makes one dog, two kids and three cats.

Yeah, call me crazy. Shouldn't have had kids.

Just kidding . . . most days.

Paws arrived first. Not sure why we decided to get one. It may be just because the elder feline statesman, Oliver, needed a friend. It may be because the kids needed another toy. It could be my head isn't screwed on just right. It could be, perhaps, that my shoes are too tight. But whatever the reason, my head or my shoes, I stand here each day

Anyhoo, he was cute and he was free. So we got him.

Then, for reasons beyond my comprehension, we decided to get another. He too was cute and free.

Now, these two little guys have re-ignited in my brain the old nurture-vs.-nature debate.

I've always favoured short-hair cats. They not only minimize the shed factor and the fun of cleaning up hairballs, but I think they're smarter and nicer. And I've found this (especially the smarter part) to be the case with Paws (short hair) and Puffy (the puffy one).

But there is a nurture factor I can't ignore.

Paws came from a regular home. Puffy came from a, well, how to put this? He came from a mellow home. His human parents, um, er, uh, oh hell . . . they smoked a lot of weed. And I'm beginning to think ol' Puffy got his head stuck inside a bong at a very young age.

He falls down a lot.

When Paws discovered we had two active children, he quickly decided that the best place to sleep was behind the couch. When Puffy gets sleepy, he falls over wherever he is and passes out.

Paws strikes at his toys with the precision and skill of a practised mouser.

Puffy misses often. It's like he's seeing three of them, and hasn't figured out that you aim for the middle one. He also fights with unseen objects fairly regularly.

When Paws sees the boys coming, he moves quickly and with great stealth.

Puffy lies there and allows himself to be "steamrolled" by Sontoo. And he falls down a lot.

Paws is aware of his surroundings.

Puffy often gets his head caught in closing doors, reclining chairs, stair balusters and chair railings.

So I don't know. Nature or nurture? Is it the paws, or is it the puff?