For some, the choice of where to send your child to school for the next six years (kindergarten to grade five) was easy.  Those parents marched or drove to the school, filled out the paperwork and voilà, a spot was theirs.  But for others, okay, this mum, this day weighed heavy.

Suddenly the end of the carefree days of being at home with all my littles was in view.  In 8 short months one of my chicks will be leaving the nest, and though it’s only to kindergarten, she’ll be gone all day.

It’s funny (interesting funny) that for five years I haven’t let her out of my sight, and when I have, I’ve been able to control who’s company she’s keeping, and now, with a few signatures on paper, this September Miss Q’s world will be unlocked.

Sure, I retain some rights to her freedom.   I can still decide who she has playdates with and who she doesn’t; and I can walk to and from school with her.  Though on our walk home, Miss Q told me when she gets to kindergarten she can start walking by herself.  Oh no, honey, I’m going to be following you until you’re out of this school thanks to your younger sisters.

However, the walk to our neighbourhood school was eye-opening.  A walk I had easily made in 15 minutes with a stroller and dog suddenly took 30.  How are we ever going to get to school on time?  I’m going to have to start walking at 6 a.m. to make the 8:42 start time – thankfully it’s not 8:40.

And so much for her coming home at lunch time for warm soup and a hug.  Unless I become an Olympic runner, and squeeze all three girls in the Chariot, that dream is over.  Now I’m supposed to put my faith in grade four and five lunch monitors, when she’s never had a babysitter younger than 26?  Hope they have their Standard First Aid.

It’s not that I don’t like our neighbourhood school.  I think it’s a fine middle of the road choice: not too high-falutin; not too inner city.  Miss Q will thrive there, well, let’s face it, at this point she would thrive anywhere we sent her.  She’s just that type of kid.  At least I hope she continues to be that type of kid.

A giant factor to picking the school for Miss Q was it is close.  The thought of driving all over the city for her education, wouldn’t have been a problem if I only had one child, but since there are two more behind her, I couldn’t see myself behind the wheel 6 times a day (between preschool and elementary school). What kind of life would that be for my other two children?  Never mind me and Mother Earth.

Though I see the logic of finding the “perfect” school for your little, there is something to be said for staying local.  It seems almost novel to stay local in Victoria these days.  Miss Q is one of two children in her preschool who are going to a different school next year.  The other 14 are heading to the elementary school up the road from their preschool.  While some of the kids live within walking distance from the school, there are still just over half who will be driven to the school

Of course it weighs heavy that all Miss Q’s preschool friends are going one way, while she’s going another.  And though I know it is only four-year-old preschool and Miss Q is already quite content to keep most of them at arms length (like a true Aquarius), I have to wonder if by sticking to our guns, we’re making the right choice.

If I could wave a magic wand, and call upon my fairy godmother, I know what my choice would be, but that would take winning a million dollars and re-configuring the world – yep, you my readers, might find yourselves moved to suit my every whim.

But, alas, I am only one woman, in love with the life my husband and I have created.  And the cold hard fact is with my darling soon-to-be five-year-old who’s forever listening, I can’t dwell on the what ifs, or try to convince her she needs to stay at home with me forever.

Every school has its challenges, and every school has its successes.  Come next fall flyers for pizza days will be scattered throughout Victoria, as well as lice alerts.   You can bet Miss Q will be there, school bag on her back, maybe sporting a buzz-cut, but eager to learn, from a real educator.  ”You can teach me how to wash dishes and make dinner this summer, Mum, I need someone who knows how to teach me proper school things.”

We started last night with homemade Chinese food: sweet and sour chicken in the longest noodles we could find.  Unfortunately the noodles proved too long and had to be cut to bits after Miss Q started gagging; but at least she’ll have a long life.  For dessert we had oranges and, of course, fortune cookies.  Apparently the colour red will figure prominently for me.  (No, I’m not going to be immature and say: in bed.  Sheesh.)

This morning found us adventuring to North America’s second oldest Chinatown. (First is San Francisco.)

Miss C slept in the Ergo while hand-in-hand, Miss Q, Miss S and I walked through the Gates of Harmonious Interest.  While Miss C’s eyes were shut, Miss S and Miss Q’s were wide open, oohing and awing at every little detail.  ”Look, Chinese Dragons.”  ”Look, Chinese Lanterns.”  ”Look, Chinese Cats.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh at their labeling of objects or shrink into the brick buildings.  Was it okay for them to call everything Chinese _____ ?  They’re just objects, animals, in Canada on a Canadian street… but we were in Chinatown and some of them, save the live orange cat, were related to Chinese New Year.  Ack… the internal debate had to be brief.  We had only been outside for a minute, so I did what any suddenly overwhelmed with the situation, don’t want to be thought of as racist or ignorant mum would do, I redirected the excitement.  ”Let’s look for the Beckoning Cat.”

