Things Overheard May Surprise You

I was puttering around earlier this evening, repotting Phil.

Squeak (13) and Boo (11) had volunteered to make dinner, and they were chatting rather excitedly as they worked.

After having more or less safely transplanted Phil, I entered the kitchen, intending to wash my hands, and overheard Boo proclaiming;

" ... and *that's* how you survive the Zombie Apocalypse!"

Strangely enough, I feel somewhat safer now ...

Although I must say, I think Phil has The Best Zombie Defense System Ever:

Phil (Boo's cactus) is here seen with his one true enemy, his Arch-Nemesis, Time-Share Kitty.

13 years ago today ...

Was my due date for the 4th Minion of Chaos™. It was also my Mum's 61st birthday, and exactly 10 weeks since my father had passed away.

No pressure, or anything, right?

Things seemed a little 'off' that morning- enough that I was concerned for my baby. Normally, if the baby wasn't moving much, all I had to do was poke my belly, and the baby would wake up and 'poke back' (usually a kick). This morning, however, there no response to my pokes and prods.

I've always been a bit of a birth nerd, and so had read enough books and textbooks to know that this wasn't a good sign. That, coupled with a few other things (namely, heightened paranoia due to grieving), was cause enough for me to call my Doctor and ask Himself to take us to the hospital, pronto.

Baby started kicking a little en route, but the kicks seemed feeble, so even though I was relieved to know that my baby was definitely alive, I was still concerned that things were not great.

Before too long, we were in a room on the "high risk" ward, and while by then my baby was moving and squirming consistently, there was still some concern about the amount of bleeding I was having, which was certainly heavier than I'd had with any of my other babies. Eventually, my doctor decided the bleeding really wasn't anything alarming, I definitely wasn't in labour, and after having an ultrasound (my first ever, in fact), we were all assured that everything was just fine, and baby had just been sleepy (or, more accurately, stubborn- but I digress).

I wasn't in labour, but I was 3-4 cm dilated, so my doctor offered me a choice; I could go home, and would probably have the baby in the next few days, or she could break my water, and we'd "see what happens" (I'm not even kidding, those were her words!).

Now, if you read the opening paragraph, you might be able to see what influenced my decision in that moment:

It was my due date.    It was my Mum's birthday.    Mum was not looking forward to her birthday, because my Dad had just passed away ...

A grandchild born on her birthday might brighten things for her. 

It's also worth noting that my cousin's firstborn child was born on our grandmother's birthday, the year that my grandfather had passed away; and my father always thought it was the greatest thing, the best gift his Mum could have received that year.

And hey, there was the added incentive of not being 40 weeks pregnant anymore ...

So I opted for option "B". The doctor ruptured the membranes, and 75 minutes later, at 2:57PM CDT, our biggest baby was born.

A boy.         BIG boy.   He was 4.77 kilos (10 lbs 8.1 oz) and 60 cms (23.5") long.

He very quickly earned the name of Sir Squeaks-A-Lot, because he would make the cutest little squeaking sounds while he nursed. This often got shortened to "Sir Squeaks", and as he got older, to "Squeaky boy", and eventually it was further shortened to just "Squeaker", or "Squeak" (which we still call him today, but not in front of his friends!).

I am biased, of course, but he was a beautiful baby. He still is beautiful. I am often surprised by how much he reminds me of my Dad, only with blue eyes and fairer hair.

 

He was born under the sign of the bull, and is a true Taurus, through and through. You cannot make this boy (pardon me, Young Man!) do anything he does not wish to do. He won't fuss or whine. that's not his style. Nope, not a complaint from him about it. He just won't *do* it.

He's also very laid back, and funny. He loves to make statements that begin "Hmm ... I wonder what would happen if you were to ...??" (Insert any unusual idea you can think of here).

And this? This is what he does when you remind him that school portraits cost money, so "Please smile nicely this year" ...

 

That's right, you get his "Stephen King" impersonation. He is his mother's child, after all, warped sense of humour and all.

He's quiet. (You have to watch the quiet ones).

He can be very persuasive, too- there are tales of hijinks with friends who afterwards, couldn't rightly recall whose idea it was to tie a rope to the bedpost and repel down the side of the house ... (It must have been their own idea, surely?)

He's already spoken for, too. You see, my friend Phoebe's elder daughter, affectionately known as "Miss Mim", put her mark on him back when they were wee toddlers ...
 But above all else, he is my Squeak; my sweet, funny boy, who is not just cool; he's Steve Buscemi Cool.

Happy Birthday, Squeaker.

This photo was taken last summer- he claimed he was playing "Peek-a-Boo!", but really, he was just hiding from the camera in such a way that it was hard to be annoyed with him ...

Quiet Weekend ...

Himself went out of town this past weekend, and The Boy (aka the eldest) went with him. For a change, it was *not* work-related, they went to Brandon for PrairieCon. Call it a guys' weekend away, if you will. (All indications are that they had a great time, btw. So great, in fact, that they didn't have a moment to call home at all- a transgression for which I would have heard much grief had it been me- but I digress)

The Princess was pretty much gone all weekend herself, between work and plans with friends. This means it was quiet. The younger boys and I passed the time by hanging out with my sister on Friday (which included a dinner out at an amazing vietnamese place, Thanh Huong), Saturday, the boys chilled at home while I went to a coffee meeting around lunchtime, then had a second meeting with good friends while we plotted for world domin- er, planned a suite for an event next spring.

