My Little Picasso

Our Tootie LOVES her arts & crafts. To support her in her pursuits, I thought I might take a moment to showcase some of her latest creations. That way, when you see them in a gallery years from now, you can say "I saw that piece when she first created it!"

Weekend Checklist

Vacuum...check

Play play-doh...check

Change sheets on beds...check

Play Barbies...check

Wash, dry, fold, put away laundry for four...check

Admire sticker creations by talented five-year-old...check

Wash kitchen floor...check

Play infinity-plus-one games of tic-tac-toe...check

Plan menu for upcoming week...check

Get creamed by my grandmother at Words With Friends...check

Grocery shop...check

Build impenetrable wall to keep out monsters using giant foam blocks...check

...and... 

Qualify for World Masters Swimming Championships...CHECK!

You may recall that in my triathlon post, I mentioned that I recently joined a Master’s Swim Team. The goal was to improve my swimming enough to eliminate risk of drowning during said triathlon. During one of these swims, a man approached me and asked if I planned to swim with the team next year. I smiled and politely informed him that that was really dependent upon the eventuality of the underworld sprouting ice. (Using different words, of course.) He persisted, saying that he really wanted me on the team (turns out he was the coach). He THEN went on to say that I would probably be fast enough to go to the World Championships. My inner monologue at the time went a little something like this: “Oh my God, run. This guy is clearly insane. If I avert my eyes and back away slowly maybe he won’t notice my retreat.” Eyes averted, I had started to put my plan into action when he spoke up again. My internal conversation must have played out over my face because he said “No, really, I mean it. You should go look at the qualifying times on the wall over there.”

Hmm, not insane enough to miss facial expressions, I see. I did just get a new suit. Maybe it is my new suit. He pointed, and I obediently meandered over to the wall, keeping one eye on the crazy person...who knew what his next move might be. The list was there, as promised, and as I perused the times, his insanity seemed just a little bit less pronounced. These times weren’t that bad. In a previous lifetime, I had been that fast and then some. I looked down at my suit, slightly disappointed – guess it wasn’t so great after all. On the plus side, NEW GOAL!

I returned to the coach, chastened. “Yeah, that seems pretty do-able.” Enthusiasm started to leak into my words and he must have been afraid he had been overly enthusiastic himself as he hastened to bring me back down to earth. “Well, you won’t win or anything, but you could at least go for the experience.” Gee, thanks.

And so began my journey to the World Masters Swimming Championships. I have been swimming three times a week, and going to spin and yoga once a week as well for some extra conditioning. The trickiest part is scheduling these things after bedtimes so that I still get to spend as much time with the fam as possible. I manage it for the most part, but Wednesdays are extra busy and unfortunately Tootie has her gymnastics that day as well. Lucky for me, I have an awesome husband and in-laws who help out in so many ways.

This weekend was my first opportunity to swim in a Masters meet and make those not-so-far-fetched qualifying times. As luck would have it, it was also the first snow storm of the year. My usual one-hour drive into the city took me a knuckle-whitening two hours instead. I passed a total of twelve motor-vehicle collisions. By the time I arrived at the pool, I was too late for any warm-up whatsoever and I had decided that I was either super dedicated to this experience or incredibly stupid.

I burst out onto the pool deck in a flurry of flip-flops, towels and goggles. Only to discover it completely empty. All the swimmers and their families were seated quietly in the stands, listening to a man located directly in front of me who was outlining the rules and expectations of the meet. Awesome. Way to make an entrance. I looked around frantically to locate a team member or something that would give me an indication of exactly which direction I should try to slink. One of my team-mates finally took pity on me and waved. I waggled my fingers, eyebrows raised, and stealthily made my way to join my team. As stealthily as one can with one’s arms full of clothing, towels, water bottles and various other swimming paraphernalia. The announcer graciously pretended not to notice my late arrival and didn’t skip a beat as he droned on about heats, prizes and false-starts.

