Breathing in, Breathing out

It's been a whirlwind of a holiday, like it always is. I finished work, and thought that I'd have a small space of time, carved out, for me. An hour of one's own, so to speak, and there just wasn't enough there. We're a family of four, there's just always so much to do. I shopped, I planned, I baked, I cleaned, I wrapped and then I packed at at 9am on Boxing Day we were all loaded in the car, on our way to the grandparents. (By the skin of our teeth, given we'd found the car with a dead battery at 8:45am. But that's a whole 'nother story.)

Christmas was nice. It was very nice. Despite the first wake up call at 5:40, we did stay in bed until 7am. Stockings were unpacked, breakfast was eaten, and presents were unwrapped to the delight of the five year old, and the delight (and confusion) of the 20 month old. It's getting harder to buy The Boy things -- the brain of a nine year old and the body / maturity of a five year old makes it tough. Books are pretty easy, and we got a few of those. But the electronics set from his grandparents is fantastic for his brain, but not so much for his sense of being careful and his dexterity; the game his dad bought is great for the two of them but not one The Boy can play with his friends when they come by.

(Embarrassing moment for me: we had a friend of The Boy's around on Christmas Eve, and he came into the living room to admire the hanging stockings, and then asked which one was The Boy's .. and I said, with some surprise in my voice, "Well, the one with his NAME on it ... " without remembering that not all five year olds can read, you idiot and I felt like a nasty nasty woman.)

The Girl received a new baby! And a baby bed! and a baby stroller! But while those were all very favourably received (the stroller especially), the biggest hit of the season was the tiny stuffed Elmo that I found as a last minute stocking stuffer, thinking, Oh, How cute this will look at the top of the stocking, it's like $5 and it'll be about $5 worth of fun (i.e. an hour or two). But oh NO! The red muppet now goes everywhere, and we have to refer to him as such when he's not in the room so she doesn't go completely nuts wanting him.

We spent four days with my parents in Hometown. Hometown is a place where I lived for 24 years, and the last six I spent fervently wishing I wasn't. As soon as I was able, I left, and I didn't look back. Over the past five years, I've grown to appreciate Hometown a fair amount, but this trip I realized I really, really MISS it. And I wish I could move back. I've thought over the past five years that it would be a great place to live, but not for me; now I just look at the houses and wish I could move right in, and drive to this place and that place with more regularity. Mostly I just wish I could see my parents more often, for less time. A dinner here and there, an afternoon at the pool. You know. It would make parenting just a whole lot less burdensome and much more fun. And I miss them, too.

I came home with the kids last night, alone -- The Man having gone to visit a friend -- in the pelting rain and fog, driving along highways with large semis that doused the windshield with rain each time they passed. I drove fervently wishing The Girl would stay awake for the 45 minutes past her bedtime we drove in the dark. We got home to a cold house, anxious cats, and I put the children to bed and tried to breathe, to sit and be still for once, after the chaos of Christmas prep and travel and relations and presents and children who have eaten too many cookies and not much else.

This morning dawned far too early, and I took the kids to care, came home. The house was messy. But quiet. I cleaned. I tidied. And I'm sitting.

Finally.

With time to think.

2011 was an interesting year. I started it on maternity leave. My son turned five. I went back to work, my daughter turned one. My son went to kindergarten. It's been a year of big changes and messing up of old routines and attemptings to settle into new ones. Upheaval. Some of it good, in the end. Some of it not so much.

I don't put much stock in New Year's resolutions. But I'd like to think that 2012 will be the year that things get smoother. That we finally find a way to move forward -- personally. Professionally. Financially. The kids are settled into their places, one in school and one in care, and now I want to take a breath, a moment, and look at where I want to be in five years, and figure out how to get there. To remember that I can take it slowly, but that planning and thinking, wishing, and making big dreams is all worthwhile.

Will we get there? Maybe not. But I want 2012 to be the year that I think Yeah. Maybe that. The year that I take a moment to breathe, to think, to reflect, and to march onwards to better things.

