I love play dates for my daughter. Not because I particularly enjoy entertaining another rugrat but because Haddie and her friends are finally at the age they can entertain themselves. And if they do interrupt me, I just announce, “Go play. Don’t bother me.”

OK maybe that is not exactly correct. Some days I say, “Don’t bother me. Go play.”

You know, just to mix things up.
I always take them to do something prior to setting them loose on their own. Some days we have a picnic in the park. Other times we go hiking. Last week, it was Central Park playground. If you’re a Denverite and have never been, repent now. This ultra-cool modern playground in Stapleton is a children’s Mecca and features all kinds of nifty rock-like climbing areas, swings, spray fountains, hills, playing fields and a padded ground cover.

The children’s favorite structures were the Dizzy Dummies (bonus points if you know to which show I am referring). They could not get enough of the big blue wheel that spun them around and around. It was a delightful day of spinning and dizziness.

Or so I thought until the drive home.

Hadley and Bode were chattering away while Hadley’s friend Alex remained uncharacteristically quiet. When we were about a mile from our house, she finally croaked, “WATER, I NEED WATER.”

I turned around and I kid you not–the child was green.

“ARE YOU GOING TO THROW UP?”

“WATER,” she desperately convulsed.

I threw her my CamelBak and she drank like she had been wandering lost in the desert for weeks.

“Do you feel better?”

She still looked queasy but had downgraded from green to a light sage. But still, sage is technically green and I couldn’t get her out of the car fast enough. Vomit is bad enough when it is your own kid but it is utterly reprehensible when it is someone else’s.

We fortunately made it back to my house before she regurgitated her lunch on our front lawn.

It was then that I regretted ever giving her those Doritos.

This little experience has caused me to modify my play-date strategy. No more picnics. No trips to the park.

Better off just to ignore them from the get-go.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Hadley is growing up.

This was not always a bad thing. She was not one of those snugly, lovey-dovey babies who oozed with affection and craved companionship.

That was her little brother.

Hadley was the child who put us in our place from day one. The Baby who cried so much the first night we brought her home from the hospital that she lost her voice. She was The Baby who had her pediatrician observe she must be extremely colicky because of her abs of steel from crying. The Baby who would only sleep in 30-minute increments the first six months of her life. The Baby who demanded we address her with respect by only using capital letters.

I was happy for her to cease and desist from being The Baby.

The toddler years were no walk in the park, nor was the two-year-long-nightmare-that-was-potty-training. I’m sure I will be institutionalized during her teen-age years.

But here’s the deal:she is 4 and I really, really like her. Not just the I-love-you-because-I-am-your-mother-and-have-to-love-you thing. But I really enjoy her. She is an independent spitfire who loves to socialize, laugh and play. She cooks, cleans, skis, skates and goes on long walks with me. She has become my little buddy.

I have to admit that sometimes during her infancy, I was counting down the minutes/hours/years until I would send her to kindergarten.

I finally registered a few weeks ago for fall semester.

And I blubbered like The Baby.

No one prepared me for this. How I would battle in those trenches for oh-so many years and suddenly when they start being delightful and you actually want them around, you ship them off to school.

This process is repeated during the teenage years: just as they start to become human again, off to college they go.

Of course, I could always join the contingency of hearty moms who sacrifice their time and talents to homeschool their children.

Kindergarten is suddenly sounding better and better.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

To build up Hurricane Hadley’s confidence, I often pretend to be dumber than I am and marvel when she gets the correct answer.

This strategy has backfired lately because she is now convinced I am stupid.

Hadley: I am smarter than you, Mommy.

Me: [Backpeddling] I don’t think so, dear.

Hadley: Well, I am.

Me: Oh yeah? What is 4 + 2?

Hadley: [Silence. Insert crickets chirping]

Me: Touché, my dear.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Growing up, we always had pets. There was Peppery the Tomcat who enjoyed knocking up the neighborhood felines and who, despite his amorous inclinations, was a fighter not a lover (I had the battle wounds to prove it). Then there was my beloved Lacey who I trained for the Bichon Frise Summer Olympics against her cousin, Missy. One day on a run, portly Lacey faked an injury.

I had no idea dogs even knew how to do that.

I loved and cared for my pets even when they did not love me back. I always assumed when I had a family of my own, pets would become a part of our life.

Except they’re not.

Hadley adores animals and constantly begs us for a pet. I think if we already had one when we became parents, it would be different. But my husband issued a decree we would not get one until “everyone in this house is potty trained.” At the time, there was only him, my daughter and me.

Do you think he was trying to tell me something?

I have to admit I agree with him. Life is just so busy with two young children that the thought of taking care of an animal does not appeal to me. I would love to take a dog out hiking and I would certainly appreciate the companionship. But then I remember the clean-up, training, vet bills and vacation hassles.

Sure, we could get a low-maintenance animal like a hamster or a fish. But in my opinion, the point of having a pet is to interact with them. And somehow removing them belly-up from the fish tank is not my idea of interaction. Nor is consorting with rodents.

I will likely not always feel this way. And rest assured, when everyone is potty trained my daughter will hold us to our word.

Unless I can buy some time by faking a few accidents of my own.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Last weekend, I became a soccer mom for the first time. I am in the camp that loves sports. I have always loved sports. And I have always wanted my children to love sports. That said, I do not believe children should be pushed into activities they do not want to do. I believe in giving them a choice.

Unless that choice does not involve soccer.

In all seriousness, I debated waiting to enroll Hadley in soccer. At 4, she has done a myriad of sports that include gymnastics (her face and the springboard often met their match), dance (she performed an unscripted solo at the recital) and murder ball (her little brother is often the target).

But soccer is a sport Hadley really wanted to try. Last Saturday was her first game and Jamie has been prepping her for weeks. His initial strategies centered around scoring and ball handling. But after a series of mishaps and subsequent tantrums, he instituted the No. 1 rule of soccer: “No crying.”

Someone should have told me that before we got completely massacred.

Haddie’s team was doomed from the start because 1) They played against a team who has been training together since birth and 2) Her team name is “The Butterflies.” There is absolutely no intimidation factor in a flittering insect whose lifespan is only a few days.

I will be campaigning to change it to “The Bruisers.”

I have always thought it is completely ridiculous that younger teams do not keep score. I reasoned how are you supposed to teach children about the dynamics of winning and losing in life if you don’t quantify it?

Until we lost. Big time.

After yet another goal by the other team, I groaned, “Oh no!” My friend Lisa leaned over and whispered, “At this age, you’re supposed to cheer when they score.” I countered, “Not after the 20th goal.”

It’s true. I read it somewhere in The Soccer Mom Handbook.

And how did my daughter do? Overall, she did pretty well and made some great plays. Her strategies were to 1) Yank on the other team’s jersey when she tried to get the ball and 2) Throw herself over Said Ball to prevent anyone else from getting it.

Because if she can’t take proper possession, no one can.

We were all becoming weary at the end of the game after the opposing team’s Beckham Jr. had yet another breakaway. I started to throw in the towel until a mom next to me jokingly shouted:

“Take her out at the knees.”

It was then I knew I had met my soccer mom soul mate….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog