Help, I've Been Shot... By a Nurse!

So my wife just arrives home from her evening shift. I sit in the kitchen chatting with her about our son who did a round-off into a back flip which didn't go as planned at his gymnastics session tonight (don't worry, he's probably fine... he's got a head like a concrete block...) when I notice she's loading a syringe.

"What are you doing?", I ask.

"Well, do you want to get a tattoo or not?"

"I don't want to get a SHOT!"

"I TOLD you that if you plan to do this, you were going to need a tetanus shot."

I'm pretty sure I continue to argue for another minute or so. Like *that* helped. Not.

Friggin' nurses. I could write a whole BOOK on the quirks of living with one. For one thing, she is COMPLETELY incapable of watching any television show in which the characters need to perform any medical procedures. She practically yells at them. "THAT's not how you do a blah blah blah! That patient should be dead now!!" "Well, good thing it's only an ACTOR!", I usually reply. But it never helps.

And they get SO wrapped up in their jobs! Once long ago, back when she's in training as an obstetrical nurse, I wake up in the middle of the night to discover that she has me in a death grip. And I don't mean that she has my ARM in a death grip. Neither do I mean that she has my LEG in a death grip. She has my AREA YOU SHOULD NEVER BE THIS ROUGH WITH in a death grip.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING??", I ask very calmly. Not.

"THE HEAD'S DELIVERING!!", she says to me.

Charming. She thinks she's delivering a baby. And *I'm* the mother. Eventually I convince her to release me, and coax her back down onto the pillow. Mr. Happy wasn't too happy THAT night, let me tell you.

Friggin' nurses.

It's a good thing they do so much good in the world, or they'd be *impossible* to put up with.

A Good Time Down in the Hood

Finally saw "Hoodwinked" with the kids. Tried last week, but it was sold out. As it was, we were way up front (second row even) this week, but that didn't bother anyone at all.

Two big thumbs up.



It's much like Shrek, in that it takes fairy tale ideas and puts a modern spin on them, and also that there are at least as many jokes in it for adults as there are for kids.

I thoroughly enjoyed every minute, except for the five or so minutes that I was asleep, and the several minutes before that when I was nearly asleep. (Don't blame the movie; it's not its fault. Chalk it up to my chronic sleep deprivation.)

I'm already looking forward to seeing it on video. For no other reason than to fill in that blank spot!

Beaver Fever

This afternoon was tiring.

Remember I mentioned that I'm a Beaver leader? Well, this afternoon was "WinterFest", which gathered six different Beaver colonies into one outside space and let them run wild.

I was in charge of one of the six activity stations, which each of the different colonies rotated through in consecutive order. Anyone asleep yet?

I spent the afternoon taking a long rope with a salad spoon tied on the end, and 'stringing' the beavers together (thread the spoon up one cuff of the child's winter jacket, up the sleeve, and down out the other sleeve... add the next beaver, and repeat the process until they are all attached). Then I would make them try and throw balls into a basket, and watch the hilarity ensue. Sometimes it actually *was* fairly amusing. They all seemed to have fun.

So, yes, it was tiring, but it was worth it for the benefit of the kids.

And...

After all...

Lots of people know this about me....

You can ask my wife, even, and I'm sure she'll agree that...

I'd do just about anything for a little Beaver.


***

Ba-da-bump! Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I'm here all week. Try the veal.

Understanding Teen "Lingo"

You know how they say that teens have a language all their own?

I've never had a great deal of difficulty understanding my own teens. For the most part we're on the same wavelength, and when they say something, I understand it.

However, this morning my sixteen-year-old daughter made a comment which might require some interpretation.

Quick bit of background: she is hoping to travel to Scotland this summer with a group of highland dancers, and has been participating in numerous fundraisers over the last year to pay for her trip. Recall the frozen pies and bottle drives.

This morning, I remind her that she has a 'bagging' job this evening. Basically, she shows up at a grocery store, and bags people's groceries, and hopefully gets a few donations for her group's trip to Scotland.

When I remind her that she needs to wear her kilt (her highland dance outfit) to the grocery store while she's doing this bagging, that's when she makes the comment:

"Please shoot me in the head."

Hmm.

Let's see. *How* should I interpret this? I see a few options:

1) "Oh Daddy, I'm so excited to be doing this, just shoot my brain full of joy!"

2) "After I finish bagging groceries in my kilt tonight, you can just finish me off then and there, because my life will be complete."

One of those *must* be it, right?

Well... I suppose that there is a slight chance that she's trying to say that she doesn't want to be actually out in public around normal people dressed in her freak suit where she might be seen by somebody she knows...

Nah.

Besides, it builds character. (wink)

Women Trouble

I'm having women trouble. First off, I live with three of them. A full grown adult, a sixteen year old, and an eight year old. All of them are wonderful human beings and I love them dearly. It's just that occasionally I'd like to lock them all in a room together and hold the only key.

My wife is starting to give me flack about my proposed tattoo. I think she suddenly realizes that I'm actually going to *do* it. And then she'll have to live with this tattoo for the rest of her life. (I wish you could see the big grin on my face as I write this...)

My sixteen year old wasn't too happy with me the other day. In my ongoing attempts to keep us ahead of the curve technologically, I participated in a beta trial for a new version of MSN Messenger, which we all use around here for instant messaging. So I upgraded our messenger to "Windows Live Messenger 8." It worked fine, so I thought. HOWEVER, I didn't realize that ONLY the people who were approved for the beta could use it. So, when my daughter signed in to her own messenger account, it wouldn't let her use it. And the old version was gone. Let's just say she wasn't too pleased. Separate a teenage girl from her Messenger is like... um... separating a bull gorilla from its baby. (Ok, yes, I could *uninstall* the new version... but that's like going backwards! Just trust me.) So I got her going on a web-based version of Messenger for the time being.

You know how if you distill something, it gets even more pure than the original form? Well, that's my only explanation for my eight year old daughter. You see, none of the women in the house could ever be called a 'morning person.' However, THIS child, in the morning, can only be called THE EVIL SPAWN OF A THOUSAND DEMONS. For this child, running out of apple juice is reason enough to call the cops and having Dad thrown in jail for the rest of his life. (Well, she hasn't done that yet. But just wait.) And since misery loves company, she torments her brothers mercilessly, just so they can share her wonderful morning disposition. I'm sure she will grow out of this. I just hope it happens SOON.

So there you go. Don't get me wrong, the men in the house have their quirks too. It's just a little easier to take, since they are all... well, how can I say it... just modified versions of *me*.

Which is pretty easy to take.

Fire in my Pants! Help! Fire in my Pants!

What am I going to do when I use up all the stories about funny things that happened to me? Maybe this will become a weather blog. (I can just see it now: "Thursday March 13th: Snow. Looks like it might turn to rain. Check back tomorrow.")

Anyway, if I created 'categories' for my different types of posts, today's entry would once again fit into the category of "another story involving my body's area of manly importance." I apologize in advance to any of my regular readers who might feel that too many of my posts touch on this topic (and you know who you are... I won't name names, but just let me say, "What should we have for supper tonight, honey?").

Anyway, this is another story from the bad old days of suits, ties, and cubicles. I arrive at work, sit at my desk, drink coffee, write memos, shuffle papers, blah blah blah. About an hour or so into the morning, I start to feel... strange. And by that I really mean, my BOYS start to feel a little warm. In fact, by the time I process that they are starting to feel a little warm, they have already moved up to "Ow! Hey! Holy S**t! What the HELL is happening down there?!!" status.

Generally this doesn't happen to the boys. Typically, they just sit there, happy and comfy. So, when something unusual like this happens involving heat and pain, it prompts you into action quite quickly.

Somehow I manage to avoid the urge to drop my pants right then and there, and get to the bottom of this. Instead I get up, and work very hard to walk casually to the men's room. Tra la la, here I go, nice and casual, just trying to ignore that MY BALLS ARE BURNING. (I actually felt like running through the office, passing the reception desk and saying, "MARY!! MY TESTICLES ARE ON FIRE!! HOLD ALL MY CALLS!!")

I finally make it to the men's room, immediately get into a stall, and examine the situtation. OK. They weren't on fire, but there's an area that's definitely all red and inflamed. (By the way, wet paper towel has NEVER felt so good before, and I expect it never will again.)

At first I'm truly confused as to the cause of all this. However, I've seen lots of crime shows, so on further examination I finally discover the culprit. Somehow, a clump of laundry detergent somehow became trapped in a fold in my underwear. And you see, when it's dry, it's inert. Over time, as normal heat and moisture builds up in the area, this innocuous little lump undergoes a chemical reaction where it becomes a burning, sizzling, man's worst nightmare.