“What?  Where’s the cat? What does it look like?”  The questions swirled around me as we marched into the store I affectionately call: the store that doesn’t end, in Fan Tan Alley.  (That’s right, I don’t know the exact name of one of my favourite stores, all I know is it’s full of knickknacks and it’s narrow aisle is one long aisle that twists and turns through small rooms till it spits you out.)

Beckoning Cats were everywhere, as were paper lanterns, fire crackers, and the colour red.  ”It’s so beautiful in here,” Miss Q exclaimed.

Miss S was just as enamoured, her blue eyes gigantic as she looked at all the glass animals.  Thankfully, though she was attempting to exert her independence and walk without holding my hands (like her sister) she was doing a great job of not touching.  Believe you me, this store is very tempting.

The girls patience was rewarded at the third store we poked though.  There, the store store owner gave the girls a piece of candy and wished them Gung Hei Fat Choi. Miss Q sort of mumbled that back to her, and Miss S didn’t try.  But both of them said, “Thank you,” as clear as bells.

Miss S stuffed the candy wrapped in shiny red wrapping into her pocket.  The minute we got home, she wanted to eat it.  This proved to be a tiny problem, as it was a hard candy and visions of choking danced in my head, especially after my first attempt to cut it sent it flying onto the carpet.  Fortunately, whatever state the candy came to her was a-okay with Miss S and she happily crunched the pieces I chiseled off for her.  (Maybe when they’re 20, I’ll allow them to have a hard candy, sucker or gum.)

Any good tour of Chinatown always includes food, and while my mouth watered at the glazed pigs and ducks hanging in the windows, Miss Q and Miss S were unimpressed.  Miss Q said that ducks weren’t for eating, while I quacked at her.  Miss S declared she wanted to go back to the car, because she was cold.  So I took them to the bakery to sample some delicious honeybuns.

The woman in the store told us to come back in 10 minutes for them, so we wandered around the block.  I found myself wondering what was new at Kiss and Tell, until I realized taking the littles in there might raise some eyebrows, so I opted for the next best thing: Bubble tea.

At the time I wasn’t 100% sure if Bubble Tea was a Chinese creation, but a quick Wiki search tonight has confirmed it originated in Taiwan in the 80′s so close.

I asked for five Tapioca balls in the bubble tea (as opposed to the cup of them you usually find in a glass).  I wanted to give them the experience but (hopefully) avoid choking. Also I’m not fond of Tapioca.

I had nothing to fear, as both of them were able to drink the Tapioca bubbles with no problems, however, on their fifth sip, I realized they were drinking caffeine… so much worry on this carefree adventure!

Miss S loved Bubble Tea,while Miss Q was lukewarm.  Fortunately both were won over with their honeybun… and who wouldn’t be, it had literally come straight from the oven.

When we got home we hung our garland and lantern, and found a special spot for our miniature Beckoning Cat.  Though it wasn’t as beautiful in our house with all the decorations as Miss Q had imagined, it was festive.

Our outing satisfied some of Miss Q’s questions, but it also created new ones, like: who else is born in the Year of the ____ (insert animal here, depending on which family member Miss Q was asking about).  In our family we have a Rat, Snake, Dog (because Chinese New Year fell after Miss Q’s birthday, otherwise she would have been a Pig), Ox and Rabbit.  For some questions, there is the internet.

SUNDAY, January 8th

Miss S had her first official playdate.  The girl who came over, Miss M, is going to be in the same preschool class as Miss S.  I was excited to see how Miss S would play with Miss M, with them being the same age and all.

Playdate #1 success rate?  Probably a 2 to 3 on the scale of 1 – 10.

While Miss S acknowledged Miss M’s existence, and shared her toys (yay) she wanted to play with the older girls.  In fact, at one stage of the playdate, Miss Q and Miss S started wrestling together (playfully, like raccoons) while their friends played with their toys.

MONDAY, January 9th

We met Granny at the pool, and Miss S joined her for a swim.

It was so lovely to see the look of delight on Miss S’s face as she jumped, glided and splashed around with Granny.  Though I wished I could have joined her, Miss S didn’t notice, she was on cloud nine.

