The teenage boy is a young man


This past Thursday night I did not sleep well at all, a combination of pain and stress. I took extra pain medication but as a result I dealt with insomnia. Anyways on Friday you can pretty much say I was a total utter mess and by the time the teenage boy returned home from his university classes, I was hanging by a thread.

As usual, we chatted about his classes and then he made the mistake of asking me about my day. All started out well, but when I started talking about middle child’s depression and feelings of sadness, I completely fell apart, and this is when the teenage boy became a young man. Instead of running away from his mother who was bawling her eyes out, he came over to the couch, sat beside me and held me while I cried and cried and then blew my nose over and over again. Once I settled down, he went on his way, to do whatever he does after school. Later on that evening, my best friend phoned to give us the details of the concert she was taking the teenage boy to on Saturday night. After I finished speaking with her, the teenage boy wanted to chat with her. I did think it was weird when he took the phone to the basement for privacy, so when he returned I asked him why? His response, which I thought was quite funny was “I have a personal relationship with your best friend too”. I burst out laughing, but she is considered his aunt, so I thought nothing more of their telephone conversation.

An hour later, as I sat on the couch, doing nothing particular, someone knocked on the door and who walked in, but my best friend. The reason the teenage boy had gone downstairs to chat with her on the phone, was to ask her a favour. He had asked her to come over and visit me because I was sad. I love my son. I love my best friend, who came over when I needed her.

The teenage boy is a young man and the best friend of twenty-nine years is a keeper.

How I tried to go on strike and failed

During the school year there are three people living in my house because the girls are away at college/university. When the school year ends for them they move back home, and well to be honest, all hell breaks loose because we now have four adults, the teenage boy and two dogs in the house (I blogged about this earlier When the students move back home for the summer).

Our house is more than large enough for everyone, but we still have to learn to live together again and this is proving to be difficult some days. Five people means more dirty dishes, yucky bathrooms, loads of laundry (okay, the girls do their own laundry most days), and just plain dust & dirt. Now I don’t ask for much, most days I will make dinner, some days I need help, other days my husband will cook if I am not well. It is the kids responsibility to wash, and put away dishes after supper and during the day if need be. The teenage boy usually cleans bathrooms and vacuums for me on the weekends while I grocery shop and do laundry (he gets to drive the car without paying for gas). The eldest goes away each weekend, during the week she works 7am to 3pm, and will referee soccer games in the evenings. Thus she doesn’t do dishes most days. Middle child also referee’s soccer most nights, and occasionally works on Saturdays. If she is in a good mood she will help around the house.  My husband works a full-time shift work job and does loads around the house to boot. He picks up doggie poop, sorts garbage and recycling each week, cuts the lawn, cleans the pool, fixes stuff around the house, cooks dinner and washes dishes too much.

Thus yesterday I cracked! There was a pile of dishes on the counter, and not one of my children offered to help me with dinner (it was only chicken burgers, but you still had to cut up onions, cheese, hot peppers, etc.). Thus I decided to go on strike, I would not even arrange the dirty dishes, something my husband does on a regular basis, and boy did they pile up. The teenage boy left right after supper to go to a friend’s house, and the girls well nothing. Hours went by, my husband kept stating that he could handle the mess, he is OCD and a mess in the kitchen is his worst enemy. Me, I could care less, I could hold out for days, we have lots of plates, forks, knives, and I had planned to use them all. Then my husband couldn’t take it any longer, he cracked, he got up and did the dishes, was I mad at him, you betcha. Probably one of the stupidest arguments ever, I was mad because he cleaned, and so mad that I slept on the couch last night. He was stunned. I don’t think the teenage boy was even aware of the argument since he was out all evening, the girls, well they know I am angry, but they said/did nothing.

Later, my husband said I could go on strike but I would have to choose not to protest using dishes, he just couldn’t handle the mess. So I guess I will let the dust pile up (this is my enemy, but I am strong), or I could stop feeding them. Will they care, probably not, they will just make themselves something and leave the mess. Maybe I could put a lock on the fridge?

My birthing experiences

I am blogging about my birthing experiences to support a blogger led initiative to raise money for Save The Children’s Build It For Babies campaign.


I had my first child when I was twenty-eight years old. It was nine months of morning sickness, except that the morning sickness was morning, noon, and night. It didn’t matter what I did. I would eat crackers before moving out of bed or I would eat nothing, either way, I would vomit. I vomited everywhere, at home, at friends, on my walk to work (that was a joy).  My co-worker once asked why I looked like, well crap in the morning, gee, I just vomited in a parking lot. Even with all the vomiting I somehow managed to gain forty pounds and my gynecologist told me it was time to snack only on carrots. I hate carrots.  The weight gain was terrible on me because of a pre-existing back problem. When I found out that I was pregnant, my medications were stopped, and a special back brace was purchased for me to wear pretty much all the time. There were days though, that the pain was too much for me, and my family doctor would make a house call. He would inject me with a painkiller, in hopes that it would ease the pain, always reassuring me that my baby would be fine, and she was.

Fast forward to the birthing day. We only lived a few blocks away, but since I was huge, and had a very bad back, hubby drove me to the hospital. I didn’t go into labour, so labour was induced. At first, no problems, then the contractions started. I was given an epidural, which now meant I couldn’t move from the waist down. My husband with the aid of the nurse would turn me from side to side every hour, which of course meant I would start vomiting again, this went on for twenty-four hours. After twenty-four hours, I had finally dilated the ten centimetres necessary for birthing and my doctor said it was time to push. I laughed! There was no way in hell I was even going to try to push after having been sick all day and night, plus the epidural had made me completely useless (they had given me quite a bit more than normal because of my back). Out came the forceps and the baby was delivered with hubby exclaiming “it’s a, a girl!” Our daughter, all 7lbs 15oz was adorable.

Three years later, I went through the whole process again, this time labour was only twelve hours and I was able to push. I did yell at my gynecologist because he kept saying just one more push. Really? I also yelled at my husband for doing this to me again! Our second child was a girl, we were overjoyed. Middle child though was born with hip dysplasia and ended up having to wear a brace for the first six months of her life. She hated the brace! We would have to undo it when we changed her diaper, so putting her legs back in was not fun, she kicked and kicked.

Two years after middle child, I had my third and last. Again induced, another twelve hours of puking, and yelling at my husband. Per usual I was far too tired to once again push, but I continued to vomit which had the effect of pushing. So every time I was sick, the baby came out a bit more. When the head was somewhat out, my family doctor asked if I wanted to touch her head. Well I was game, but when I did, my initial reaction was a loud ‘YUCK’. Luckily, our son does not recall this.