Ever feel like you were being watched? Yeah me too sometimes. Courtesy of Middle Child, Twin 1 and Twin 2.
Tag: life
Family Dinner Discussions: How to talk about politics, drugs, poop and bad jokes.
Dinner time and weekend breakfasts are great. When you all sit and eat and talk about stuff together. With all the kids there. My kids have grown older so they spend less time with me now. Or should I say I no longer have some small child clinging to my ankles crying its little head off because the cookies are finished or the cat is sleeping or unicorns aren’t real. I know a time is coming when I will actually miss that.
That going crazy trying to cook and clean and feed and do laundry, all with kids fighting and crying and lacing themselves up around my shins. Ok I guess it won’t be too soon that I will miss all that because every time I see a pregnant woman I drop down to my knees and shout “Hallelujah that’s not me!” I do love my kids though.
Which is why eating together is great. You know food, talk, love blah blah blah. Food is an excellent catalyst when it comes to loosening up tongues and inhibitions. We talk about everything at the dinner table. From politics to lame celebrity news to drugs and farting. We use language that would be otherwise frowned upon, but food just makes everything ok.
A couple of days ago we were eating when one of my teenagers commented about weed. I have learned so much about weed since my annoying inbetweeners became teenagers. For example I had no idea you could make weed brownies. Not that I am planning to or anything. But I feel quite appropriately enlightened. My seven year old twins know what weed smells like. I always thought it was a skunk gone haywire somewhere. This was good motivation to convince the kids that anything that smells that bad can’t be good. They have assured my they won’t smoke it. I have assured them I won’t always be around and they need to make smart decisions and will be accountable for their own actions. I then went on to tell them the grisly details of drug addiction. I hope those nightmares stay with them forever and they pass it down to their kids someday.
These are baked without weed. Really.
Political discussions usually come on Saturday morning when I am making parathas and Teen 1 makes the omelet (du fromage btw-always). No matter what we start out talking about, it always winds its way to politics. And then there is much shouting and screaming. Especially after Teen 1 claims I am racist. I then tell her, very loudly, exactly what racist it, I was born and grew up in Canada when people were less enlightened and very racist. I am not racist, I just have a keen interest in conspiracy theories. War is a big money maker, wars are planned. For the greater good of the privileged few. And I am Mom, I have seen the world. I am right. End of discussion. Go read some damn history books.
Seriously though our kids only know what the media tells them, they need to read more books. I lecture on this at great lengths, I know they will retain some of it, and realize there are two sides to every story, someday. Just like I did.
Then of course there is poop. No discussion is ever complete without poop or fart jokes. Or some other jokes. Yesterday Teen 1 whipped out her cell phone in the middle of dinner to tell us some great jokes. They were awful. I hope you enjoy them as much as we did. (Note:extreme stupid ahead)
What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?
The Holocaust.
Why did the boy drop his ice cream?
Because he got hit by a bus.
What’s red and smells like blue paint?
Red paint.
An Irishman walks out of a bar.
What’s green and has wheels?
Grass. I lied about the wheels.
A dyslexic man walks into a bra.
How do you confuse a blond?
Paint yourself green and throw forks at her.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Dave.
Dave who?
Dave proceeds to break into tears as his grandmother’s Alzheimer has progressed to the point where she can no longer remember him.
What did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?
Where’s my tractor?
Why are black people good at basketball?
Dedication and hard work.
Roses are grey, violets are grey. I am a dog.
What do you discuss at the dining table?
(All ridiculous humor from here http://anti-joke.com/)
Weekly Photo Challenge: Depth, The Ugly Truth About Writing
This is literally me right now. Looking into the depths of my heart, which I have pulled out of my chest. To face the truth.
I am sitting here stalling. My draft lies in a file, wasting storage space on my laptop. I have left it alone for many months because that is what writers are advised to do. Write, leave it. Edit, leave it. Read and edit, then leave it again. But I have left it way too long.
I have tricked myself into believing that I am just waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass then I will get back to it. I distract myself with other projects, then leave them also. In the back of my mind something keeps eating away at me, I push it away. I write humorous mom posts to keep myself busy. And distract myself…from myself. From the anger that is building up inside me. The frustration of the truth that I don’t want to acknowledge.
I am scared to go back to the novel. Scared it is awful. Scared it won’t ever be any good even after I have put so much into it that I am exhausted. Scared of that horrible feeling when you get another rejection letter. If it never gets done, I won’t have to face all that hurt.
And anger builds up even more. I push it down deep, so that my kids don’t notice. I don’t want them to know I desperately want to write, but I am too scared of the disappointment I will have to face. I want them to be able to face their problems bravely when they go out on their own in the world.Get back up and dust themselves off after falling. . I want them to be able to keep their spirits up even when things look hopeless and I am not setting a good example. Which means I am failing as a mother now too. More frustration.
I open the draft and stare at it. I get up and go into the kitchen. I have to make dinner first. I always have to do something first. I am so angry I end up putting too many red peppers in the stir fried shrimp. The kids are going to complain and I will try to deal with them patiently, because it is my fault. I will suppress the urge to smack them in the back of the head and yell at them to stop whining about everything. It isn’t their fault. It is mine.
I contemplate blaming everything on my parents and a bad childhood. Blaming someone else makes you feel better temporarily. It gives you excuses to continue being stupid. In the back of my mind I know it is all me though.
I control my anger. Squeeze it into a ball and force it down my throat. It is struggling to come back up in the form of a loud, frustrated scream. I don’t want to worry my husband and kids. But I really want to punch something hard. And break stuff.
I avoid the on-line writing hang out. I don’t want to admit how I am feeling to all those other writers who will understand and try to make me feel better. I don’t want to admit I am scared to keep writing. Putting all my energy, all my hear t and soul into that stupid book, only to find out it was never any good.
And I don’t want any feel good advice. I don’t want to feel good, I am too busy being angry, and all that good advice sounds like BS anyways. We just give it and listen to it to make ourselves feel better. I am tired of good advice, don’t give me good advice, just agree that everything sucks and then we can go throw rocks at windows or something.
Broken windows remind me of broken down houses. And homeless people, and that I should stop wallowing in this ridiculous hole I have dug for myself because I am so much better off. I should be grateful, happy and stop wasting my time. And go finish the damn book.
Which I can’t do, because I have pulled my heart out of my chest and looked into its depths. All I can find is anger and isolation and the fear of failure. I contain it, but it is building up and I am afraid it is going to explode.
(Artwork is mine.)
Furniture Designers are Evil People Who Hate Kids.
(High End) Furniture designers are evil people who hate children (and mothers). They purposely design furniture that people with kids can’t buy ( not that we could afford it anyway). I suspect they had some sort of traumatic experience in their lives. Like maybe best friends with small children who visited once too often. Whatever, I still believe there is no excuse for their demonic furniture. Let me introduce you to the furniture from hell…
Treefury :“Have fun picking the Lego out of me b**ch!”
Tibia Smasher the Wicked: “I love shins and knees. But I especially love the chins of your offspring.”
Agrona the Poker: “Just waiting for the kids to push me over muhahahaha!”
Slovenly the Spaghetti Lover: Name says it all. (It also loves play dough, mashed potatoes and Cheerios.)
Jaba the Couch: “I am gargantuan, hideous and incredibly expensive. I also make embarrassing fart noises your kids will love.”
Vertigo: “I can’t wait till the young ones learn to walk.” Not furniture but (stair) well deserving of mention.
Poe’s Dining Pendulum: “I make sure the kids never sit still to finish their food. Ever.”
Oakenfang: “Give me little fingers. Plump little fingers…..”
Gollum Chair: (old, ugly, creepy and at $35000 it’s preciousssss). “We loves toeses, soft juicy toeses!”
Brian Hyland Chair:
Pinebelle the Insane: “once you start cleaning me…you’ll never be able to stop.”
Banshee Recliner: “Hello little children, come closer. Don’t be shy…”
Which one was your favorite ( and ridiculously expensive) nightmare?
