A Blogger's Haiku

On my wife's birthday

I can't be blogging all day.

There's cake to be made.

The Cost of Spring

Spring has arrived. yippee. whoop dee doo. rah rah… (heavy sigh).

I know I should be excited that winter is over; the sun is shining, the tulips are springing up, and the neighbours have switched their snow tires off their SUV. But, I just find spring to be very, very expensive. I just can’t get excited about a season that always seems to bring me so close to the bring of broke.

It starts with Easter with spring clothes and Easter baskets for the girls. Then, the last week of March is my oldest daughter’s birthday, which is followed 8 days later by her sister’s birthday. This year half a dozen presents, two cakes a platter of appetizers and 20 balloons got us through the week.

It is time to start facing what I have been denying until now. In 10 days it’s my wife’s birthday. This is not just any birthday. It’s her first birthday in our new home. And it’s one of those round numbered milestone birthdays.

This is really not a good time for me to be walking around without a plan, but somehow I’ve managed to, in spite of the pressure. A lot can happen in 10 days. My tax refund could arrive. She might tell me what it is she actually wants. The weather could take a nasty turn. Or a terrific turn. Or both. Just to add to the pressure, after all this, we’ll wrap the season up on Mother’s Day.

It’s not that I have no gift ideas at all; in fact I have several. They are grand ideas; expensive ideas. Frankly, my dear spouse deserves every one of them. Besides, the higher that I set the standard now, the better off I’ll be when my birthday rolls around in October.

She even knows most of the plans I’ve come up with. Depending on the day, she has loved or hated them; said “let’s go for it” or “we can’t really afford that”. It’s an awkward situation, what with me having to make the decision on my own and all. For the last 6 years I have been trained to stop making decisions on my own. I’ve managed to adapt to it well. Except twice a year, at Christmas and Birthday time, anything I decide is by consensus. Or is it by concession? (Note to self: look up the difference between concession and consensus, then ask Carolyn which one is correct.)

This could be bleak. But I know I can pull it off. This is a big deal birthday and I know what I have to do. I may not even have to decide anything. I know which plan to implement. I will go with…BOTH options!…

I cannot elaborate any further.

It is rumoured that my wife occasionally reads my blogs. She states that this is not true, and that she’s excused from having to read them since she’s had to live through most of it in the first place.

And let’s be honest. Some of the people who do read this blog are—uhm, errr, well… I believe the correct term is: recreationally chatty.

I can’t have everyone else knowing what I’m up to before it happens. It wouldn’t be right. Besides, the more I keep to myself, the more I can secretly revise my plan at the very last possible minute. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.

Yes, spring is the season of giving at our house. And whatever it is I’m planning, I hope it’s really special. I also hope it’s easy to pull off; get to; organize; make; obtain; pay for; or whatever the case may be.

After all, I only have ten more days to decide.

They Plot Against Me

No official threats have been uttered. Well, some have; but there were no witnesses. Actions speak volumes though, and judging from some of the actions around here…the women of this house are trying to stage a complete takeover…

I know I’m not in charge, but I thought I had some say in things. I do my best to keep them happy. I put the toilet seat down after using it. I pick my dirty socks up off the floor every Sunday. I let Bridget play hairdresser with me, even though she insists on brushing the same spot over and over and over. And I bring home flowers every time I get paid. It’s all part of a routine maintenance program meant to minimize the ill-will fostered by some of my recurrent short comings. Of which there are many.

Frankly, I wouldn’t want to live with myself without some ground rules either. I can be a bit annoying. Or so I’ve read. Still, I don’t think that merits a complete take over.

My wife started it back when we first began living together.

I tend to need more sleep than my wife. It’s just a fact. She always woke up before me, and usually she wasn’t very quiet about it. One day she made an exception. She was very quiet; and stealthy. She leaned up on one elbow and slowly, gently reached over to my sleeping face and pinched my nose shut. She held it closed to cut off my airway.