TUESDAY, January 10th

Madame N (our dog) led Miss S and Q into a rather large and deep tidal pool.  Miss Q was tall enough to backtrack without getting her boots wet; Miss S wasn’t so lucky.  After the initial panic, and some coaxing from her dear ol’ mum who didn’t want to jump into the frigid water, Miss S realized that she could retrace her steps.

Back at the car I poured half the ocean out of each of her boots.

WEDNESDAY, January 11th

While Miss Q attended her first birthday party without me, I celebrated this milestone with Miss S and Miss C at Crumsby’s.  (Naturally, my cellphone was close at hand.)

Before getting out of the car, Miss S told me she couldn’t play at Crumsby’s because her hands and clothes would get too dirty.

Happy as I am that she has good hygiene, I have to wonder if I clean her too much after outings…

Inside, Miss S and I got a “tea party for two” and she drank all the milk out of the tea pot before I could pour myself a cup.

When she was finished nibbling her vanilla cupcake with pink sprinkles, she hopped off her white chair and went to join the other children playing on a Thomas the Train table.  As she pushed a pink car around the painted on track, a sour look came over her face.  ”That girl touched me,” she declared.

“That’s okay, she’s trying to play with you,” I told her.

Miss S looked at the girl, like she didn’t believe me, then continued to move the pink car around the track.

THURSDAY, January 12th

Miss S might be teething.  Her darn two year old molars keep playing tricks in her mouth.  Sometimes they’re up, sometimes they’re down.  My hope is this is the last push they need and they’ll be up once and for all – well until they fall out and new ones grow in their place.

She and Miss Q had a crazy art afternoon.  Pictures flying off the floor, presents for me, Miss C, Daddy and themselves. We need a room dedicated to their art – perhaps there’s space in the Louvre?

FRIDAY, January 13th

Miss S wants to have her hair cut like daddy.  (Not this again.) She thinks that if she cuts her hair that short, her hair will turn from blonde to golden brown (Miss Q’s colour).  She wants to go to Lizzie Lee and Me for the haircut, and to the store to get more Princess Pull-Ups.

Naturally the message she hears back from her daddy and I is to love her golden locks, but I can tell she’s not satisfied.  She is the only one in our family with blonde hair, and no matter how many times we tell her Daddy used to be blonde, all she sees is grey.

Later, when we were at the neighbourhood park, which this cynic has to admit is pretty swell, Miss S is once again confronted with children her own age.  She stands in place, arms crossed, a Miss Q-esq scowl on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s too many kids on there,” she says, referring to a toddler ladder, platform and slide.

“Just say excuse me and climb up.  It’s okay.”

With a giant sigh (thanks for teaching her that Miss Q) she walks over to the structure and climbs up.  In no time, she’s in a routine of climbing and sliding, other children forgotten.

SATURDAY, January 14th

Miss S has become quite the Daddy’s girl.  This Saturday she helps him make blueberry pancakes for breakfast, and fixes things downstairs with him in his work-nook.

When she wasn’t following Daddy around with her plastic drill, she wanted books read to her… many books read to her.

Pinkalicious, is one of her favs but she will sit through any book you choose to read; I am constantly amazed with her patience and concentration.  (She sat through the first three chapters of Charlotte’s Web.)

***

Now that the snows of January are upon us, I’m seeing an old familiar side of Miss S: just like last year, she would rather be sitting inside with a vanilla steamed milk than marching around in the snow.

Twice I have suited the littles up for snow fun, and once Miss S refused to go outside, the second time she just wanted to sit in the stroller.

My husband had better success tonight – she actually walked down the street with him, but I suspect the novelty of walking in the dark and investigating a road closure had something to do with it.

We’ve also begun to suspect she’s part Hobbit.  Every day she eats two breakfasts: one with my husband before he leaves for work; and a second with Miss Q when she wakes.  But if you call her Bilbo Baggins, she’ll frown and say, “I not Bilbo.  I Miss S.”

I am so lucky to experience life with Miss S.  At two and five months, she is spunky and loving.  She’s always up for action, providing she stays warm, and won’t pass up an opportunity to climb.

I feel like we’re standing on the cusp: soon Miss S will be swallowed into a giant world of activities and programs without her parents and she’ll start making friends of her very own; but for right now she’s content to pal around with her sister, leap into bed for her naps, and, of course, nibble upon second breakfasts.