Masters swim meets run differently than the meets that I remember from the days of yore. Men and women of all ages race against each other. The seeding of heats is based on time alone. This is how I found myself on the block with a giant monster of a man in the lane next to me. Wowza, there must be some kind of mistake. I’m pretty sure he simply needed to twitch those muscles to propel himself to the end of the pool before I could even come up for air off my dive. Holy intimidating, bat-man. In the end, I gave the Hulk a pretty good run for his money despite gulping down gallons of water that splashed off of his huge body.

Speaking of intimidating... before my last race of the day, I found myself hanging out behind the blocks, awaiting my turn, with a bunch of really athletic looking swimmers. I glanced from side to side, taking it all in, when I noticed the Olympic rings tattooed onto the hip of the woman beside me. Ooookay. Maybe it was purely decorative. Me being me, I decided to ask. “Hi.” I said. (Great opener) “I can’t help but notice your Olympic rings tattoo. Did you go to the Olympics for...” I flopped my hand around, encompassing the scene “...you know, swimming?” Duh, nice one. “Yeah”, she says smiling, probably at my dim-witted-ness. “But in ‘96” she adds. Cause that makes a difference. Like somehow that is LESS impressive? Her answer pings off a lightbulb in my head though. I actually know a swimming Olympian from the ’96 Games! She was from my hometown, and we had swum together for several years, sharing a pool and a coach much to the awe of myself and entire team. So I asked ”Do you know Speed Demon? I used to swim with her.” The woman looked at me with a bit more interest now. “Why, yes, I know Speed Demon well! We’re great friends, although I haven’t seen her in years.” She runs her appraising eyes over me, assessing me as her competitor and it is then that I realize my mistake. “Oh, we just swam in the same pool, not the same lane or anything. We weren’t in the same league or anything”. Crap. Now she thinks I’m being modest. I’m not being modest. I’m trying to save face for when this ex-Olympian leaves me in her wake. And she did just that. But really, I didn’t mind.

I walked away from the day with two first place finishes, a second and a third place finishes in my age category. Oh, and having met the World’s qualifying times in two out of my four events of the day. The other two were not far off, and I now believe that I may be able to do them in the next few months.

My times:

50 free 33.3s (Qualifying time is 33.5)

50 breast 43.7 (Qualifying time is 44.0)

100 free 1:15.03 (Qualifying time 1:15.0)

50 fly 37.2 (Qualifying time 36.5)

The Originals

We had an awesome visit from the Original Mamashunga and Papashunga on the weekend. Living several provinces away, they can only make the journey twice a year. They are quick visits, but we make the best of them.

 A November visit means an early Christmas. The minis were super excited to open gifts and play with some new toys. They each got some beautiful artwork to hang in their rooms as well.

The minis got to spend lots of quality time with Grampie and Ammie. They gardened with Grampie, much to Tootie's delight, and Ammie took them for a walk.

It was so great to see them! Thanks for another great visit! Much love xoxo

Tips for the Newbie Triathlete

As promised, some inspirational words and tricks of the trade for aspiring triathletes, from one newbie to another.

·         Practice transitioning. Have a spouse, child or neighbour hose you down with a garden hose while you are in your swimsuit. Then try to get dressed as fast as possible. Repeat.

·         Practice going from one sport to another. When you get home from your bike ride, drop your bike (avoid squashing neighbourhood cats) and start running. See how long you can go before your legs conspire against you. Then keep going. Repeat.

·         Fashion choices. I laboured and debated over what to wear. Do I wear undergarments beneath my bathing suit? What kind of shirt should I wear? Are socks really necessary? I came to the following conclusions: No undergarments are better than soaking wet, chafey undergarments. My bathing suit was tight enough that undergarments were deemed unnecessary. Perhaps larger-chested women may come to a different conclusion. I chose a breathable, moisture-wicking triathlete shirt. Any old shirt probably would have been fine, but I felt deceptively more official in that one. And yes, socks are most definitely necessary. Take the time to put your socks on, your feet will thank you.

