Haddie is an early aficionado of world religions.

In college, I did a study abroad in the Middle East with Jerusalem, Jordan and Egypt as my home. I subsequently collected many different volumes of various religions. Last week, Hadley became obsessed with my book on Jewish practices. She carried it around with her constantly and kept crying out, “Jew, Jew.” I thought for sure she was converting when asked by Jamie and she confirmed that she was indeed a Jew.

Then on Saturday, she started her little Jew dance and banged on the garage door. Confused, Jamie opened it and she led him to the outdoor fridge. She banged on the refrigerator door and Jamie opened it. She then pointed to her favorite apple juice box and said, “Jew, Jew!” I guess she’s not quite ready to convert. Her belch after downing it confirmed this.

Given the Christmas season, we have been teaching her about the baby Jesus (whom she refers to as “G.”) Every time she sees a picture, she lights up. Her Jewish book was replaced last night by a little picture of Jesus she dragged around with her. Before long, she started treating the picture as though it were human, giving him kisses and hugs. But then she thought Jesus would like to have some fun. She tenderly placed him in her favorite swivel chair and proceeded to spin him around 100 miles per hour.

Thus begs my question of the day: is it sacrilege to make Jesus dizzy?

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

‘Twas a great weekend of holiday preparations! We were the first to hit the tree stands on Friday and brought home a beautiful Christmas tree. Decorating it was another matter. We very quickly discovered that over-zealous Hadley would be a problem. The moment we brought out the ornaments and tried to hang them, she kept screaming, “Ball, ball” (she is unfortunately obsessed with anything spherical). She would then use all of them as projectiles. OK, not all of them; just the breakable ones.

This proved to be a good introduction to her new second home: time-out. We thought we knew what we were doing. After all, we’ve been devout followers of Supernanny. The pattern was simple. Devil child throws tantrum. Put devil child in “the naughty seat,” explaining their indiscretion. Let them stay there for one minute per age. Explain again what they did. Demand an apology. Everyone kisses, makes up, and lives happily ever after.

Ours started out the same: devil child throws tantrum. Put devil child in time-out, explaining their indiscretion. It went downhill from there. Somehow on Supernanny, the devil child did not stare blankly at the parents and throw an even more volatile tantrum. Supernanny also never dealt with the 18-month-old devil child who explains in no uncertain turns that she is not yet ready to suffer the consequences for her actions. And then threatens to turn her parents into child services.

The solution?

We simply moved all ornaments to the upper portion of the tree, making it look like a busty, top-heavy woman. Supernanny would have never approved. Haddie: 1 Parents: 0.

Don’t be surprised if you see us on next week’s episode of “Supernanny: Parents Gone Bad”….

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

Our Thanksgiving turned into a marvelous day of gluttony and gladness! We started the day with a trek up Turkey Trot trail. The hike was great; getting there was not and we almost missed our turn. The smarter option would have been to keep going and flip a U-turn. But hunky hubby would have none of that. Admitting you almost went the wrong way is equal unto the horror of asking directions. So at the very last second (as we had passed our exit), he did a sharp left turn, thereby dumping my entire water bottle onto my lap. Full of ice-cold water. Nothin’ like hiking with dripping wet “pee pants.”

As I leaked along the trail, Haddie hiked a good portion of it herself for the first time. Jamie then took over and hauled her up the mountain. We were only a half hour into the trek when he announced he was done.

“Done?” I asked. “How could we be done? We’re not even a quarter of the way. How am I going to justify those extra four pieces of pie I’m going to eat?”

“I just don’t want to wear myself out for the rest of the day.”

“Wear yourself out from doing what? Watching football lazed out on the couch and then stuffing your face with food the rest of the day?

“Exactly.”

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

Maine Biker Chick “tagged” me with this questionnaire. I’m not sure what that means but if it’s anything like kissing tag on the playground with Peter Jamison in first grade, sign me up (though my hunky hubby is the one who’s always “it” these days.)

What is your favorite current Thanksgiving tradition?

Bustin’ our big ol’ butterball butts up Turkey Trot trail. This rigorous hike is not far from our house and we’ll be dragging our little butterball, Haddie, up the mountain this morning.