***

As I opened and closed the sundeck door for the millionth time this weekend, it struck me: our dog, Madame N, had morphed into a living, breathing piece of furniture that needed to be let outside once in a while.  Did the girls even know what true dog ownership was about?

Sure we let them feed her, give her treats, and encouraged them to encourage her to chase the squirrel who sits in our walnut tree and robs us of fresh walnuts every year, but aside from that, Madame N’s existence in our life is pretty low-key.

When I adopted Madame N, the stout matron at the S.P.C.A. gave me the hairy eyeball when she reached the part of her schpeel that included previous dog owners who had dumped dogs back at the S.P.C.A. because of children.  ”And what will you do when you have children?” her accusing voice inquired.

“Keep her?” I said.  I had meant the words to be stronger, more certain, of course when you have children you keep the dog.  We would keep the dog.  But my voice betrayed my brain and followed up weakly with, “My husband has grown up with dogs?”

I must have passed, because two hours later.  Yes, two hours.  A different worker whispered loudly, “That girl’s still here waiting for a dog.”  I was taken back to the kennels where I found Madame N, right where I’d left her, curled up, snoozing hard.

“Well, pick her up, if this is the one you want.”

I hesitated, but not because she wasn’t the right dog.  Madame N had chosen me: licked my hand, then curled up and fell asleep while her sisters barked and brew-ha-ha’d at my ankles.

I hesitated, because I equated picking a dog up with holding a hamster, or a guinea pig, both bony scratchy pets other people had in my life, not me.  I was a cat girl, my husband was the one who knew what to do with dogs.

With an exasperated sigh, the woman lifted Madame N up and placed her into my arms.  Madame N didn’t flinch, or wiggle as I carried her warm body out of the cement and steel cage and into the bright February sunlight: our own quiet Escape from Witch Mountain.

In her heyday, Madame N raced around climbing structures at the playgrounds, running up slides and running back down them.  She dug holes to China, and sprinted head first into the frigid waters of the Pacific for pretty much anything you’d throw.

When we moved into our house, she met Crazy A, and together they’d wrestle and romp for hours.  Back then, there wasn’t a chain-link fence separating our backyards and the two dogs would race from yard to yard for their playdates.

Then we started having children.

The words of the S.P.C.A. quality control agent were etched in my brain.  I could hear her sneer, “And what will you do when you have children?” every time I hissed at Madame N to stop click-clacking her nails on our hardwood, because a baby was sleeping.

I could hear her voice the handful of times Madame N stepped in her business and tracked it into the house, sending the baby I was holding into the crib and me into a cleaning frenzy.

And I heard it again tonight, as I nursed on the couch and Madame N barked to be let in.  Though she only barked twice, it was enough to make me grimace, “I’m only one woman, Madame N, give me a break.”

But alas, as intuitive as dogs are, they don’t know they’re annoying you with their long clackity-clacking, or tracking stuff through your house, or barking.  In the case of Madame N, she just wants to have her nails clipped, backyard picked-up and to be let in; all her annoyances are human made.

So, in the spirit of celebrating this pooch who has been beside me through thick and thin (literally and figuratively) I decided to declare Tuesday: the day of the dog, which brings us to Tuesday…

There is nothing more beautiful than a sunny January day spent at the beach.  Though there was a bit of a nipply breeze on the walk back, none of the littles seemed to mind.  As Miss Q challenged Madame N to a race I drank in their joy, the salt air, the sunshine dancing on the water, and then I remembered the cougar.

With visions of the one that had been spotted in the area leaping out of the bush, I called off the race, though I’m sure if a cougar was in the area Madame N would have alerted me.

Unphased by their mum’s irrational fear, Miss Q and Miss S tossed rocks in the ocean for Madame N to chase, and squealed when Madame N shakes got too close.  They waded after her in tidal pools, until Miss S got stuck.  And they called to her when Madame N wandered too far.  (She ignored them.)

When we got home, Madame N waited patiently in the back yard for me to let her into the house.  My intent was to hose her down in the tub with the girls’ help, and have them dry her off afterwards, but the moment we got in, Miss Q and Miss S were cold and hungry, and Miss C needed to be changed and fed.  Madame N day was put on hold.

It was a full 1.5 hours by time Madame N came inside.  We still gave her a bath, but the littles just watched.  They also watched and squealed while I dried Madame N.  Miss Q gave Madame N a treat, but after that, it was movie time, and Madame N settled back on her bed in the corner of the living room.

I suppose this is why you never believe your child when they beg you for a pet and promise they’ll help care for it.  But, what can you do?  When your children are 4, 2 and 2.5 months, it’s all about showing, and including, not expecting.

