They say that after seven years together, couples get the seven year itch.

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Tonight. Girls in a MOOD. Post-weekend crabiness. Lucy got a time out for *ppplbt*ing at me after I told her to stop colouring for dinner. Alice grabbed at the hot stove, emptied three kitchen drawers and pitched the HUGEST tantrum (at my feet in front of said hot stove among the contents of said drawers) when I refused to dole out another cup of milk.

(Now I’M in a mood. And yelly.)

I call Eric my wind of calm. He arrives home from work, and the chaos almost instantly alleviates. The girls are distracted by him, there’s one more set of hands to headlock handle dinner battles, and his patience is fresh from his drive home…and untainted by 1.5 hours of 2-under-5 (years)-around-5 (p.m.) drama.

We get through the girls’ dinner. We go see my new office space, yelling at each other over Lucy and Alice screeching, giggling, tripping and throwing drywall dust in the air. We grab Thai as a treat to eat after the girls are in bed.

And when they are, we literally collapse on the couch, plates on our lap, to watch some trashy TV. We grin in the triumph of silence.
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He calls me a donkey. I pretend to stab his ear with kitchen scissors. He makes fun of my canning (“Glad we’re all stocked for the long, harsh winter with our NINE JARS OF RELISH AND PICKLES.”) and I his taste (“How can you tell if that melon is rotten when your claim to fame is once eating sour milk on cereal for three days?“).

We like to wrestle. He hates spit so I always lick him and win.

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Seven years ago at this time, we were tipsy on love, Jackson Triggs dry white wine, and the most perfect wedding ever surrounded by family and friends.

My Eric: Thanks for keeping all my itches scratched. Happy anniversary.

So much to share and do, I’m a bit overwhelmed. Coupled by the fact it’s SO hard to accomplish anything the day back after a long weekend (which started on Thursday for us!), isn’t it?

So here’s a bunch of random…stuff.

Lucy and I have matching toe nails

Instants: Press buttons and hear funny noises! Chewbacca and Yeeeah! and Youarepirate are among my faves. Thanks to Jen O. for the link. Jen polluted the air all weekend with hot dog fumes.

Archie Comics on Facebook: Why I waited so long to join that page is beyond me.

My sister is traveling right now, and I feel lost without her on Google chat.

Shit My Kids Ruined: Peanut butter handprints. Microwaved Thomas the Tank Engine. Paint can down the carpeted stairs. Best site EVER.

Smashed Ontario red potatoes with olive oil, sea salt, pepper and parmeasan cheese. I'm launching a food section on the site this week!

Bunny in a hole! The highlight of Friday's zoo trip, according to Alice.

Knock-Off Wood: From a SAHM with expensive tastes and no money comes a HUGELY popular site of step-by-step directions to make a plethora of wood furniture. Absolutely amazing. And free!

Ugliest Tattoos — Gallery of Regrets: The Internet’s most hilarious and stupid tattoos.

This weekend I ate (chicken) sausage on a bun for the first time. Why didn’t any of you force me to do this YEARS ago? Slathered in ketchup, sweet-with-heat mustard and relish? Deeeelish.

They did this all weekend. *swoon!*

Monday afternoon. We were both in heaven. Don't judge.

Failbook: Funny Facebook status messages.

In a half hour, I have to pick up Lucy for a hair cut. Then we zip across town to pick up Alice. Home for a quick dinner. Eric arrives to take Lucy to ballet, while I stay with Alice and get her to bed. At 7:30 p.m. 10 people from my volunteer group arrive for a meeting.

My best girl friends and I are headed to the family cottage in just four weeks. I think a countdown is in order, hmmmm?

Alice is THE most affectionate baby. She hugged everyone all weekend long. I drank from that personalized glass (courtesy of this fine lady) all weekend long. T’was good times.

Alice blinks and smiles when she sees the camera. Lucy was distracted by, oh, fluff, probably. I was trying to see out my diva sun hat. Eric is...amused. Family Photo May 2010!

Last Monday I told Eric I was feeling intermittent dizziness.

Tuesday I told my business partner, Kirsty, my vision was blurring, and dizziness increasing.

Wednesday afternoon I was flat out on the couch, unable to sit, stand or walk without feeling like I was on the Tilt a Whirl at the fair. Or suffering from a wicked ass hangover without a drink passing my lips. The world spun. I was nauseous when my eyes were open, and crashed into walls when walking. I could not even think about picking up Lucy or Alice, or driving the car. Eric had to come home early.

