A Grand Night Out

Other than weekly trips to the grocery store, children in tow, home is where I spend my time.  For five years, my husband and I have searched for a willing babysitter.  There are a few to choose from in the area, but none willing to take on the responsibility of twins.  None, except the little girl next door who expressed an interest in growing up to be a kindergarten teacher and is adored by Ty and Erin.  Ever since, hubby and I have been anticipating the time when she would be old enough to baby-sit.   

That time has come.

Last night was her second time at the helm.  She is awesome.  Once the kids are washed, brushed, emptied of fluids and dressed in their jams, she takes over... 

...and for a few hours, we are free!

Erik and I have a history of starting out with good intentions and coming back with tales of strange and humourous happenings.  Our honeymoon plans included a week in seclusion aboard a houseboat along the Trent Severn system of lakes and locks.  What should have been a self-guided romantic cruise turned into a comedy of errors and mishaps that include taking on water as we left the dock, and a malfunction of our second craft's ship wheel during a lock transfer.  We were able to regain steering by shoving salvageable parts of the wheel into grooves in the support column.  Add in the many near collisions with several poorly placed yachts (which would be anywhere near us) and that unfortunate episode with the zodiac.  It's no wonder we aren't the sea-faring types.

Fast forward ten years and we are headed out to dinner.  After pondering a list of delicious suggestions, we opt to stay close to home and take in the fare offered by The Keg.  Our greeter explained that a table for two would not be available for 45 minutes.  The restaurant was crowded, noisy.  Just like home on any ordinary weekday.  I wanted a less stimulating environment so we headed off to Shoeless Joe's in nearby Georgetown.

The restaurant is quiet, virtually empty save for a few groups seated in the bar.  We are seated in a booth by the front window.  The seating is comfy, except for the blast of air conditioning on my right shoulder.  It's 7 (C) degrees outside.  I take shelter in my coat until we have a chance to tell the waitress.

"Oh, I noticed it's quite a bit cooler over here.  I'll take care of that right away.  What can I bring you to drink?"

We order beverages and it's not long before the blast of arctic air on my shoulder disappears.  Our drinks arrive and we order appetizers and entrees.  Nachos with jalapenos on the side, please.  Hubby's tummy doesn't do spicy.

Nachos arrive with jalapenos mixed in AND a bowl of extra on the side.  Um.... close. 

They're big enough to pick out so we accept it with our waitress' apologies.  We nibble and chat until our entrees of ribs and chicken wings arrive at the table.  Caesar salad for hubby, garden for me.

"Enjoy your meal."

We had just enough time to figure out what to devour first when the lights dimmed in the dining area to darkness.  I could just barely make out where my plate was as I felt around blindly for my food.

"How is everything over here?"

Dark!

"I don't know what happened there, but I'll get that fixed right away."  Our waitress disappears.  Lights brighten over an already well lit area around the bar, and another area far from us.  TVs lose their signal and finally, the light over our table brightens to an ambiance appropriate level.

The founding basis for many relationships include things like truth, honesty, integrity.  For Erik and I, it's ribs.  We had been dating for a few weeks when he had his first taste of my signature ribs.  After reveling in the flavour of the sauce, sweet and tang infused into the tender meat that slid effortlessly off the bone, he knew.  This girl is a keeper.   

I notice Erik's plate still has half of his rib order.  Something is terribly wrong.  Is he ill?  He must have devastating news for me!  He hands me a little piece of meat off the bone to try.  The taste is unusual, somewhat salty.  Familiar.

Tuna.

Erik's baby back beef ribs taste like canned, packed-in-water tuna. Apparently that's how it's supposed to taste.   The last time I noticed a fishy smell coming from beef, it was well past the time to throw it away.  To each their own.

Perhaps this is why we don't go out much.   The food was mediocre and the restaurant, uniquely and unintentionally entertaining.  More importantly we shared a evening laughing at our luck for misadventure and a mutual lack of knowledge on the rules of rugby. 

It's good to know that after ten years of marriage and almost fourteen years together, a night out still includes a little adventure.

That Thing

I first noticed this strange phenomenon shortly before the kids had their first birthday.  I had lost the ability to use nouns.  I had hoped that this grammatical absence would correct itself once I was able to resume sleeping for extended periods of time.  So far, using nouns in verbal speech remains a skill lost like the hundreds of hours of sleep I will never recover.  This concerned me slightly until I started speaking to other moms and quickly realized that not only was it normal, it seemed entirely possible that weary moms like myself were creating a new dialect of English.