And though the minivan is a tight squeeze with five humans and one 65 pound dog; and I hate the feeling of hot doggie breath on my arm while I’m driving, we will continue to take Madame N on our adventures (that allow dogs) as she is one of the family.

Back in October when she started planning her party (no, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree) Miss Q declared that she wanted to invite her whole class, plus friends from outside of class.  Quick math pegged the number of kids and parents squishing into our living room at 40 – before the siblings were added.  No, we don’t live in the Taj Mahal.

Suggestions of her usual simpler fair: cake, joy, presents, earth friendly grab-bags (read: no little plastic toys) everyone leaves and mum cleans the house with Lysol then collapses on the couch, satisfied with the events of the day, while the birthday girl surveys her loot were met with: But I want a fairy party. (She didn’t sound like Veruca Salt, but close.)

The fairy party she spoke of was a grand soiree at Lizzie Lee and Me.  They’d made pixie dust, had their nails painted and got to dress like fairies.  Miss Q fondly remembers that the birthday girl got turned into a fairy with wings and had to go into a secret fairyland.

Oh how the birthday party world tilted when we entered preschool.  Despite Miss Q’s teacher’s suggestion that you don’t have to invite the whole class to your child’s party, November 2009 hit, and suddenly Miss Q was in the throws of birthday parties containing 15 or more children.  And these parties weren’t held at people’s houses.  No, much to Miss Q’s delight, these parties were held at gyms with bouncy castles, flashy climbing frames and pizza.

The homegrown parties of her first, second and third birthdays began to pale in comparison to these destination parties.  Not that it’s a competition.

Don’t get me wrong; I can see the logic of inviting the entire class to celebrate with your child.  In preschool the kids tend to play with everyone equally, so it’s hard to distinguish a bestie, or group of besties.

I can also see the logic of taking the mess and energy somewhere else.  Though I enjoy a good scrub through my house once the last kid leaves (no sarcasm) I could easily just scrub my own child down once she comes back from a sweaty gym or amusement park.  Let someone else do the dishes.

But Miss Q doesn’t have destination party parents.  So, a home party for her fifth birthday it will be.

When I suggested we could re-create the fairy party at our house, I wondered if we should make dragon dust to appeal to both sexes.

Then Miss Q dropped the bombshell: she only wanted to invite girls to her party.

Great.  Another metamorphic moment.  But it was her party, and she could change her mind, so I let it slide and listened to her list all her female friends.

Before school started back this week, Miss Q reiterated her desire to invite only girls to her party, and then got teary talking about the girls at her school and how they sometimes don’t include her in their activities.

Swallowing my angry mama bear growl, I calmly asked for motive (it was weak, but plausible) and then thought up fantastically awesome things she could do instead of playing with them if it happened again.  By the end she was laughing about painting and playing dinosaurs with the boys, who apparently don’t ever mind if she plays with them – ahhh life as a boy, so zen.

And then I saw my out.

“You know, Miss Q, the people you invite to your birthday should be people who have never made you angry or sad.  The people you invite to your birthday should make you happy and want to be there to celebrate with you.”

With a pause, Miss Q gave me a new list of friends; still only girls; but a micro list; a manageable list.  And as we started planning her party in earnest this time (as February is right around the corner) I realized that though she will be turning five, she will always carry her determination, imagination and love of animals with her.  She’ll probably always have her organization gene too.

Miss Q’s Rules For Her Party:

• Everyone must be dressed up.
• Grandpa, Gramps and Daddy (the only boys allowed) in a suit and tie; Mummy, Grandma and Granny in fancy dresses. (Only Gramps will be comfortable.)
• We will eat only fancy things, like chocolate in heart shaped boxes, and pink lemonade and cookies.
• The cake will not be five layers tall because Miss Q will not be able to eat that much.
• There will be no real candles on the cake.  (This is because of the candle scare she received at Thanksgiving read about it here.)
• Everyone will bring Miss Q money so she can save a baby panda. (Your advertising worked, WWF.)
• Mummy and Daddy will give Miss Q a Fur Real Kitty, because Daddy is allergic and will sneeze if Miss Q gets a real cat.  But one day when Miss Q lives far away from Mummy and Daddy in another city she will have two cats, and then only Mummy, Miss S and Miss C can come visit her.  Daddy can come only if he takes medicine first.

If this is four, I say: Bring on five!

