Category Archives: S

Reasons my daughter won’t wear that

By Juli

Lately my five-year-old daughter has become increasingly picky about her clothes. This is made exponentially more frustrating by the fact that I continue to buy her cute clothes that she will never wear, it is getting harder and harder to get her out the door on the morning, and also, with what she ends up wearing, the teachers at her school probably think that she is homeless.

I have stooped to bribing her to put on the odd Christmas or Easter dress, but for the most part, she lives her life looking like a Rainbow Brite bag lady, slummin’ it up all over the place, and she loves it. When I ever so gently (or ever so forcefully) attempt to choose her clothes for her, here are some of the very REAL reasons that she has given me for why she could never wear the things I have chosen: Continue reading

A Visit From Shello

By Juli

Before Jac and I started our (award-winning) blog, I used to do all of my writing about life and child-rearing in my Facebook status, where I would regularly write long, rambling statuses that only my friends and family would be able to enjoy, FOR FREE, I might add. Now that we make the BIG BUCKS* on this blog, I figured I have to recycle some of the posts that were popular on Facebook, because recycling is IMPORTANT, if Earth Day taught us anything, which it did.

So, without further ado, here is one I wrote in January of last year. Please enjoy.

*We do not make the big bucks. Continue reading

On New Year’s Resolutioning: Why I have decided to continue being a piece of Bologna

By Juli

Let me be the very first to wish you all a very happy and prosperous New Year! This is utterly presumptuous of me, because of course I am assuming that reading our blog was your very first task of the year 2015. However, perhaps that was your new year’s resolution—to keep more on top of reading your very favourite, award-winning blog, and WHO AM I to judge your thoughtfully made, carefully considered resolutions? In actual fact, I admire and applaud them, particularly that one. And so, my original statement stands: let me be the very first to wish you all the best that this New Year has to offer, and then some! Continue reading

The Treat Seeker


My greatest achievement…

Dawn. The subtle, cold light of the December morning creeping in through the window easily wakes me. My eyes open, and I survey my surroundings. Dog poster on the wall, Spider-man toy clutched in my hand, other toys still strewn about the bed from when I snuck them in last night when my parents thought I was sleeping. Sleep: one of my most persistent of foes. It had slowed me down for a while, but it can no longer hold me, keep me from my main objective. That objective, of course, is treats. My mission is simple: find the treats, and consume them; find more, and consume those. The thought of not accomplishing my mission is too painful to consider—I will push it from my mind. For now I have to get moving … for the treats… the treats. They will not find themselves.

I exit my room, still wearing my dinosaur jammies. The house is quiet. Mama and Daddy must still be upstairs, in bed. I consider my options. The advent calendars are on the counter, tantalizingly within reach of my small, adorable hands. Oh, advent calendars— how I long for those treasure troves, full to the brim of delicious chocolate treats nesting teasingly behind tiny, enticing doors. I know I could tear those flimsy things open and have immediate access to all the wondrous treats inside, but I also know the trouble that decision would inevitably bring. For it is the adults who are the keepers of the treats, and with them it has been my experience that a softer touch, like a single persistent whine, or continuously asking for treats in a repetitive and constant manner will inevitably result in a more steady supply of treats. In my position, of course, it is important to think long-term.

And so I bypass the advent calendars, and instead make my way upstairs. I find Mama and Daddy sleeping in their bed. This is always curious to me, how these people could so easily be eating treats, and yet they choose to sleep? I nudge the mama one. She groans, and turns over. I nudge her again. I’ve played it cool long enough—I decide to make an attempt.

“Mama?” I say, making my voice as sweet and engaging as possible. “Can I have some treats? I want a treat.”

She looks at me, groggily. “You, what? No. You can’t have a treat! It’s still dark outside—please. Go back to bed.”

She buries her head in the pillow. I weigh my options. I have had success with this mama one before, but I decide to try another angle. I gently, silently, like a silver fox stalking it’s prey, stroll over to the daddy’s side of the bed. He is asleep—I begin repeatedly poking at the exposed flesh of his back with my finger. I choose my words carefully, and prepare my eyes so that they are just moist enough, my brows furrowed ever-so slightly, so I look as pitiful as I possibly can, almost sickly. And then:

“Daddy,” I say, sweetly and sorrowfully, “I’m hungry. Can I just have a treat?”

I make sure my voice goes up slightly at the end, to indicate the hope it would provide to my desperate situation to be granted a treat, or two, or five. Daddy is not in a good mood, as it turns out.

“Go back to sleep. No treats, it’s sleeptime,” he grunts.

I weigh my options, yet again. I can keep going with this technique, though it may not be as effective as I might hope. Or I can loosen them up with another request—pave the way to a later treat. I go back around to the mama’s side.

“Mama? Mama? Can I play on the iPad?”

She grunts and hands me the iPad. Excellent. These adults … they’ll do anything for a few more minutes of sleep. It’s disgusting, really. I enjoy a few minutes on the iPad, until the mama’s alarm goes off, and she realizes how late it is. She flies out of bed and heads downstairs to get my brother ready for school. I decide it’s as good a time as any to ask for a treat.

“Mama! A treat? Can I have a Trrrreat?”

Busy throwing sandwiches together and matching socks from the dryer, she barely has time to look up at me and say: “Ah! Not right now!”

It’s what I’ve been waiting for.

“When Mama? Wheen? Whhhhhennnnnn? When can I have a treat?”
“You need to eat your BREAKFAST!”
“After I eat breakfast can I have a treat?? Please! Oh, pretty please with a cherry on top, mamaaaaa?!”
“We’ll see!”

Again, what I’ve been waiting for. I scarf down two bites of the Cheerios she has hastily thrust before me, and open my Cheerio-filled mouth to speak. The plan is working perfectly.

“I athe ma thhheeerios, can Ah hathve a treeat?”
“Finish your Cheerios!”
I scarf down two more bites.
“Now, mama!? Can I hathve my advent thchocolate?”
She has her head in the fridge. “Did you finish your Cheerios?”
“I don’t WAANT anymore. I’m full of Cheerios!” I muster.
She sighs. “Two more bites, and THEN you’re done.”

Perfect. I take two microscopic bites of cheerio dust and then set upon her, once again.

“I’m FINISHED! Now you said I could have my advent chocolate!”

She sighs, and looks up at the roof. I don’t know why she does that.

“FINE.” She says. “Have your advent chocolate. But that’s IT. NO MORE TREATS until at least after lunch! So, please, STOP ASKING!”

And with that, I know that the game is once again afoot. I wrestle the hard-won advent chocolate from its magic christmassy cardboard door, my thoughts churning all the while around the newest barrier between me and the treats—lunch. My strategy: continue to ask for them, before, after and during lunch. That’ll work.

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