That was Kate’s question to me this morning as she dove into her third breakfast (that kid eats like nobody’s business all morning and into early afternoon before she slows down, barely has anything for supper and goes to sleep which I guess isn’t such a bad thing, right? That’s more or less the way we’re all supposed to eat and she’s skinny to boot). Her newly painted pumpkin was still drying on the kitchen table (it’s since been re-located to the front porch) and she was analyzing it intently as she chomped on her toast.

“Mommy? Why did God wreck my pumpkin?”

Now tell me…how is a mother supposed to answer that question?! I suggested that God hadn’t done anything to her pumpkin but rather that she had stroked too much paint on it the night before, in very typical, “don’t know when to stop” kid fashion, thus covering the original face she had dabbed on twelve hours earlier.

The thing you have to understand about my Kate is that she never went through the phase of believing that her mother (or father, for that matter) knows everything. She has disbelieved me from the time she could talk and she’s got a look that she gives readily when you haven’t answered a question to her satisfaction. A look that says, “I don’t really think you know what the fuck you’re talking about.” And then she’ll actually patronize you. Give you an “oh, ok-a-a-y” as she tries to decide what the * real * truth is.

That was the exact look she gave me this morning over the painted pumpkin. She decided that it had clearly been divine intervention. God had popped into the kitchen in the middle of the night, peeked at her sleeping (she didn’t mention whether or not God would check on any of the other sleeping inhabitants) and then painted over the face on her pumpkin.

“I’m trying very hard not to be mad at Him, Mommy”.

Me, too, Kid. Me, too.

As if my heart wasn’t stopping abruptly enough lately over the damn heat, it went and snowed last night. Now, hold the igloo jokes and speculations about how cold it is in Canada, okay? Snow before Halloween in this part of Ontario is very rare. Not unheard of, granted, but rare just the same. And I don’t imagine that it will stick around. But for the time being, there is a small covering of snow over the grass and driveway and the roads are slick and yucky for driving. And it’s damn cold outside. Terrible, terrible wind and a few more flurries. The kind of wind that cuts into your face and makes your skin tighten and feel as though it might actually rip in half.

And guess whose little boy decided that mittens were clearly the devil’s handiwork? Hats, too. And possibly sweaters, the jury is still out on that one.

That’s right. My little boy.

Oh, it’s going to be a long winter, indeed.

Kate was dressed up like she was headed to the Antarctica. Two sweaters, winter jacket, scarf, mittens, hat and old rubber boots with Hannah Montana plastered on the sides (the girls don’t have their winter boots yet and there goes the mother of the year award AGAIN!). And then, even though she reminded me that she was positively freezing every couple of seconds, she went and made a snow angel, in her jeans, without snow pants, in the yard.

Long, long winter indeed.

Don would have been happy, though. I wore my red toque out to get the bus.

Rock is coming over tonight. Oh joy. He called yesterday evening to tell me that he wanted to come and take the girls (not sure about the baby) out. He would arrive after he was finished work, bring pizza and then take the girls for their winter boots. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Which is what makes me think it might be a trick. I’m really not sure. I haven’t been blogging about my dealings with him just because I kind of get sick of talking about it, to be honest. But believe me, that last post about the custody thing was NOT the last time I had it out with him. And I can’t tell if tonight is supposed to be genuinely fun for the kids (maybe I can make him take Michael, too, and sneak in a hot bubble bath for myself and the last of the Smarties ice cream…) or if it’s a Survivor like trick. Only time will tell, I guess. And hey…at least the girls will have winter boots.

I’m not even going to blog about having to yell at the Weirdo, the physiotherapist yesterday afternoon during one of his visits with M, from infant development. It’s a difficult story to re-tell. Suffice it to say, I yelled at him. Well, spoke harshly to him and he deserved every bit of it. And I stuck up for M, who has been seeing Michael for over a year now, every two weeks, almost without fail and has been working with us, supporting us and going way above and beyond the usual duties.

And we have to start working on stair climbing with Michael. I keep saying “we” as though there is anyone else in this house who does any of this with me. Shit, long before there wasn’t another adult in this house, I was going it alone. So I should re-phrase that. * I * have to start working on stair climbing with Michael. I only have basement stairs and they are hard and dangerous and dirty, dirty, dirty. Anybody out there have old school, carpeted stairs we can practice on?

And I’m not even going to blog about the fight I had with Don last night over the phone, either. I’m not over it, yet. And this blog post is a testament to how my brain works when it’s threatening to explode with difficult things to think about. I think I might just leave the ringers on the phone off, which I did last night, in an effort to absorb and digest a little bit more everything that came out last night and what I’m going to do.

What am I going to do? That is the question. On everyone’s mind.

Including mine.

The laundry calls and so does Kate.

Happy Wednesday, everyone.