I immediately snarkled and snuffled awake and said some terrible things about the awful kind of person who would commit such violence on an innocent sleeping person. I don’t recall the exact wording but it was…impolite.

I asked her why she had done it. She smiled, looked me in the eye, and said “just to let you know that I can….” Now, I remember that she did make pancakes that day, but her point was definitely made. I was no longer in charge of my own destiny. I knew what I had to do. I went shopping that week for an engagement ring. Keep your enemies close, I say.

I thought the plan had worked. There haven’t been any recent menacing events until just lately. Now however, I believe this is becoming a multi-generational plot. The girls are being instructed on how to slowly drive their father insane to make me easier to manage.

Sleep deprivation is a proven tactic, so the waking-up-Daddy contingency is well underway. They’ve taken their mother’s original concept and personalized it to suit their respective talents.

Evelyn simply screams. Usually she does this between 2 and 5 am. As a baby, that’s the best she can do, but her sister is considerably more creative.

Like her Mom, she wakes up before me too. And when it occurs to her, she remembers to grab her stuffed frog Greenly. The two of them tip toe into our bedroom to stand right by my face.

She doesn’t say a word. Greenly does all the talking.

“RIBBIT… RIBBIT RIBBIT RIBBIT. RRRRRRIBIIIIIT!!!”

It is not the sound of any regular, earthly born frog. No, the noise being emitted would be welcome at a pro wrestling event or one of those Monster Truck Rallies where they promise to keep you “on the EDGE of your SEAT! Seat seat seat…”

Like the frog of Frankenstein, the little amphibian keeps croaking at me until I think my daughter’s throat will fall silent from the strain. Which, it does not. The Franken-frog continues to emit a deep bass croak with her help. I say good morning to my daughter, whose only response is to shove Greenly closer to my face and croak louder. I finally greet the frog-beast, and the two of them leave me wide awake.

This is all I have to go on, but it seems clear to me where things are headed. The three of them are plotting against me constantly. I don’t know what, when or how they will stage the full and final take over of the house, so I just wait patiently, and take notes. Suffice to say that if I should suddenly go missing at any time in the future you all know what you have to do:
Ount-may an earch-say. Eck-chay the asement-bay. Elp-hay, elp-hay elp-hay!

For now, I’m going to take a nap, at least until the inevitable occurs.

Daddy's New Face

Last weekend I shaved off my beard.

Things were slow at our house, so I thought I’d shake things up a bit. Change is good, as long as you clean up after yourself when you’re finished.

Actually, it was nothing earth shattering. I grow a beard every fall – usually around Thanksgiving – and I shave it off each spring, more or less around Easter.

This year the reactions varied. My wife shrugged and said what she always says: “it’s your face, do what you like”. Then she pointed out that my clean face highlighted my urgent need for a haircut.

She prefers the beard. When we got married she even went so far as to say she’d turn around and leave if she started up the aisle and saw me without it. I believed her.
Besides, the wedding was in New Brunswick in November, and I was freezing. It was win-win.

She claims she just likes how I look with a neatly trimmed beard. I suspect that deep down she thinks that the unshaven version of me is homely. She denies this of course, but then she snickers in a way that is just short of mean.

Being only 1, Evelyn’s reaction was interesting. She initially looked at me like I was a home invader. Then the look changed, and she realized I was a home invader who was wearing her father’s glasses. Then she clued in, and laughed at me before returning to her job knocking down the stackable blocks. It was a hearty toddler giggle, just the way she giggles when I play peek-a-boo with a (clean) diaper.

Bridget should have noticed, since she hates it if I try to kiss her when I have a beard. She screams and runs for cover. But, she didn’t notice at all. She was intently working on a drawing she called “Dinosaur” which bore a striking resemblance to her earlier works “Airplane in the Sky” and “Grandma Gave Me Ice Cream For Breakfast”.

When it was pointed out to her that my face was smooth and clean she smiled and said “Oh. OK Daddy. Now you can come and give me a kiss.”

Which I did.