When I moved into my first apartment, my roomie and I didn’t have much in the way of  tchotchkes but we were flush with posters.  Jason Priestley and Luke Perry adorned the walls of our dining room, while Sully from Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, lurked in my bedroom.

Getting married kiboshed any objects d’ art lovingly taped to our walls, mostly because half the bedroom would be plastered with Fred Dryer from Hunter, Maks from Dancing with the Stars and possibly a dragon from Dragon’s Den (hey, tastes mature) while the other half would look like George Lucas had been our interior decorator.

#1 Dreamboat

There is one tiny corner of my bedroom that holds a glimpse into my past.  In a frame that used to hang beside my bed – at eye level, like the good old days – but now sits on my dresser, replaced by a picture of our littles, resides a picture: Kirk Cameron on one side; Richard Grieco on the other.

One of my brothers gave me the frame for Christmas two years ago.  A nod to my teenagehood, and a story I told him: when I ripped the Kirk Cameron centerfold out of a Teen Beat magazine (Kirk was looking svelt in a white dress shirt and jeans) I realized that on the back of the centerfold was Richard Grieco, bare chested wearing a leather jacket (hubba-hubba).

Kirk spent most days observing me from beside my window, but when my friends came over, I’d flip the picture to reveal Richard in all his sexiness.

A silly teenaged tale, really.  But one (thankfully) my brother couldn’t resist.  Every time I look at that  poster, I am filled with nostalgia for the sanctuary that was my teenaged bedroom.

Miss Q is starting to really get into art these days.  Over the Christmas break her pictures have changed from heads floating on a page, to detailed pictures of people complete with pupils and eyelashes.  The other day she was drawing jellyfish, sea anemones, and various other sea creatures.  ”Now we don’t have to go to the aquarium, because it’s all right here.”

When she’s ‘artisting’, as she calls it, you can see she’s in a zone.  She hates being distracted until her work is complete, and though she’s usually tolerant of Miss S, heaven forbid Miss S plucks a marker from the pile beside her.  (This is why we got them each markers and paper for Christmas this year.)

“I just let my pens think up what to do and they work together with my mind,” she told me the other day.

“That’s the way to do it,” I responded.  Then asked her to draw a picture of us, her family.

Miss Q eagerly complied.  When she was finished, I asked her about the picture.  She pointed out Miss S, her daddy, and herself.  ”Is that me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Is that Miss C in my arms?”

“No,” she replied.  ”That’s you holding a bag of candy.”

“But what about Miss C?”

“This was before she was born.”

Annd, I’ll try not to read anything into that.  Eek.

In the end, she had five pictures that she was really proud of, so I suggested she hang them in her bedroom.  This made her chest swell and eyes glow.  Because tacking them to the 1950′s plaster wasn’t in the cards, we used masking tape.

Stepping back to admire her work, my breath caught.  There they hung: five pictures; slightly off centre; brightly coloured; each a story of its own.  They were her first step to expressing herself; to carving her own nook; to her own sanctuary in our house; to Richard Grieco.

If you want to know what I look like, look no further. "This one really captures your hair and eyes," Miss Q told me.

Naturally, after declaring we were going to be a geocashing family, it took us eight months to actually become one. I could blame being pregnant, but honestly, this sport is so easy, I could have waddled behind my family well until the day Miss C was born.

When my parents gave us a geocashing GPS for Christmas, we had no more excuses.  For those curious to the brand, it is a Garmin, and apparently on sale at London Drugs before Christmas.  I know not much more, other than it’s the basic model; a glorified compass.

Armed with coordinates we’d taken off of the website: www.geocaching.com and plugged into said, GPS, we suited up our family for some fun.

These days suiting up our family depends on how snackful Miss C is feeling, and how frisky our other felines, Miss S and Miss Q are; though usually the latter are excited about being released into the world, so their cooperation level is generally high.

The December air was cold as we hiked down the sidewalk towards our plotted point.  My husband knelt down at various spots along the route to show our daughters the progress we were making.  They seemed interested, but I knew Miss Q’s only reference to what we were doing was the Tinkerbell and the Lost Treasure movie, and I hoped she didn’t expect us to stumble into Pixie Hollow.

Arriving at our location, we started searching – for what?  We didn’t exactly know.  I hadn’t done any research, and only assumed the container was hidden from the general population, and out of the flood line.

This lack of prep in what we were looking for, though fun for my husband and I, became tedious for Miss Q and Miss S.  After we didn’t immediately find the treasure there was much sighing, and moaning, and groaning, and well, you get it.