Now how to deal with this. Clearly I can't wear this underwear today. So I take them off. (By the way, it's a very strange feeling to be wearing a shirt, tie, suit jacket, and absolutely nothing from the waist down. Ok, well, maybe socks. I can't recall. But still very strange.)

All right. Everything else goes back on, and there I am, going commando. I instantly determine that there's no WAY I'll be able to make it through the day like this. It was a lightweight summer suit, and the pants were very thin. If I happened to catch a stray bad thought, or saw someone I liked, that would... well, let's just say that wouldn't be good. Unless someone needed to hang their hat.

So off I go out into the city, to find a place where I can buy some underwear. Luckily I find a store a block or two away. And let me add, walking through town while going commando in suit pants makes you VERY aware of even the SLIGHTEST breeze.

I make my purchase but have to carry them back to the office. Somehow I couldn't figure out a way to say, "A bag? No thanks, I'll just wear them home." The rest of the story proceeds in an uneventful manner. Disaster averted. All is right with the world again.

But you know how there are certain sensations that you just never forget?

THAT is definitely one of them.

When Even Vomiting Can Be Funny

I'm not sure whether I've "broadened my horizons" or "lowered my standards", but...

I've become a fan of "Family Guy."

Back when it was first on a few years ago, I heard people talking about it. I recall watching part of an episode and thinking, "This stuff isn't very funny."

However, thanks to my thirteen-year-old's influence, I had occasion to see it for a longer period and re-evaluate my opinion.

It's hilarious.

Don't get me wrong, there are lots of jokes that make me go "ew." However, I'm usually laughing when I'm saying it.

Case in point: one of the funniest things I ever saw on the show was also the most potentially off-putting. Peter Griffin, the father, was sitting in the living room with his teenage son Chris, infant son Stewie(who is very eloquent, as well as extremely sarcastic and diabolical) and talking dog Brian(who is also quite eloquent, and actually the most reasonable character in the show). Please note that all of these characters are male. I'm quite certain that even female *cartoon* characters wouldn't participate in what's coming.

So where was I? Oh yes...

Peter has a friend who works in a pharmacy, so he's getting lots of stuff at a discount. He produces a bottle of Ipecac and proposes that they all take a swig. The idea is that the last person to throw up gets to eat the last remaining piece of pie. So (remember I said they are all male) they agree. Everyone takes a drink.

And they wait.

All acting pretty cool.

Then one of them throws up. They laugh. He's out. Then another one does, then another, and another, and then the 'winner' doesn't even have time to celebrate before he's puking too.

So, basically, they are all throwing up in the living room. Repeatedly. And they're all totally miserable, kind of like, "Oh, God, won't this ever stop.... blreaghhhhh!!!", which is the feeling all of us can recall from one or more similar personal experiences.

And it's funny. I mean, it's *really* funny. Nothing like belly laughing and suppressing the gag reflex at the same time.



But don't worry folks, I'm not *that* dedicated. I won't be getting a Stewie Griffin tattoo or anything.

... but I bet it would be pretty popular for a year or so!

Stewed, Blued, and...... Tattooed??

So I'm thinking about getting a tattoo.

Actually, I've been thinking about it for *years*. No tattoos yet though.

However, next month I turn 40. Back when I was, say, 25 or 30, I would say to myself, "But if I get a tattoo, what if I regret it when I'm older?" I've come to realize that I'm going to be the same person I am now for the rest of my life. If I'm happy with a Batman tattoo now, I'll still be happy with it when I'm 50 or 60 or 80.

Also, it's a way to guarantee my kids will never get one! If their *dad* has a tattoo, obviously tattoos aren't that cool, so they'll avoid them like the plague!

The two pertinent questions now are: WHERE and WHAT.

WHERE is pretty easy. Arms are typical tattoo spots. I'm not into ankles or butt cheeks or insides of bottom lips.

WHAT is the biggest one. I like cool generic symbols and designs, but if I want a tattoo, I want it to be *somewhat* related to my character. I'm leaning toward comic book stuff, since it's probably the only interest of mine that has been with me my whole life. I think I'd prefer an actual character rather than a symbol (ie. Batman or Superman rather than the 'S' or Bat symbol). Maybe even a little mini reproduction of one of my favourite comics? THAT would be cool.

So, you can see that I'm still open to ideas.

Any suggestions?

Anybody?

Please?

Whoops!

OK, first off, let me say: I haven't done anything like this in a while.

Now let's proceed.