Apparently most of the nouns I've learned since my first verbal exchanges have been wiped out to make room for more important functions.  Breathing, possibly or more likely an autonomic parenting reflex so that preparing bottles and changing diapers and knowing who is crying and why requires little conscious thought.  Nouns.  Who needs 'em?  All the nouns I might ever need to use are combined into one tidy little word that continues to serve me quite well.

Thing.

Fortunately, I have retained most of the adjectives in my vocabulary and combined an assortment of arm movements and hand waving, I can almost make myself understood.

"Where's the thing?" (palms up, slowly spreads arms wide, keeping hands flat)

"You know, the thing that used to be in that cooking thing?" (points to large kitchen appliance)

"No, not that thing.  The other thing." (husband opens cupboard and displays muffin tin? cookie sheet?)

"Yes, that thing."

While my family was visiting during the kids' first Christmas, Ty and Erin's faces were covered in everything they were eating.  Their feeding chairs were inaccessible so  I served as a feeding chair on the floor, a child on each leg.

"Erik, can you hand me that thing?"

"What thing?"

"That thing on the thing... the thing on the thing.... that thing right there on.... the..... THING!!!"

The poor man.  He knew I couldn't get whatever I needed and I couldn't explain what this mysterious 'thing' was.  He stood posed like a linebacker ready to hold back an invading army over the kitchen counter.  He knew something I needed was close to him.  Slowly he moved his hands over the Christmas chaos of dinner dishes, clean baby bottles and teething rings and finally hovered over a damp facecloth.

"THAT THING!!!!!"

We were used to this.  It was normal communication between us.  My family, however, nervously backed away from me and by the looks on their faces, it was clear they thought I had completely lost my mind.

They were probably right.

In my defense, tending to the relentless needs of two infants is a time intensive task.  Evening sleep was interrupted by feedings and Tylenol for the constant onslaught of teeth.  Rest was an elusive creature that was easy to catch, but difficult to contain.  I was beyond exhausted.  I wished I was exhausted because that seemed like a huge improvement over the zombie pseudo-coma that was my state of consciousness.  I had no short term memory.  If I misplaced something, the sites to search included the most ludicrous of places.  I frequently found my house keys and freshly brewed pots of coffee in the freezer. 

Five years and many consecutive hours of sleep later, my vocabulary is slowly starting to expand.  I now have a repertoire of non-descriptive noun replacements to choose from.  Stuff.  Do-hickey. Whassit.  Thing-a-majig.  Watchamacallit. Doo-dad.

Last weekend I had planned to cook something both my husband and I enjoy and the kids would be willing to try.  In an effort to eat out less and save time on planning meals, I often make big batches of some of our favourite recipes and freeze them in smaller sizes for a handy and easy-to-reheat meals.  Hubby was planning a trip to the store and wanted to know if there was anything else that we needed to accomplish that day, to which I replied:

"Well, if we get the stuff for the watchamacallit, I can make that thing."

It made perfect sense to me.  He looked up from his coffee, and stared at me, puzzled, as he processed my gibberish. I showed him the page I had ripped out of a magazine.  On it was the recipe for "Cheesy Chicken Watchamacallit."

"Oh," he says, looking relieved, "That thing!"

Even though we don't often make sense to anybody else who might be listening, at least we understand each other.  As a mother of twins, I commonly get asked if the kids have ESP or their own language.  I've come to learn that this skill is not unique to them.  It is the cornerstone of communication in our little family.  It's not paranormal; it is simply taking the time to listen to what someone else is trying to say.  Patience equals understanding.

Perhaps THAT is the most important thing.

Wolves

I've been in a bit of a funk lately for what could be several reasons or possibly nothing specific.  I can't say.  I know that lunar fluctuations in hormones don't help and neither do colder days darkened by thick cloud and diminishing daylight.

I can do nothing to change these elements that affect my mood.  I try not to let things linger, even if they weren't worth worrying about in the first place.  Still, I'd rather not let something insignificant linger unaddressed and find it has mushroomed into something monumental later.  In this state, I search for inspiration.  The following excerpt from 'The Wolves Within, Native American Tales' was just what was needed to put it all back into perspective.

An Old Cherokee was teaching his grandchildren about life.  He said to them, "a battle is raging inside of me... it is a terrible fight between two wolves.  One wolf represents fear, anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.  The other stands for joy, peace, love, hope, sharing, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, friendship, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The old man fixed the children with a firm stare.  "This same fight is going on inside of you and inside every other person too."

They thought for a minute and then one child asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"

The Old Cherokee replied: "The one you feed."