Miss Q didn’t want to be there.  I knew she didn’t understand, and she probably was bored.  Being dragged back and forth as your Daddy searched couldn’t have been much fun; but there was humour to her constant groans of, “I’m tired.”

Meanwhile, feeling like fools for missing what should be obvious, my husband and I scoured the riverbank, consulting the GPS, and re-consulting the GPS.  Finally, after about an hour, in what can only be described as a Kahplah moment (a little Klingon for you), we, well, to be perfectly honest, I found it.

Kahplah

Then the littles perked up.

We marveled at the camouflage, inspected the treasures left by past seekers, and logged our team into the book.

We had originally decided that we weren’t going to trade on our first time out, but the lure of the blue button proved too much, so we swapped it for a shell.  (You have to trade for something of equal or greater value.)

Tradesies

Miss Q beamed at the found treasure as my husband replaced the cash.  Realizing that my house could suddenly be filled with little trinkets from our new hobby, I quickly suggested we make a family treasure box.  (Okay, I was also sizing up the germ factor, coupled with the fact there was one treasure and two girls eyeing it.)

We have gone out geocashing a total of three times in the last week.  The second and third times, dare I say, were for the same cash.

On New Year’s day we dragged my parents and brother into the wilds of our neighbourhood searching for an “easy” cash.  The creator of the cash wrote that you didn’t need gloves or any other tools to find it.  People who’d found the cash previously had written that it was well camouflaged.  Surely 5 adults armed with a GPS could find it.

Sadly, none of us possessed Indiana Jones genes that day.  We left empty handed, feeling gypped.

This afternoon, as a stormfront started blowing in, my husband, the littles and I trekked back to the elusive spot.  Within minutes I spotted it.  Once again, there was much joy as we inspected the cash, and admired the fantastic camouflage.  (It had to be fantastic seeing as 5 adults missed it the day before.)

Though we are new to this world, it is definitely something we will continue doing as a family.  There’s something for everyone in this secretive game.  While Miss Q and Miss S covet the treasures, my husband has his bushwhacking stick primed and at the ready.

Our family treasure box, complete with alarm bell.

Our financial conversation was taking place during a roller coaster Scrabble game where I literally owned 5 vowels (mostly triple ‘u’s and i’s) for the entire game.  Note: I was winning by 50 for most of the game, then the plethora of vowels in my possession sunk me.

In-between the red flags tossed on the game board for: owly, braire, zulu and oilers, we took stock of what our bank accounts looked like and how we could make them healthier for 2012.

And though I will be the first one to tell you we are NOT financial geniuses: me, a student of fine arts; my husband a student of P.E.  Nor are we to quote Daddy Warbucks, “Richer than Midas.”  I can confirm that the following tips might just save you a buck or two whether you’re running a busy household, or just looking to stop the hemorrhage.

So here they are, in no particular order:

1.  Divide your out-going expenses into separate bank accounts.  Most people will tell you to keep all your money in one spot so it’s easy to keep track of and so it grows in one lump sum.  However, our philosophy is: the money is going to leave the account anyways, so you might as well set up an account to keep track of things.

If you on-line bank, this is a cinch.  Take all the bills you pay monthly and create separate accounts for them.  Phone gets a phone account, TV gets a TV account, Hydro gets a hydro account…  Every time you get paid, dump a pre-determined amount into each account and by the time the bills come due, you just pay them out of the appropriate account.

The bonus is little by little the accounts do start to grow as you don’t always take money from them.

2.  Watch who you shop with.  There seems to be one person in the partnership who racks up the grocery bill more than the other.  Cough: my husband.  Mysteriously the grocery bill always has an extra $50 added to it when he’s around.

3.  Coupons.  I am eternally jealous of the coupon deals our American neighbours are privy to.  Though I don’t want to live in the States, I do want to be able to coupon like them.  And sometimes we Canadians can.  Last week for example, Zellers had a coupon for 50% off any item in their store whether it was on sale or not.  And if you’re in diaper world, such as myself, those Pampers and Huggies coupons that come in the mail are very useful.  My coupon tip: depending on the store, you can double up the coupons for an item, if the coupons have different barcodes on them.

4. Breastfeed.   Only if you’re a mum and have children of the breastfeeding age, which if the world average is four, could be anywhere from zero to ??  (I’d do the math, but I’m a writer not a mathalete.)  A non-money saving side plus: you can escape to back bedrooms when entertaining guests.