·         Hair. You may be asking “What does hair have to do with a triathlon?” Well, those that know me know that hair is something that I have a lot of. It is always a concern. I would also like to point out that you are photographed periodically throughout the race. For vanity’s sake, you may want to throw hair onto your list of considerations. Having a lot of hair, and it being long, I opted for a braid turned ponytail that survived the swim under my bathing cap quite nicely. I threw a headband on as well and after the helmet came off, I sported half-wet helmet hair with finesse. You may want to choose a hat.

·         Bike. Lament long and often your deplorable bike situation to everyone that you know with a decent bike. Surely one of those people will take pity and lend you their bike. If not, trick yours out with streamers, a basket in the front and maybe a card in the spokes. The streamers will add the appearance of going fast and distract your competitors. The basket will hold your water. The card will warn the other athletes of your impending approach. You may want to consider an orange triangular safety hazard sign also. Couldn’t hurt.

·         Hydration. Practice drinking while running. Practice drinking while biking. Then practice holding in all that liquid for a couple of hours.

·         Body Marking. Your number, event and age will be marked on your body using a permanent marker before your race. Sunscreen will remove these markings at a much faster rate than normal wear. Maybe even before your race is over. Apply your sunscreen first. If you feel the need to lie about your age, lie up. The compliments will surely flow: “Wow, you look incredible for 75!” “Good for you for doing a triathlon at your age!” Feel free to decorate the rest of your body while you have the marker in your hands. Draw all those tattoos that you thought about getting when you were younger, but didn’t. It will make you look bad-ass.

·         Race belt. Consider getting one of those belts that you can clip your race bib to so that you can flip it from your back (for the bike) to your front (for the run). This will save you time, and spare your skin from zillions of little pricks from the safety-pins that you would otherwise have to contend with.

·         Map. Get it. Read it. Know your course ahead of time. This will save you from such questions as “Am I going the right way?”,  “Where is everybody?” and  “Am I still in (insert town name)?”.

·         Goals. Make some. Go for it.

·         Enjoy. This is isn’t the Olympics, and at the risk of busting your bubble, it will likely never be. So have fun. If you have fun, you will be more likely to do it again, which will in turn help you in your quest to lead a healthier, more active life. A quest that you are no doubt already on. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

And now for those promised and no doubt highly anticipated words of inspiration. I give you...a cliché:

If I can do it, you can do it.

I mean that. If you think you don’t have time, then you won’t. You won’t have the time until you make it. If you think you can’t, then you won’t. If you think you don’t have the energy, get started anyway. The more you exercise, the more energy you will have. It is an awesome cycle. Good luck!

Happy Birthday Tootie!

Five years ago today, just after 1am, our Tootie came into this world. What a night/morning that was. Tootie is our eldest child and as such, our first foray into parenting. I had zero experience with pregnancies, pregnant people, or perhaps most importantly – babies. Tootie’s diaper was the first diaper that I EVER changed. I had no idea what to expect, especially when it came to labour and delivery. Yes, I went to the prenatal classes. But I didn’t learn anything there that I hadn’t already read in a book. I read lots of books. Armed myself to the hilt with knowledge, facts, statistics and expectations. But no book can fully prepare you for what lies ahead.

My mother, the Original Mamashunga, told me “it wasn't that bad”. That was a lie. It was excruciating. Not “I stubbed my toe” kind of pain, but rather “How can anyone possibly survive this” kind of pain. In fact, I wasn't sure that I would survive. Perhaps that is a tad dramatic, but there were moments, actual points in time, when those were the thoughts going through my head. People say that you forget, and maybe I will in time. But I haven’t yet. I remember a point where I was seized by a panic so pure that it was all-consuming. I informed my husband that I didn't think I could do it, as my eyes darted wildly around the room. My brain was already putting my shoes back on and headed home. It was a nice try, fun while it lasted, but this was not going to go any further. I couldn't take it any more. I absolutely could not do this. My logical husband kindly pointed out “You have to – no one else can.” Hmmm, good point. I was stuck.

I also recall the nurse asking for a number on the pain scale. What kind of a question is that anyway? There is no scale for this kind of pain. She wanted a number between one and ten. I am pretty sure that I screamed a much larger number in response.

The labour was fast and furious. I progressed from two centimeters to fully dilated and feeling an intense urge to push in a matter of minutes – well, less than an hour - shocking the nurse and spurring her into a flurry of activity that only increased my panic. Is it good when a nurse runs out of the room? (Turns out she ran out to call the doctor) I, of course assumed that she was fleeing for the hills and that I was now stranded, alone with my husband, to deliver this child on our own.

My awesome doc arrived in record time, but as we waited, I was told NOT to push. Do you have any idea how difficult it is NOT to push when every fibre of your being is telling you otherwise? Very. So those twenty minutes that it took my doc to roll out of bed and throw on some scrubs? Longest twenty minutes ever. Once we got going though, I can count on my fingers the number of pushes that I had to do.

Our Tootie joined us weighing in at 6lbs15oz. Shockingly small seeing as how I had gained over forty pounds and was under the assumption that I was carrying around a freakishly large baby in my belly to account for all those extra pounds. Apparently other parts of my body were accounting for them…

She was healthy and beautiful and completely amazing. Was it worth it? Absolutely. But that didn't make it any less painful or terrifying.

Five delightful years later, my Tootie continues to amaze me in new ways. As a typical mother, I assume that my child is the smartest, most beautiful child in the universe. That may not be true, but I enjoy thinking it.

We celebrated her five years on this planet over the weekend with a flower-themed party. (Details on the “Parties” page). Our Tootie LOVES flowers in a way that a choco-holic loves chocolate. She can’t walk by a wildflower without picking it. I am constantly discovering bundles of dried out (sometimes mouldy) flowers throughout her room and the house and I have to empty her backpack outside every night of the collection of flowers and rocks that has accumulated throughout the day.

Tootie loved her flower party and was enthusiastic to hand out her cupcakes to her classmates today.

Happy Birthday Tootie! You are so very loved. xoxo

My Triathlon Adventure

I did a triathlon! Ok, ok, you can pick your jaw up off the floor now. It was really just a tri-a-tri. Now, before you say “Oh, come on, that is still impressive”, you should know that I agree and I am very proud of myself for this accomplishment. But I feel the need to clarify because – well, have you seen the distances some of these things are? The Ironman, for example? To put it into perspective, I did a 250m swim, a 15km bike and a 3km run. Yes, yes, very nice. At the same time, there were people (actual people – not robots or superheroes or anything) doing a 3.8km swim, a 180km bike and a 42.2km run! So just don’t go getting me confused with one of those guys. Hey, I hear you laughing – it could happen!

So how did this all come about? I can’t say for sure when the idea came to me. Only that at some point last spring, an idea formed in my brain that I should do a triathlon. After doing a wee bit of research, that idea morphed into the more realistic goal of doing a tri-a-tri. In January, I had started attending a spin class twice a week. In March, I had begun running with colleagues at work. We ran laps around the school yard at recess. Sometimes kids joined us, most of the time, they didn’t.  I can’t help but feel that at least we were setting a positive example. All that was left was the swimming, and having a competitive swimming background from my early years, I was fairly confident about that area. Just to be sure though, I joined a local Masters Swim Team.

As the summer was nearing its end, I realized that I actually had to sign up for one of these things. For one thing, I had told pretty much anyone with ears that I was going to do a triathlon...and no, I did not always distinguish that it was a tri-a-tri. And yes, I basked in their undeserved admiration. And no, I have no shame. And for another thing, I felt that I owed it to myself. To prove that age was my friend and that hard work and dedication would in fact pay off.

I registered for a Labour Day event put on in a neighbouring city. And after what seemed like an eternity of preparation and exhaustion of nerves, the big event came. I had two goals for the day.

1 – Finish the dang thing. First, last, anywhere in between. Just get across that finish line.