A visit to a walk-in clinic revealed a viral inner ear infection. “Wait it out,” Dr. S said after tapping my joints and listening to my organs to make sure I wasn’t dying from some rare neurological disease (or a stroke, as I was honestly worried about, what with three of the five early warning signs).

On the couch or in bed I remained for the next two days, while Eric, and then my parents, looked after the girls. It took until Saturday afternoon to feel any semblance of normal.

Do you ever feel guilty when you’re sick? Even though I was completely justified in being prostrate for three days, popping Gravol and Advil like candy, I felt…bad watching Eric do everything. Helpless. Lucy was very frustrated that I wasn’t involved in bedtime or couldn’t even sit to watch a movie with her. Alice didn’t care as much, or couldn’t articulate it in the same way, although she did keep toddling over to me and laying her head down on my pillow for smooches.

Both Eric and I have single parents in our families, and I think last week gave us a whole new respect for them. Sure, we’ve had days before when one of us has been away or working late, but having one of us completely unable to function was a new and harsh experience. I can’t even imagine having to do baths or cook feeling the way I felt.

To all the single parents out there: You rock.

(And special extra thanks to my hubby and parents for helping when our family needed it most.)

The four of us are in the basement.

The girls chase balls from the Ball Popper and fight over the Little People bus and giggle. I lounge in the big padded chair, legs dangling, while Eric sprawls on the floor twirling a plastic orange.

Mash-ups fill the air. Do any of you watch Glee? Did you see the episode where the girls sang Halo/Walking on Sunshine and the guys sang It’s My Life/My Confessions? We’d heard mash-ups before, but became obsessed after that episode. Now hundreds mark our playlists.

On came Earth, Wind Fire vs. Flo Rida: Low Let’s Groove Tonight. A perfect mix of old and new.

Eric and I’s eyes meet across the room. Both our heads are bopping in time to the beat, and I know we are both physically present in the room, but back on the dance floor where we first met and spent almost every weekend our first two years together. Bass thumping, laser lights flickering, sweat, drinks, seemingly never-ended nights of craziness, early morning breakfasts at Golden Griddle.

We share a moment, a secret smile while the girls whirl around us.

There is our life now, our most precious and exasperating children, snuggly and half-deaf dog, forever home and work we never anticipated.

But before it all there was just us. I love this history that anchors our marriage, that gives context and meaning and foundation.

Lucy bodychecks Alice away from a tower of blocks, and tandem screeching wrenches us back into the moment.

Another snippet of life remembered and written.

My friend Jodi had a beautiful baby boy this weekend named Gavin.

Jodi and I both studied journalism and were floormates at Ryerson, and have stayed close since. We don’t see each other much, but usually email once a month, and she is a regular reader of this site. For as long as I’ve known her, she was never sure she wanted children. So when she announced she was was pregnant, most of us were shocked and incredibly tickled. It’s been such a pleasure to watch her grow these past months.

Jodi’s husband Brad shared this photo on Facebook over the weekend, and it hasn’t strayed far from my mind since I saw it Sunday.

You all probably know that look as well as I do. That’s the first look of love when you hold your minutes-old baby in your arms. There is no duplicating it. There is no faking it. That is pure, raw love.

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This morning as I tidied the house, I started absentmindedly sorting toys. Alice has started growing out of those soft, small stuffies and plastic rings, gravitating more towards larger, louder, more interactive toys. I’ve started a pile to sell/donate, and a pile to keep for family and friends’ babies.

The last time I packed toys away, I knew they would be played with again in our house. We knew we were not finished having kids, that there was one more wee McDougall-Foster to bring into this world.

But this time. Today. Today it slammed into me that we are done. Really, truly done. I will never be pregnant again. I will never breastfeed again. I will never carry a teeny being inside a pouch slung across my chest again. Those newborn coos and wails will never reverberate off our walls.

I will never have that look of new love again.

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The Gentle Vasectomy Clinic called today. It’s been almost two weeks, and they have yet to receive Eric’s results. Receptionist Brian — who 11 weeks ago candidly demonstrated how to put a numbing patch on my husband’s testicles — is now on their trail.

We are anxious and excited.

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My friend Carolyn once said when you are done having children, you must mourn for the babies you will never have. That always rang true, and I understood it from a practical level. But today the process has started.

I honestly do not want more kids. My capacity — emotionally, physically, financially — has been reached, good and bad. Our family feels right and complete.

And I’m OK with that.

But it doesn’t mean it can’t ache once in a while.