What is your favorite Thanksgiving tradition of all time?

My family is very gourmand when it comes to food but our main tradition was transforming the rolls into charcoal. Every year, we would spend hours slaving over the turkey, veggies, salads, etc. and would stick the rolls in the oven just as we were sitting down. It never failed. Just as we would get to dessert, a layer of smoke would fill the room and one person would start sniffing, then everyone, “Oh nooooooo, we forgot the rolls!”

What is your favorite non-dessert item to eat at Thanksgiving?

Rolls (when not turned to charcoal) and Jamie’s jalapeno stuffing!

What is your favorite dessert?

DUHHH! Pumpkin’ pie!!!!!

Do you participate in any Thanksgiving charity functions?

Have you not seen this family? My duty is done….

What is the strangest thing you have ever eaten for Thanksgiving?

Black licorice pumpkin pie.

Does your employer compensate you in any way for the Thanksgiving holiday?

Hadley is the stingiest boss I know and does not give me the day off. In fact, she will soon be kickin’ my butt up a mountainside.

If you could change one thing about Thanksgiving, what would it be?

Make it earlier, like in October. Oh wait……maybe them thar Canucks are onto somethin’….

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

Make sure it’s not the saliva-infested glasses they use to ward off spit at the dental office (unless you’re into that kind of thing, of course). I, however, have no use for my immortalized spit. Jamie told me to “accidentally” bring home Novocaine next time around…..

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

I can’t really explain what got into me last weekend. I mean, I had been on a seven-year Sabbatical from bowling and I was perfectly content with my life. I knew I wasn’t missing much. Every time I have ever bowled, I have baffled folks with how I can bowl a series of strikes and then gutterball the rest of my game. My aversion to bowling is simple: I never participate in anything I can’t win. After all, my mantra in life is “If you can’t beat ‘em, don’t play ‘em….” the perfect motto for sore losers such as myself.

Later that day, Hurricane Hadley, Jamie and I arrived at Brunswick Lanes. Haddie loves balls but had absolutely no idea what to think of people chucking ‘em down the alley. Whenever she saw pins get knocked down, she would make a resounding “Uh Ohhhhhh,” as if to say “Mommy’s gonna bust your butt for knocking those things over.”

Our rules were simple. The first ball was ours, the second we had to share with Hadley. I thought for sure the first game would be a wash with this concept. But sadly, having Haddie on my team improved my game because we discovered these cool metal ramps that you could line up with the pins. After a series of gutterballs, Haddie would sweep in, tap the ball and get me a spare. I think she’ll go pro next year.

Partway through the game, I bravely looked at the scoreboard. It wasn’t just the score that disturbed me but my dear husband had entered himself merely as “J.J.” while I was flashing everyone with my “Hot Body” moniker. Thanks, Honey.

Haddie lost interest the second game and left me floundering. I had previously squeaked out a strike and a couple of spares but all hope was lost now. Gutterball after gutterball followed, helping me to remember why I hate this game. “I think I finally have it,” Jamie announced. “Have what?” “The real solution to make you a better bowler.”

I couldn’t believe it. After years of critiques and even a couple of classes in high school and college, no one has ever figured out what I do wrong. My form is fine, I have plenty of strength and I line up just dandy with the alley. But something always happens in that last second of delivery.

I eagerly awaited his bowling profundity, knowing full well this moment could change my life forever. Maybe I’d ever get a ball for Christmas and would join a league after this; I’ve always liked those cool bowling shirts.

But then it came: “You just need to stop bowling with your left hand.”

I am officially back on Sabbatical for another seven years.

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

Was it the bronchial steroids? The calcium growth hormones? Hurricane Haddie’s parents were shocked when she grew a thicker goatee than her father.

Case in point: a guy (not known for his tact) approached Jamie at church one day and commented, “Hey Jamie, you’ve got a great start! That goatee is going to look great when it fills in.” Jamie had been growing it out for a year.

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

Why is it that Jamie’s latest policy on getting a puppy is the following:

“Not until everyone in this house is potty-trained.”