2 – Don’t fall off my bike! This was a real and true concern that was completely freaking me out. Allow me to explain. When it got close to the big day, I realized that aside from spin class, I actually needed to get on my bike and practice. I have seen the fancy roadbikes out there. I do not own one.  I am the proud owner of a CCM Mountain Bike. I have ridden it approximately three times. It was to be my ride. I seriously contemplated adding streamers to the handlebars. You know, for an extra zooming factor. I’m fairly certain that they would have at least given me the appearance of going faster. When I was relating this to my friend, an avid cyclist, he kindly offered to lend me his son’s bike. “He’s not using it” he said. “It’s an old bike” he said. “It has a flat tire” he said. He did NOT say that the bike had wings. Which I’m pretty sure it did. But I’ll get to that later. I expected an old, crappy bike, but still a step-up from ye olde CCM. What he lent me was an amazing bike that I could easily lift with one hand and had the thinnest tires I had ever seen. Enter the fear of falling off.

On the big day, my husband came along with me. Both to drive me and provide moral support and also to potentially catch on film the anticipated fall-off-my-bike moment. It was a beautiful day. There were loads of participants. 52 in my event alone. When I first got in the water, all I could think about was how a friend of mine had told me that the last time she had been for a swim in that particular body of water, she had spied a Hershey bar floating by. Only it wasn’t a Hershey bar, if you know what I’m sayin’. I strategized on how to swim with my mouth shut, but in the end, breathing and my love of air won out. I am happy to say, I did NOT spy any such treats during my swim. When we were given our start, I thought “This is it! Give it all you’ve got!” And I did. I swam my heart out. And you know what? I was the first person to reach the shore! It was an awesome feeling.

I ran to the transition area and started to put on my gear. I then realized that I had too much gear. Do you know how hard it is to get tight biking gloves onto your hands when they are wet? Very. Gloves got left behind. I was lucky to leave the T-zone with socks and shoes on. I also managed a shirt, but it was a near thing. In the time that I struggled with my gear, I noticed one of my competitors transition like the wind. Like maybe she had practiced. Hmm, maybe I should have practiced. Anyway, she got out onto the course before me. Blast! There went my lead! I resolved that I would do my best to keep up with her.

I hopped on my bike and started pedaling. And wobbling. Crap, crap, crap! I looked around for my husband and his video camera but he was nowhere to be found. Excellent opportunity to fall off my bike. Except I didn’t. Miraculously, as I gained speed, I became steadier. Speed was the key. So, basically in an effort to avoid road rash, I biked as fast as I could down that road. I did not stop pedalling. Not once. I caught up to the girl. I passed the girl. I flew! I passed people with calf symbols indicating that they were in the midst of a gruelling Ironman. They congratulated me on my efforts, I commented on their lack of sanity. In an encouraging way, of course.

At one point, I passed a water station. These kind volunteers extending bottles of water to passing cyclists. As I approached them, I contemplated my situation. Were I to remove a hand from the death grip I possessed on my handlebars, my precarious balance was likely to shift. AND, I would probably have to slow down. Nope, water was not in the cards. I politely declined as I sailed by the water station with my desert mouth, wishing I was a camel or at the very least possessed some kind of camel pack.

So I passed that girl, and I pedalled. And I waited. I waited for the other competitors to come pass me. But they didn’t. I would occasionally look over my shoulder, expecting to see a pack of cyclists steadily gaining on me. At one point, as I looked around, I wondered (in my out loud voice no less) “Where the heck is everybody?” And then (egad!), “Am I going the right way??”  It turns out I was, and my super fast bike just happened to be propelling me forward at a speed that surpassed those of my competitors. First off the bike!

This was starting to feel rather surreal. My goal had been to finish, and here I was leading the pack. I was in a race with a bunch of athletes and I was in the running! Mind-blowing.

As I parked my bike and started my run out of the transition zone, I considered the fact that not once in my “training” had I practiced going directly from a bike to a run. No easy feat. I settled into my jog. ( To call it a run would be rather unfair to all the people who actually ran this segment.) “This is where it will happen”, I thought. “This is where everyone else will overtake me.” I made immediate peace with that thought and jogged happily along the trail.