The last few days, whenever I used the oven, it smoked quite a bit. Not long ago, I made a sweet potato and parsnip casserole, which probably slopped down into the bottom of the oven, and continued to smoke whenever we cooked something else. In fact, when I was cooking a lasagna the other day, my wife said, based on the smell, "Please tell me you're cooking sweet potatoes." (She likes sweet potatoes). "Sorry, no", I told her.

I figured this morning was a good time to put the oven in "self-cleaning" mode. Basically, the oven heats up to super maximum heat, and reduces any food particles in the oven to a fine ash which cleans up really easily.

I turn the oven to self-clean, and let it go for an hour or two.

Well.

Remember how it smoked and smelled when we were actually cooking? This time, you have no IDEA how bad it smelled. And my eyes were practically watering from the smoke. Luckily, it was reasonably mild today, so when I opened every window in the house (and blew around every paper that wasn't tacked down) it only felt like I was living in the Arctic, rather than the inside of an actual freezer. It was pretty cold.

So, after a couple hours, I turn off the oven to let it cool.

Later this afternoon, I figure I'll take a damp cloth and wipe out the ash from the bottom of the oven.

So I look inside. Guess what I find?

Perhaps we should call it a new recipe. Have you ever heard of twice-baked potatoes?

Well, I've invented...

"FIVE-TIMES-BAKED-AND-THEN-VIRTUALLY-INCINERATED SWEET POTATOES."

They were really quite a sight to behold. Check this out:



You know how sweet potatoes are usually pretty dense vegetables? Not THESE babies. They were like, I don't know... spore pods, ready to disintegrate at the slightest touch, releasing their contents to the winds.

Is there a moral to this story?

Um... check your oven before you clean it?

For that matter, and just for the record... I don't even recall *putting* sweet potatoes in the oven. I think my mother-in-law might have done it. I won't check with her, but let's blame her anyway. She has strong shoulders.

De-"magnet"-ized

I've been told again. This getting to be a habit.

The 4-year-old and I were walking through the grocery store parking lot. Car drives by with a woman in it. She smiles.

I said, "Did you see that lady smile at us? She must think we're cute."

"Yes," he says.

Pause.

Then, "I'm cute. Not you."

"Not me?"

"No."

"What do you mean, 'not me'?? Why can't *I* be cute???" (Clearly he doesn't appreciate where his 'babe magnet' genes come from)

"Daaaad. You're a grown-up." Which comes out 'gwown-up', and somehow adds to the effect.

So there you have it. From the mouths of babes. I guess my best days are behind me. WAY behind me, depending on who you talk to. Maybe I should find some senior citizens to start hanging around with. In *that* group I bet I could be the hot young thing.

Fun with Your Brain

Well, here I was, trolling my folders for pictures to give me an idea of something to post... and then I fell upon this.

I love optical illusions. Here's a cool one.

(Maybe you should click the picture to get a larger version... I don't know how well it works with the smaller one)



Isn't that cool? There's no WAY you can look at the picture without seeing it move. But it doesn't.


p.s. If you can't see any movement in the image, get up, walk to the phone, and call a neurologist right away. Tell him your brain is broken.

The Clock is Ticking...

Well, tonight's the night. If you've never watched 24 before, or you used to watch it and fell off the bandwagon, now's the time to join in. Season five is beginning. Two episodes tonight, two episodes tomorrow night, and then a new episode every single Monday until May. (Yay! Mondays will be fun again!)

It's amazing how a television show can generate such excitement in our household. But it does. The only sad part of the evening is that my wife has to work until midnight both tonight and tomorrow. But, looking on the bright side, that just means that I get to watch them again!

Remember (and I stole this from a t-shirt I think):

If you're not watching 24.....

Then you don't know Jack.

I'm Ready for my Close-Up, Mr. DeMille...

Hi, I'm Troy McClure. You might remember me from such hospital instructional videos as "Wow, That's One HUGE Mole" and "Protruding Bones!!" I'm here today on behalf of your local children's hospital...

Sorry, I can't sustain the extended Simpsons reference any longer.

However, I am pleased to announce that our family's gradual decline into bankruptcy may soon be halted, now that we're in show business!

Well, that is if "hospital instructional video" counts as show business. Out of my wife, my four-year-old, and myself, I must say that the four-year-old is the only one who shows any potential.

Without further ado, here are a number of screen caps from the soon-to-be-classic children's hospital instructional video knows as "Calm Minds, Calm Bodies":

Ok, so this creates a new set of problems in life.