5.  Throw a pot-luck and keep the left-overs.  Not in the spirit of glad tidings, I know.  But most guests just want to take their dishes back, leaving you with dinner, and lunch for the better part of a week.  (Thanks, Mum!)

6.  Date in.  Some call it unromantic, or lazy.  We call it convenient.  All you need is a movie, popcorn and the desire not to write or play WarCraft for the evening.  Oh, yeah, and the kiddies must be snoozing… otherwise it’s called Family Night.

7.  Ask for Adventure Gifts.  It goes without saying pedicures are great, but when you have a family, finding spots for adventures that burn off energy are worth their weight in gold.  A seasons pass to the museum, historical landmark, or gardens are awesome, awesome places for littles to explore; and when you come home, your afternoon will be quiet, at least until their batteries recharge.

8.  Barista yourself.  When Miss S told me she wanted to, “Go for a drive to Starbucks and get a Vanilla Steamed Milk for a snack, ” it was time to start putting the breaks on my once a week Grande Decaf Non-fat Cinnamon Dolce Latte habit… and her Kid’s Vanilla Steamed Milk.  Even though the latter only costs me a dollar, for her silence, it was time.

Being a barista for Starbucks has always been my fall back job.  The one I say I’ll do if I ever grow weary of lesson parents, or if I need to get a second job.  It has flexible hours, benefits, and you get to take coffee home with you once a week.  (Still a perk, even though I’m a card carrying Tea Granny.)

I’m not blind to the ins and outs of Starbucks, one of my besties was a barista, and would come home smelling like coffee – yes, our apartment smelled lovely: coffee and chlorine.  It’s just always been that job I look at and think, even though I have no cash experience, I could do that.

I can’t do that.

I received a barista type machine for Christmas this year.  I’d asked for it in hopes of saving $7.00 per week.  Though I hope to get better, my first five drinks have ranged from coffee spraying out (much to Miss Q’s delight) to burning the milk with the frother/steamer.

Thankfully, my husband has a natural gift (or maybe the ability to focus on the task at hand).  Because of his skills, the littles and I are now Starbucks free, one week and counting.  And though I don’t think we’ve saved money yet, after buying decaf coffee, and vanilla syrup (not to mention the fact our habit has increased tenfold) one day the novelty will wear off and we will be pocketing the $7.00 ($12.00 if my husband came with us).

And, there you have it, 8 handy tips to start you off for a new year.  When I stumble across more, I’ll be sure to share.  Happy Saving!

Miss Q awoke, sharp as a tack.

“Santa was here,” she squealed with a shriek.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for alllll week.

“You can open your stocking, but the presents must wait.”

Passing on tortuous traditions made us parents feel great.

While Miss S slowly moved her sleepy body out of bed

Miss Q tore into her stocking, knowing she had nothing to dread.

Santa, you see, had gotten her list

And he was the type who made sure nothing was missed.

Miss S beamed as she rounded the corner

Her eyes spied the pink stroller Santa had left for her.

Around and around she pushed her new wheels

While Miss Q ripped through gifts with zest and with zeal.

When asked if she wanted to tackle her pile,

Miss S answered, “No way,” and left with a smile.

Meanwhile Miss C fell asleep in my arms.

A warm belly full of milk, thanks to breastfeeding’s charms.

So Miss Q got to pull double duty this Christmas day,

And helped open Miss C’s presents fresh from the sleigh.

And when all the paper ripping had been perfected,

Our littles played contently, not a harsh word detected.

Miss Q had her Princess Pony, Miss C her giraffe,

Miss S’s baby doll giggled – nay, it was a laugh.

Just when I though all the magic was leaving,

My husband called out, “My eyes must be deceiving.”

“Come look on the balcony, Miss S, C and Q.

Let your eyes gaze upon what Santa’s reindeer did do.”

There on our sundeck, by morn’s early light

Carrot bits shone, spit out in the night.

Santa’s four-legged friends it appeared,

Are the messiest eaters of carrots – something I feared.

Next year, we’re only leaving out sweets

Cookies of shortbread, chocolate – crumbs easy to sweep.

And so the magic of Christmas lives another season,

Celebrating any other way would feel like treason.

As the earth darkens, turning away from the sun,

Our family is together, healthy and having fun.

Life doesn’t always throw you a bouquet,

But looking around, we seem to have caught one today.

And so ends the story of our Christmas right here.

Merry Christmas to you, and a very Happy New Year.

Us. While I am 5 years younger than my husband, I didn't know that put me in teen mom territory, but I'll take it!

Last time we leave carrots out for the reindeer...