Another drink station. YESSS! I can TOTALLY drink and run, right? Wrong. I grabbed a cup of orange Gatorade as I ambled by the drink station. I attempted a sip. Got maybe two drops. Such a tease. Aha! Lightbulb! My exercise-addled brain instructed me to toss the contents of the cup at my face, holding my mouth wide open. With such a large target, I was sure to get a good drink out of it. Well, I did it, and I walked around for the rest of the day wearing that Gatorade.

Not long after my thirst was quenched (not), my legs decided to act their age. Out of nowhere (ok, maybe due to the rigorous exercise and lack of hydration), every single muscle in both legs conspired to seize at precisely the same moment. This in turn caused my upper body to flop about in a queer dance-like fashion as I attempted to remain upright. Luckily, the intense feeling lasted for only a few moments. During which I DID NOT STOP. Had I stopped, it is very doubtful that I would have started up again. Knowing this, I determined to persevere.

It was around this time that a gazelle breezed past me. No wait, it wasn’t a gazelle, it was that girl! The one that I passed on the bike course. The one that had 22 marked on her calf as her age. She practically floated by me with enviable ease, as I flopped and gasped in my efforts to reach the finish line. Less than a kilometre to go, end in sight. I decided it wasn’t all bad. Not bad at all to be 33 years old and finish second to a girl a decade my junior. Nope, not too shabby. Then the second gazelle came along. As she gazelled by me, my inside voice may have exclaimed a few choice, unsportsmanlike words. I was in third. I could see the finish line. I could hear my joints, could barely see due to all the sweat pouring into my face, was in desperate need of water, was panting in a decidedly canine-like fashion, was only partially upright, and was only still “running” due to complete and sheer bull headed-ness. I decided to look back. I needed to know how many more gazelles were on their way. Was it an entire herd? I needed to know. I looked over my shoulder, and I saw...nobody! The gazelles and I were the only athletes in sight.

As I pounded out my last few steps toward the finish line, the announcer’s voice reached my ears. “And here comes Mamashunga... She looks pretty happy to be finished.” Apparently he had misinterpreted my grimace of pain as a smile. I crossed the line, and took a second to relish in my accomplishment. My legs were jell-o, but my adrenaline chose this moment to spike. When I found my husband, he practically shouted in wonderment (and a hint of confusion) “You were third!”. I was. And I have a medal to prove it.

For those aspiring triathletes out there, I plan to write a follow-up post soon with pointers and words of inspiration. Stay tuned...

Attack of the Germs!

Kids get sick. Fact of life. Other fact of life? Parents often follow suit. I am a bit luckier than most. Working with children, I have managed to build up a formidable immune system, capable of fending off the plethora of snotty Kleenexes that cross my path and the misdirected sneezes that land on me throughout any given day. But every once in a while, one of those pesky germs manages to slip through my defenses and bring me to my knees. Literally.

A virus is currently making the rounds of my household, and it happens to be one of the latter. First, down went the Papashunga, making a mad dash to the facilities in the middle of the night.

Next went Tootie, our darling little girl. Luckily, there was no barfing involved in her version. The last time she had a “barfing flu”, she neglected to wake up before said barfing began. Making for a VERY messy clean-up. Not once, not twice, but three times that night I changed her jammies and sheets, and washed her hair, floor and wall. That’s right, wall. That was a fun night.

The third victim of this latest attack was Mr. Doo, our little man. Poor Mr. Doo awoke from his nap yesterday with one thing on his mind – emptying his stomach. Which he did, all over the bathroom floor. If I had to choose a floor in the house that I would prefer to be vomited on, the bathroom floor would be high in the rankings, I suppose. He had fevers and chills intermittently throughout the day, but seems to be recovering nicely already.

And finally, yours truly. After the minis were tucked into bed last night, a peculiar feeling washed over me. I will spare you the details, suffice to say that I am already feeling better, but had to take a recovery day today.

The silver lining? A day at home, just Mr. Doo and I. A day full of cuddles, movies and naps. I cherish this one-on-one time, and live in fear of the day when he won’t want to spend extended periods of time curled up in the crook of my arm. Or –gasp -  won’t even fit in that comfy nook! So for now, we are sharing head space on the pillow, and sick and all, I am enjoying every second of it.