First, I'm not sure if I should write two *different* speeches for the Golden Globes and the Academy Awards, or just write *one* speech and tweak it for the second ceremony.

Also, now that I have my little buddy lined up for "Home Alone XXIV", I need to get going on my list of unreasonable demands... after all, we need to be treated in the manner we deserve! Nothing but the best for my baby! And I need to get a hold of the tabloids so I can start undercutting all those other little brats that are trying to horn in on *our* piece of the action!

So we'll see you on the silver screen! Just please don't call us, we're *much* too busy. But let's do lunch sometime, darlings. Have your people call my people.

Mickey Mouse Respectfully Declines

The other day I was packing for the weekly visit to the swimming pool with my four-year-old. Without thinking, I made the mistake of asking which of his two swimsuits did he want to wear.

"WAIT!" he says.

He runs up me. Takes the two swimsuits.

"I have to do Eeny Meeny."

Of course. Eeny Meeny. How could I have forgotten that classic childhood ritual? However, I have discovered that, with a four-year-old, even the undisputed power of Eeny Meeny can be manipulated. You see, if it looks like he's not going to end up on the one he wants, he stops and starts again.

But I digress.

So, he begins. "Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo / Catch a tiger by the toe / If he hollers let him go..."

And here's where it gets a little weird...

"Mickey Mouse says no."

Mickey Mouse says no? Where did THAT come from?

He explains to me that if Mickey Mouse says no, THAT's the one that doesn't get selected.

Ah, so Mickey has the power of VETO. He doesn't actually make the decision. I see now.

I briefly considered sharing with him the part that we used to do immediately after Eeny Meeny... or sometimes instead of it, back when I was a kid:

My mother and your mother were hanging out the clothes / My mother punched your mother right in the nose! / What colour was the blood? / Green! G - R - E - E - N spells green and you are not it in this game of hide and go seek. (ok, so you modify the very end part to suit your purposes)

As I said, I *considered* telling him. But I didn't. After all, some things stay the same from generation to generation, and some things don't.

Just ask Mickey Mouse.

Hic!

Here's another of my favourite pictures from the family archives.

I call this one "Alcohol and Grade One Picture Day don't mix!"

The Miracle of Sleep Deprivation

As a parent of five children, I am an undisputed expert in the topic of sleep deprivation, as I, personally, have been chronically sleep deprived, to varying degrees, for the last sixteen years.

In fact, I'm kind of getting used to it. Or perhaps I'm not as bad off as I used to be, because it's been a while since I've done any of these kinds of freaky things:

1) Walking through a doorway carrying a baby, but neglecting to anticipate the amount of clearance required for the baby's head to make it through. Whack. (In fact, I think this may even have happened to more than one baby. You know what they say about history repeating itself. Also, in hindsight, that explains a lot of things about my children that I've always wondered about...)

2) Reading bedtime stories to the children when your brain veers off, starts spouting random stream-of-consciousness stuff, and you aren't even aware that you're doing it. You think you're still reading the story.

3) Turning on the water in the kitchen sink to wash the dishes. Walking to your bedroom for some unknown reason, and sitting down. Opening your eyes, and seeing ceiling. "Ceiling?", you say to yourself. "Am I lying down?" Getting up from your unscheduled nap to walk back into the kitchen to discover that the water is still running. The suds from the sink are now in the far corner of the kitchen, and the kitchen floor is holding an astounding amount of water for a flat surface. Walk down to the basement to discover that you've turned it into a magical tropical rainforest. Say really bad words repeatedly.

I'm trying to recall what it was that got me going on this topic.

But I can't remember.

Too tired.

I'd Rather Have a Full Bottle in Front of Me Than a Full Frontal Lobotomy

On January 2nd, my 16-year-old and I went out on yet another fundraiser for her highland dance trip to Scotland this summer. This time it was a bottle drive.

I must say, people consume a lot of alcohol over the holidays. At least, that's my impression based on how many beer and alcohol bottles the group collected that day.

It was quite amusing watching my 16-year-old trudge from house to house politely begging for empties. (I was sitting comfortably in my car, listening to music and occasionally moving the car further up the street.)

Watching her carrying those cases of beer bottles reminded me of her early affinity for beer:



Perhaps I should clarify: I meant her affinity for BEER CASES, rather than her affinity for BEER itself!

Oh, one further comment for my daughter and any other teenagers who might have happened onto this post:

Beer bad.