(All furniture names are a combination of my brilliant imagination and the Evil Name Generator. )
You know you are Desi when…
I don’t want to make other races feel left out or anything and I am sure a lot of you could relate to the following traits, but there are just some things that really let you know you are desi.
You know you are desi when…
“We are out of groceries” looks like this. Desi people have this insane fear in the back of their cranium somewhere that when the apocalypse comes we won’t have enough groceries. So we should always be prepared with a surplus, no amount of groceries are ever enough.
You know you are desi when…
Your freezer is full of containers that are highly misleading as to their contents. For example you will not find yogurt, ice cream or cream cheese (who keeps cream cheese in the freezer?) in any of these containers. Surprise! If you are desi you will know that they all contain some type of curry. You can never have too much curry, never know when the zombies might come.
You know you are desi when…
This is something you use for an earache.
You have used these for toothaches.
This solves every gastric trouble in medical history.
And this…
…is the solution for every other ailment under the sun.
You know you are desi when…
…every cupboard contains a bag …that contains countless bags. Every. Cupboard.
When the zombies come we will have plenty of bags to tie them up in. Of course up here in Canada we won’t have a zombie apocalypse, that kind of stuff only happens in America. We will of course send the bags to our American neighbors. Polite Canadians.
You know you are desi when…
This bin is overflowing every two days. I fear the day when garbage pickup will be scheduled for every other week.
You know you are desi when…
…you still think the kids are feeling cold.
House Sold
Click to read on Dawn: http://dawn.com/2012/05/06/humour-house-sold/
I sold my house before I moved back to Canada, it was quite an experience and I discovered things I couldn’t imagine about people I have known all my life.
Remember the house I got renovated? I sold it. And I moved. But that is another story. Unless you have gone mad and decided to move half way across the world — and having gone through this extremely painful process myself I would not advocate it for anyone — never sell your house. First of all you should only sell your house, if it has a leaky roof, cracked floors, and crumbling walls. Or if a close relative has passed away and left you a mansion on Tipu Sultan road.
Selling your house is an uncomfortable process; it will keep you up at nights and give you plenty of indigestion. You will have all kinds of people invading your privacy requesting tours of your house at odd hours of the day. And they will want to know why you chose to paint your daughter’s room two shades of pink and why the kitchen counters are black. They will shake their heads unbelievingly at the ‘extravagant’ price, then bug you after you sell the house to someone else, why you didn’t inform them first, because they had their hearts set on it.
A house that you have lived in for a long time becomes part of you; it hosts your celebrations and shelters your rainy days. It watches your children grow and becomes their first friend; its walls hold up everything from little pink and blue bunny rabbit cut-outs to posters of sleek cars or rock stars with bad hair-dos. It provides a personal little haven known as the bedroom, where your moody teenagers retreat to when the world doesn’t treat them right. It listens patiently, never judging, never offering unwanted advice to the angry adolescent but pacifies them with the knowledge, that here, they are accepted. It sadly hears your fights and joyfully watches reconciliations. It guards every secret obsessively.
I miss my house. And it took me months to wind everything up. Twenty years of possessions are hard to get rid of. And you won’t believe the junk I had. Actually, you probably would because every Pakistani woman has an incredible imagination when it comes to recycling. Closets that were full of spare dupattas of cast away suits, clothes piled up for repairs or distribution to various destinations, shoes that had been worn out and forgotten about, hair clips, scrunchies and makeup kits that were never used. Stashes of candy, hidden from the children. I could almost hear my house moan sadly as I continued to deprive it of all its belongings.
The kitchen cupboards were stripped of countless empty ice-cream containers, unused dishes, utensils and plastic bags. Oh how we women adore our plastic bags! Of course my maid had a field day, and I felt a bit guilty at her bliss on receiving such trivial little titbits. I know my house will miss her too. The way she helped me scrub and dust out each and every corner was admirable, getting our house ready for the new owners as we reminisced and even shed some tears together.
Sniff. Enough! Never regret a decision, it wastes too much time. Just learn from it. Which gets me to the real point. When we put our house up for sale, a wise old person told us it is ethical to ask your neighbours first if they are interested. We did, fortunately everyone already had their own house. Neighbours are one thing. Relatives are another.