The Art of Trick-or-Treating

The four-year-old approach: Knock on door. Wait patiently by hopping from one foot to the other. Knock again, just in case they didn’t hear you – which must be the case since the door didn’t open immediately. Shout trick-or-treat as loud as possible for this obviously hearing-impaired person. From there, the approach differs depending on the giver-of-treats. If they place a treat into the receptacle, then the four-year-old, having had good manners drilled in to them since the beginning of time (or so it would seem), turns on his or her heel and is prepared to launch off the front step. Only to be stopped by the hairy eyeball being given to him or her from the above mentioned drill sergeant. He or she then usually turns, and (still shouting) quickly thanks the treat giver. The other approach is when the bowl of treats is offered up and the giver of treats instructs the four-year-old to “help themselves”. These people are obviously not familiar with small children and their affinity for treats. At this point, the four-year-old is known to grab enormous handfuls of candy and shove them into his or her bag or (in this case) cauldron. This is done at the speed of light for one of two reasons; they believe that if they are quick enough, they may be able to go in for a second scoop. OR they are afraid that the giver of treats may change his or her mind. The second scoop is usually halted by the parent, but sometimes encouraged by the giver, so it is certainly worth the effort. It should be mentioned that all of this takes place with an ear-splitting, contagious smile, interspersed with giggles of glee.

And now for the two-year-old approach. This approach is generally a bit more cautious. For our two-year-old, it was his first experience. It went something like this: Follow older sibling. Warily eyeball every and all jack-o-lanterns. Steer clear of every single stuffed man, zombie, scarecrow, or other porch decoration. Grip Mamashunga’s hand in a circulation inhibiting vice grip. Knock on door, and immediately say trick-or-treat – regardless of whether or not the door is open. Gaze in awe at the enormous bowls of treats that the givers hoard inside their houses. Watch in wonder as they place some of these treats in your cauldron. Politely say “tank you” to the givers, with minimal prompting from the mama or papashunga. Exclaim “That was fun!” in between each house. 

What a fun adventure! My minis LOVED trick-or-treating. Despite the rain. Did I mention it rained? Well it did. The whole time. Nobody seemed to notice though. Except for the papashunga and I. We definitely noticed. The minis visited about eight houses in our neighbourhood. They laughed, giggled, skipped, and exclaimed the whole time. It is worth mentioning that the bouncy four year-old, in all her excitement, still managed to wait for her little brother to arrive on the porch beside her before commencing her frantic knocking. I am so glad that we live in a place that allows them the opportunity for this adventure. I am thankful for all the people that went out of their way to decorate their houses with spooky decorations. Who went to the store and purchased over-priced mini treats and then patiently endured having their doorbell rung over and over throughout the evening. And for those who went that extra bit and dressed up themselves to enhance the trick-or-treaters’ experience. It worked. We were out for a grand total of maybe twenty minutes. But it takes less than that to form long-lasting happy memories. And in that time, we also collected a small mountain of treats that the minis promptly enjoyed. (After having them checked over by the mamashunga, of course). The rest has been confiscated and will be rationed out periodically over the next few weeks…to all four members of the household. 

Teeny Rant:

We only had a couple of trick-or-treaters at our house. And I must say, they needed some work on THEIR approach. I strongly believe that all trick-or-treaters should arrive in costume. Dressing as yourself is not a costume, nor is it funny, or clever or even mildly amusing. It is lazy. Furthermore, when the door is opened, I believe that all trick-or-treaters are obliged to SAY “trick-or-treat.” To reinforce these beliefs, I am one of those annoying people that queries “what is your costume?” to the kids without costumes and cast them disapproving looks as they give me some bologna about what they are wearing. I am also that lady that stands at the door and looks expectantly at the trick-or-treaters on the porch until they actually utter the words “trick-or-treat”! I mean, come on! You are twelve – you know the expectation! (Exceptions are made on both counts for the wee visitors still learning the ropes, of course.) I have even been known to start conversations about the weather as I wait out that tiny little phrase that rewards you with treats. Maybe that makes me a grump. I’m ok with that.