Very bad.

Yuck.

When Movie Night Goes Horribly Wrong

Finally saw "Fantastic Four" on dvd. I only have FOUR comments to make, before I refuse ever to speak of it again:

1) The first word that comes to mind is definitely not "fantastic", although it DOES start with "F".

2) The only slightly redeemable part of the film was the character of the Human Torch. Which is appropriate, because the film also made ME feel like lighting myself on fire.

3) Even Jessica Alba couldn't make this film watchable. Strangely enough.

4) Thank God the movie was loaned to me, so I didn't have to spend any money on it. Unfortunately, it's not as easy to get those two hours of my life back.

Safety Tip for the Young Businessman

Back in the bad old days, I worked in an office and wore a suit and tie every day.

When you're a dapper young businessman in your twenties, slowly mortgaging little pieces of your soul with each passing day, you need a few secrets to keep yourself looking your best.

Back then, it was a problem to keep your shirt tucked in properly. After a while, the shirt would start to come untucked. Not "all-the-way-hanging-out" untucked, but more "looking-puffy-at-the-waist-not-nice-and-trim" untucked.

I came up with a neat trick to keep my shirt staying in.

On a regular basis, the thing to do is to unzip the pants, reach inside the pants through the fly, and grab the tails of the shirt and pull them down. Quick, easy, and effective.

HOWEVER...

If you do this in the office men's room...

Go in the stall and do it.

BECAUSE...

If you do it in front of the big mirror...

...and the pompous branch-manager-slash-vice-president comes in...

...and you're standing there with your arm up your fly to the elbow...

It doesn't look too good.

And don't even bother trying to explain. He doesn't want to hear about it.

The Amazing Hand-pressing Flash Light

Before the holidays have faded completely from our hearts and our minds (and considering how painful it was to get the kids up and out to school today, I think we're pretty much there), I want to share with you the amazing gift I received this year from my friend Deanne and her family:

The incredible HAND-PRESSING FLASH LIGHT!

Now, I'm sure the first thing you're asking is "what the heck does 'hand-pressing' mean?" Let's just say that the true meaning and value of this device doesn't end with its name.

Even without reading the side of the packaging, I was suitably impressed. It's a flashlight that doesn't need batteries. If you squeeze the 'trigger' repeatedly, it charges the light for a very long time. Cool, but not earth-shattering, right? WRONG!

Now, let's read the fine print on the side of the box to get the full value of the item:

1) This product is a new science and technology product and made with high and new science and technology. (Thank heavens. I *hate* when my new science and technology products are made with LOW and OLD science and technology...) It can illuminate only placing it in rhythm. (Personally, I always found the rhythm method to be unsatis... oh, wait, I digress)

2) No need any power, no environmental pollution. (..and in this sentence, no subject either. Learn your grammar, kids!) Low noise and health. (Low health? That doesn't sound very good) Comparing with common torch, it can be several times on lift. (Um... great!)

But here's where the really good stuff starts. Get ready. But if you try to say this out loud, take a deep breath first:

3) Constantly using this health torch, it can benefit to your palm, arm and shoulder stretching and blood circulation, so as to let your hands relax and brain clever, hand and brain coordinate and promote your brain memory and health composition.

See? See? Isn't that amazing?

Ever since I read this, I've been constantly using this light. Already I feel my brain clever. (Unfortunately, I had hoped that the 'benefit to my palm' might get rid of the hair that grows on it, but no such luck.)

Up to the Big Leagues

Over the last several years, our two oldest kids would stay up with us on New Year's Eve. We'd watch movies and eat snacks.

Neither of the teenagers were home this year though. The 16-year-old had a thing with her friends, and our 13-year-old was away on a trip visiting his grandfather in PEI.

So, it was time to move some players up from the minors.

Our eight-year-olds.

We let them stay up until midnight. We made home-made pizza. We watched the first "Lord of the Rings" movie. They drank Sprite.

They were in *heaven*.

When midnight hit, our neighbours were setting off fireworks in their backyard and they got to watch those out the window. They got to call their grandparents in Cape Breton and yell, "HAPPY NEW YEAR!!"

My little girl was doing an impromptu step dance to the music on the tv. My little boy was so excited he was practically humming like a hummingbird.

All my wife and I could do was just shake our heads and smile.

I had originally figured that this would be a pretty low-key New Year's Eve. I must say, though, that it perks up substantially when you add a couple of little firecrackers.