Came home, took Boo to his guitar lesson (wherein he showed off his new guitar pick) and visited with another friend who wasn't up for going to the other two meetings. The boys destroyed the kitchen in the process of making their dinner, but it meant I didn't have to rush home to cook, so I was OK with dealing with the aftermath ...

Sunday we went for a bikeride. Well, Boo and Squeak went with me, the Viking opted to stay home and watch TV "study for his English exam".

We stopped for popsicles on the way back, and since I only remembered about baseball practice after we got home, so we kinda missed that ... Oops!


But I have to admit, it was really nice not to be in a huge time crunch all weekend.



Hmm ... maybe I should send Himself away more often? ;-)

Twelve!

Now, really- how did that go by so quickly?

Oh, right- we were busy ferrying children to one activity or another, next thing you know, you wake up and your second youngest child is twelve.

12!

This means that, legally, he can now be left at home alone. He is considered old enough to babysit.

And he probably feels ready to look after other children, too ... But that doesn't mean *I'm* ready for that ...

But I digress. This is about my son, not my inability to 'let go' ...

Squeak, as we often call him, or "Sir Squeaks-A-Lot", as his nickname originally started out, was born (obviously) in the year 2000. He earned his nickname within a day or two of being born, as he was apt to make the cutest little squeaking sound when he was nursing (or just generally happy).

Right from the get-go, he was generally content, but very sure of what he wanted and didn't want- a true Taurus in temperament, he will not be persuaded to do anything *he* doesn't want to do, but he has a natural curiosity and zest for trying new things that is often contagious. He is charismatic, and has a quirky sense of humour.

People flock to him- in the past 2.5 years, he has had to change schools twice (once due to our move, the other because he was entering "middle school"), but each time, he has come home from said new school with at least two new friends, both within the first few days. I envy the ease with which he makes friends, and the way he retains them, too. I realize I am biased, but this kid is truly Steve Buscemi Cool.

In spite of the above description, he is surprisingly quiet- and I always warn people; "You have to watch the quiet ones" ... he is forever listening, observing, and probably coming up with new ways to Rule The World.

Plans for World Domination, I suspect, proceed apace.

This year, his birthday falls on a Saturday, and his master plan is to have a birthday party ON his birthday. He's only inviting a few of his friends- his entire hockey team, and half of his class. I wish I was exaggerating; we sent out 22 invitations.

Wish me luck.

(Ed note: this post was originally written about two hours before the Birthday Extravaganza. For soem reason, it was sitting in my draughts folder, rather than having been published. Evidently, I have not been checking in lately ... oops!)

In which another "simple" project escalates rapidly ...

If you read "l'histoire du sac" (there is an update to this post, btw), you understand by now that no project I decide to undertake *ever* truly remains "simple".

Witness, Exhibit "B";

Our house is, by local standards, rather old. In fact, she turns 100 this year. She came complete with crystal door knobs and brass "backplates" (a fancy technical term I learned while doing the, um, 'research' for this post). Two of the doors have rather ornate backplates, the rest are all very utilitarian.

Here is a photo of one of the decorative backplates, complete with probably 60 years' worth of paint:

A backplate got damaged about 3 months after we moved in. Naturally, it was one of the ornate ones (Murphy's Law ain't got nothing on my four boys).

Equally as commonplace, we did nothing about it for two years. I recently came across the damaged backplate (which had not been on the door since getting damaged- heck, it hadn't been on the door when it got damaged!), and, fueled by my successful (albeit roundabout) restoration of the WWII-era messenger bag, my determination to attend to it was renewed.

So, I first resolved to see if I could find a replacement plate at a local antiques shop where I had previously seen backplates available for purchase, The Old House Revival Company.

And, naturally, I neglected to bring the blinking plate with me (although I had, at least, had the presence of mind to observe that the detail work on it included a fleur de lis).

The staff there were very eager to help me figure out my options once I had exhausted their considerable collection of brass backplates. My son, aka "Sir Squeaksalot", was also very eager to make me part with my money by deciding he really, really liked an antique stereo on display there. Really liked it. Was brave enough to ask a salesperson to ask how much it was*, liked it

*darn it, that technique almost always works on his siblings!!! Once Mum puts the onus on them to ask for details about something they really want, they usually back down.

Turns out, they were planning on putting the stereo into a garage sale, and were only going to be asking $25 for it. His birthday is coming up in just over two weeks- I do believe I see an antique stereo in my future.

But I digress. As helpful as they were, Old House Revival didn't have the backplate I needed. They did remind me, however, that brass is fairly maleable, and I might be able to straighten out the kink without it breaking ...

Onwards.

A few days later, I went over to see the lovely ladies at Vintage Veruca. They were extremely busy, getting ready for their own garage sale, but they were no less helpful than the folks at OHR.

Funnily enough, once they had confirmed that they did not, in fact, have a backplate to match mine (I had since put the darned thing into my bag), one of the ladies told me she used to work at OHR, and they were likely the best place to check for backplates ...

She also affirmed what the folks at OHR had said about being able to straighten out the kink in my existing backplate. In addition, she told me I could strip the paint off the backplate by placing it in extremely hot (read: boiling!) water for ten to fifteen minutes and then peel or scrape it off.



You can probably see where this is going ...



Yup. I did. First of all, I managed to straighten out the kink in the backplate enough to make it once more functional.

Secondly ... well, how about I show you some photos?

Then, after removing all six thousand** layers of paint from the two backplates, just for kicks, I decided to polish them.

(** this may be a slight exaggeration)

 Note the presence of my "assistant" in this endeavour, quite literally placing her mark.

At this point, I might as well restore the other two plates, too- after all, it's a straightforward and simple project, right? ;-)