Never sell your house to a relative. Especially if you are the type of person with a lot of ‘lihaaz’ (read: doormat). That is where they get you, at your lihaaz. Because of lihaaz you will sell your house at a rock bottom price and then listen quietly as your relatives whine incessantly about how broke they are. They will also want to get it renovated some more before they move in. Never mind the fact that you still live there. Lihaaz aap ko mar day ga.
After the house is sold, your relatives will come often with the pretext of helping you wind up the house. They are actually coming to make sure you don’t damage any of the walls while moving out large and heavy furniture. Speaking of large and heavy furniture, don’t bother trying to sell it or give it to any of your best friends. Your relatives will do you a big favour by insisting that you leave everything and they will take care of it for you. Later they will complain to all and sundry that you left your broken down junk for them. That ‘junk’ that will later adorn their drawing rooms.
And then of course there is the large collection of electronic gadgets that you will leave for them. And they will have the gall to phone you up to tell you the stuff you left for them (that they had asked for, by the way) doesn’t work, and it is costing them a lot to get it fixed. So you offer to give them their money back… oops, you gave it to them for free. So what to do now?
Don’t let it come to this, heed my advice and never sell your house. Especially not to relatives.
Vote for me!
Resident Evil: Messy Kids
Friday is the last day of the week the house stays clean. As the kids come home from school, my neat and clean abode slowly turns into Boxing Day aftermath. Yes my kids have issues. They are suffering from “our mom is too good to us syndrome”. Yeah I need to work on that.
By Saturday there are dirty dishes in the sink. On the dining table. And on the coffee table, under beds, near the computer table and yes even in the bathroom. Unwashed clothes decorate floors in bedrooms and outside the clothes hamper, the litter box needs to be emptied and toys need to be put away. The walls are screaming their discontent at being adorned with what seems to be yesterday night’s spaghetti dinner. And this is the start of my weekend. Sound familiar? Well at least I’m not alone.
I am the mom, I do not get tired, I am never sleepy, I do not need to relax. My only aspirations in life are to cook for, feed, clean, wash, and pamper anything I have given birth to or married. I realize that: “you look tired today” is not my friend sympathizing with me. That is her saying “Woman you need a face lift, hair dye and a week at the spa.” The only thing I can afford from these options is the hair dye, which I am not gonna do anyways. Honestly I rather be grey than have to scrub that dye from the tub every time I wash my hair. Being perfectly coiffed is so over rated. I am just going to embrace my inner Carol. I mean just look at her!
I have some suggestions on how we should deal with these problems:
1. Pack up all their stuff in black garbage bags and inform them it is being donated to the Salvation Army.
2. Take it out to the front yard and put up a garage sale sign.
3. Collect it all in the backyard, surround it with a circle of rocks, light it up and roast marshmallows over it.
4. Bury it in the compost heap.
5. Take pictures of it, especially close-ups of underwear and then post it to their Facebook walls.
6. Invite their friends over for a get together and not let them know about it.
7. Pack our own bags, get in the car and drive to South America. Take all their electronic goods to pawn off along the way.
I am thinking either # 3 or #7. Let me know which worked out best for you!
Laws of Mom Physics
There are about four days left before school reopens, and I have mixed feelings about this. Summer is ending, this is a nostalgic and often bittersweet kind of feeling. After a certain age it reminds you that you are at that late summer stage in life.
I will miss sleeping in and being awoken by my twins acting like lion cubs and lounging on me, late and lavish breakfasts and the no stress late nights because no school the next day.
However I also miss the few hours of peace and quiet, the clean house, the lack of screaming after every five minutes and the time away from the kitchen because summer vacation is also basically just one big “I’m hungry…” all the time.
You’ve got to have both experiences or life would be pretty boring…which made me realize that two extremes of people commit suicide : those that have everything and those who have nothing. No this has nothing to do with my blog post, sorry for that depressing thought. It’s just my brain has all these tabs open at once, you know all that creativity and stuff.
What I wanted to blog about today was the “Laws of Mom Physics”
1. The amount of a mother’s love is constant, it simply changes from one form to another from mother to mother and even in the same mother. Like “overprotective love” to “please get out of my hair because I don’t want to hurt you” love.
2. Every action from a child will cause an increased reaction from a mother. For example a hug from a toddler will result in a much tighter hug and many smooshy smooches from an exuberant mommy. A ridiculous demand from a teenager will result in a higher decibel verbal reprimand and an increased possibility of house arrest.
3. The stickiness of the floors is directly proportional to the necessity of the reopening of schools.
4. The capacity of a mother’s bladder increases exponentially with her number of offspring.
5. The angle of projectile vomit spewing from a noxious child can be calculated perfectly by mommy ready with the plastic bag.
6. Dinner ready and set on the table will always result in all the kids NOT being hungry at the given point in time.
7. Pi(e) is always equal to happy children especially when served with ice cream.
There are many more laws, please feel free to add yours.
Kids in the car
Every time we go out with all the kids we swear it will be our last trip. We remind our snarling, fighting brood as they cause pandemonium. I write this post ( on my treasured S3) in the car as their drama unfolds in a very familiar way…
Middle child: Mom! She pulled my hair and choked me!
Twin 2 : she’s lying!
Middle child: No I am not!
Twin 1: Eww who farted?
Twin 2: It was you!
Teen 1: SHUT UP!
Me: STOP IT ALL OF YOU
Middle child: Stop pushing!
Twin 2: then look out your own window!
Middle child: That is my window!
Twin 2: Idiot! Stay on your own side!
Twin 1: Someone keeps farting! (lots of laughs)
Twin 1 : You aren’t allowed to look at my window(in a very whiny voice)
Teen 1: SHUT UP!
Teen 2 : YOU SHUT UP!
Twin 2 : (whispering)You’re ugly!
Middle child : No you’re ugly!
Desi guy (husband):We are never taking you guys anywhere again! (laughs and giggles from the back seats)
Twin 2 : I need water I’m thirsty.
Me : No you had water before we left…
Twin 2 : But I’m thirsty again!
Me: Its only been ten minutes.
Twin 2 : Mommy!
Me : No then you have to go pee again and we aren’t stopping every fifteen minutes for that.
Twin 2 : I’m hungry.
Teen 1 : OMG SHUT UP! Mom why do we always have to bring them?
Twin 2: :Stop saying that you are so mean!
Me : What are you looking at?
Desi guy : Nothing
Me : Yes you are!
Desi guy: Its nothing
Me (snatching his cell) : Stop it and keep your eyes on the road!
Middle child : Hey motorcycle dude!
Me (hissing) : Stop that!
Twin 1 : But its a motorcycle dude! (Lots of giggles)
Me : The window is open, motorcycle dude can here you!
More giggling.
Teen 1 : SHUT UP!
Desi guy : THAT IS IT WE ARE TURNING BACK!
Silence for thirty seconds.
Twin 1 : Who farted?
Middle child : Ewww!
Twin 2 : I’m thirsty!
Twin 1 : Move over and stop looking out my window!
Teen 1 : SHUT UP! ( loud Indy music coming from earphones)
Teen 2 : oh my god you shut up and stop screaming shut up!
Acting like angels as soon as they realize I am taking a picture.
Desi guy : what are you doing? Put the phone away you made me miss my turn!
Me : SERIOUSLY?
Desi guy : yes. STOP TAKING PICTURES!
Drive in silence for two minutes, then stop at our destination.
Desi guy : Ok only teen 1 and 2 are getting off with mom. You three stay in the car with me.
Middle child : Awwww why?
Me : You dont need uniforms
Twin 1: But we wanted to play hide and seek and this is the best store for that!
Me : Are you kidding me?
Twin 2 : Puleeeeeeze?
Teen 1 : SHUT UP!
Teen 2 : oh my god you shut up, you’re louder than all three of them!
Teen 1 : nobody shut up!
Five minutes later
Me : Come on we cant buy uniforms today.
Desi guy : What happened?
Me :There is a one hour wait at least.
Desi guy : You’re exaggerating
Me : Nope.They made a waiting area. And it is full..must be at least fifty people sitting there. You wanna wait in the car with these three?