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

Have you ever felt judged by a snotty pharmacist? When I was taking care of business yesterday at Walgreen’s, I innocently asked the woman behind the counter about a certain fiber product. She gave me a “You wanna be a Pupur” kinda look and then gave me the standard, stupid answer, “You’d better check with your doctor.” I’m still trying to figure out why pharmacists go to school for so many years…to learn how to count pills? They certainly never give sound advice.

Case in point: the rude pharmacist at the Rite-Aid in Hollywood. I flew out to California a few years ago to visit my friend Garritt. It was, BAR NONE, my worst trip ever. It rained the entire weekend, soiling our boardwalk roller-blading and beach-frolic plans. Then, Garritt’s psycho ex-girlfriend tried to break the door down and kill me while he was at work. Then he didn’t come home for hours and I thought she had murdered him but didn’t know because I accidentally erased the message he left on his dysfunctional answering machine. Then we got stuck in traffic for hours and hours on the way to dinner with a bickering couple. In the rain. Only to wind up eating greasy food at the food court.

By my final night, I had enough. Garritt promised me a fun evening of Wolfgang Puck’s and the Laugh Factory in Hollywood. I was stoked; could this trip finally be redeemed?

Nope. Because during dinner, I was suddenly doubled over with the most agonizing stomach pain that wouldn’t go away. Worried my appendix was going to burst, Garritt offered to drive me to the UCLA Medical Center. I weakly told him we should just find a drugstore and see if they could medicate me.

We drove to the Rite-Aid in Hollywood. We had no idea what I needed so decided to ask the pharmacist. I have never seen a busier drugstore and the line was at least 15 people long. Fifteen snooty Hollywood types who were dropping in to get their prescriptive buzz for the weekend. And me. Doubled over in agony.

By now, the pain was like a knife gashing into my stomach. When it finally was my turn, I limped up to the pharmacist and wheezed, “Do you have anything for excruciating stomach pain?” She took one look at me and then at alllll the Hollywood royalty before shrilly announcing, “Is it GASSSSSS?”

This question still resonates today. Garritt slunked away and all of Hollywood snickered as I hissed back, “It is NOT gas.”

Turns out, it probably was. And it was bad enough to ruin the rest of the night. And so (in keeping with my Murphy’s Law life) instead of The Laugh Factory, I spent the night doped out on Garritt’s couch experiencing The Gas Factory. Take it from me, there was nothin’ funny about it….

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

On TV, we’re bombarded with ads about the miraculous “Purple Pill.” I am here today to tell you about the “Pink Pill.” This miraculous little invention reverses the course of mankind…releases the water gates and makes that which is plugged become unplugged.

Yes, I have a little bowel problem this week. Jamie’s family cannot relate and have the polar-opposite condition. They don’t know what it’s like to set up camp with a month’s supply of magazines in the bathroom. They’re lucky to make it there in time.

I took my Pink Pill early this morning and nothing had materialized. By evening, I was doubled over in pain, cursing the Poop Gods and praying for relief. I enviously changed Haddie’s stinky diaper. She seemed blissful about her state of sitting in her own crap. This caused me to do something rash–I overdosed on the Pink Pill. Yep, in my desperation, I popped another one. And nothin’.

When I made my junkie confession to Jamie, he cursed me that it would hit at 3 a.m. He then called his mom and informed her of my condition. Picture the most prim ‘n proper woman in the world who has never passed gas or belched a day in her life. “TMI” (Too Much Information), she weakly replied. “Too much information.” I am sure she’ll never look at me the same. Imagine: a daughter-in-law who POOPS. Unthinkable.

Sick Haddie woke up at 11:30 a.m. and screamed until 2:30 a.m., making me temporarily forget about my plight. And then, just as Jamie predicted, the flood gates opened. And haven’t stopped. It is currently 4 a.m. and I am still up. I’m trying to figure out which condition is worse. Despite everything, I’d have to say my overdose was worth it.

My favorite radio station had a gal call in last week who was debating keeping her maiden name when she got married. The reason? Her fiance’s last name is Pupur (yes, pronounced just as you think). At first, I sided with her her but after this week? To know I would become a Pupur and that my children would become little Pupurs? BRING IT ON. Just no more Pink Pill…please?…

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