Desi guy : Nope. Let’s go
Twin 1 : Awww!
Twin 2 : Yay!
Middle child : Move over!
Twin 2 : I’m thirsty!
Teen 1 : SHUT UP!
Desi guy : THAT IS IT WE ARE NEVER TAKING YOU GUYS ANYWHERE AGAIN!
One minute silence.
Twin 1 : Who farted?
Desi guy : Damn it I missed the exit again
Twin 1 : Dont lick me!
Me : Stop licking your sisters.
Middle child : I’m not licking her. I just licked my hand.
Twin1 : Yeah and then she touched us with it!
Me : Where are you going?
Desi guy : What? Oh damn it missed the turn again.
Me : I think you should teach me to drive now…
Twin 1 : who farted?
Oh my god I need a vacation.
Just Enjoy It
I am not going to give myself airs thinking I have been chosen by a Higher Power to show staggering patience and unbelievable tenacity so that I can complete some deep and meaningful task. I think God throws stuff at ( a select group of chosen) people like me to keep us entertained. Like having a desi guy as a husband (desi: of Indian sub-continent origin) or five wildlings for children. A germophobic health freak best-friend. Having a split personality: Angry Woman, Procrastination Woman, Can’t Stop Laughing Woman, Desi Mom, White Dad( let’s have a barbecue).
I found it very entertaining, for example, when desi guy ran a red light while cruising down the street at a leisurely speed:
Me: “You know you just ran a red light right?”
Desi Guy (slightly panicked): “Are you serious?”
Prodigal Son (enjoying this highly): “Yes, oh my God. What were you thinking we could have been killed.”
The roads had been absolutely empty. No excuse though.
Desi Guy: “Why didn’t you stop me?”
Me: “You are the one driving.”
Desi Guy: “This is your fault. You distracted me.”
With my incredible beauty? With my mesmerizing siren song? Had I been picking my nose? Whatever. It was my fault.
Speaking of noses and picking and stuff, teenager 1 wanted me to pierce her nose.
Me: “I don’t know, it’ll hurt.”
Teenager 1: “I can take it. You got it done that way when you were my age.”
Me: “By a village woman who had pierced the noses of half the country. It’ll be faster with a gun.”
Teenager 1: “omg just do it for me please.”
Me: “Look at this needle. See how big it is. This is going to hurt.”
Teenager: “Just do it.”
Me: “I can’t.”
Teenager: “Just do it.”
Me: “I can’t.”
Teenager 1: “Please!”
Me: “I can’t. My hands are all shaky.”
Teenager 1: “Oh my god mom just do…ow. You did it.”
Me: “yup.”
Teenager 1: “That’s it?”
Me: “yup.”
Next morning:
Teenager 1: “Mom. Mom. MOM!”
Me (packing lunches for school) “What?”
Teenager 1: “Can you pierce my nose again? The thread came out.”
Which wall shall I bang the frontal lobe of my cerebral hemisphere against?
My relatively new best friend is a doctor. She does not practice. Thank God. She is relatively new because although I have known her for three years, the first two I kept losing her phone number. I ran into her several times at Wal-Mart and school, each time I took her phone number and each time effectively managed to have it deleted via the kids. It was God’s way of telling me don’t bother, it is not meant to be. Then sometime last year I met her outside the school and dragged her to my house for tea. The tea I make is absolutely narcotic, people can never get enough and they keep coming back for more. I am a loud-mouthed-pajama wearing-female Dr. Lecter who doesn’t serve liver. Or kidney. Just tea, and I drag people I am acquainted with back to my house for that tea. I want to see what would happen.
Anyhoo…my relatively new best doctor friend has some peculiarities. She won’t let me shop at Food Basics because one of the cashiers there has a fungal infection which she diagnosed after observing it for half a nanosecond one day while shopping there. We can’t shop at the dollar store now either. Or Target. Or Suzy Shier or Winners. You know risk of frequent fatal fungal infections.
I wonder if her liver would go well with a spot of tea? Either way, I will just enjoy it.
(pics from Google)
khaula Siddique 