It's true. You can make a gun our of anything.

One of the things I wanted to do on all this time off was to spend time with my children. Alone, preferably, especially with The Boy, with whom I never get to spend time alone. So we did that today. Got up, got The Girl ready, dropped her off, and came home.

We played games -- Uno, Clue, Chutes and Ladders. We wrestled. We went out to lunch. We played at lunchtime with the crayons provided. (He's five. We go to restaurants that provide crayons.) We came home, we made paper snowflakes and then watched a Christmas show together. During the day I also cleaned the kitchen and made dinner, did a load of laundry and registered both kids for gymnastics in January.

I felt like super mom.

We came home later in the afternoon, with The Girl, and I sat on the floor with her and played with her shape sorter (something that has justclicked for her, like that, and she is now all over it.) And The Boy came by making flying / shooting sounds. With the snowflake. Folded.

"It's a MONSTER, mom!" he enthused. "And when you damage it, it goes like THIS." He unfolds it to its biggest, making accompanying ferocious noises.

I read the apocryphal tale about the parents who wouldn't let their little boy have gun toys, and he bit his toast into a gun and pretended to shoot them. And now, you know, I figure that kid's a rank amateur. Toast is toast. It's a blank slate. My kid took a snowflake, a symbol of peaceful winter tranquility, and made it into war. That takes talent.


Or so I will keep telling myself, so as not to think too hard about this.

Ho Ho Holidays

I reserved the last two weeks of my vacation for Christmas time, and so Friday was my last day of work until JANUARY 5th, people. Ask me how excited I am. Go on, ask me. YES. VERY.

I'd like to say that I have weeks of family merriment planned, or at least a whole lot of spa time for me, but the fact is, as I said to a colleague yesterday, that I AM CHRISTMAS. As in, I think The Man is buying me a gift, but the rest -- the kids, the extended family, The Man, me, the groceries, the baking -- well, it's all up to me. So the next week at least will be shopping, cleaning, wrapping, baking, meal planning and grocery purchasing. But a change is as good as a rest, right?

I read the other day another mother blogger complaining about how December makes her feel blue, because it's all up to her, to make this Christmas magic happen. I was surprised. Maybe I'm weird, but I'm actually kind of excited about making my family happy on Christmas morning. (At least, I hope they will be.) But I admit: ask me again next year, when for whatever reason I don't have the time to plan and execute Christmas. Maybe then I'll be unhappy and resentful that I have to do it. But in the meantime, I walk around with a little smile on my face, thinking of next week's few days when I get to shop, and wrap, and prepare, so that on Christmas morning, their faces light up.

* * * *

So much is new that it's hard to know where to start with writing. My son is flourishing in kindergarten. He had his first report card and we had our first parent teacher interviews, and we were beaming with pride through the whole thing, newbies that we are. He is excelling in academia, which is no surprise, but was also commended on his maturity, his problem solving, his winning ways with friends, which was nice to hear. Not terribly surprising, I do watch him after all. But still.

We spent the parent teacher interview, though, not discussing kindergarten -- he loves it, he's doing great, no one has any concerns, moving on! -- but about next year. About What To Do. I mean, he's kind of covered math, science, and reading for probably grade two or so (he's started learning division. In his head.) We've all noticed that the one thing he dislikes in school is the repetition; he doesn't want to learn fundamentals of addition when he can multiply in his head. He's still young enough that when I ask about it, he just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and says "easy peasy lemon SQUEEZY, mom." But what about next year, when it's the same stuff all over again? And then the next?

One of the questions I asked was if they thought he was mature enough to handle acceleration, and they allowed as how that yes, they thought he could handle it. So now I'm wondering if, when he has to change schools next year, if right then he should just head straight into grade two. I mean, skipping is hard when you have a peer group; without one, maybe easier. Recently in conversation with a friend, I found out she has connections with one of the consultants for the gifted program in our local school district, so she's going to put us in touch in the new year. To discuss, to think about options. To plan.

But who knows. He's happy now, and matter how you slice it, his being happy has been all we've ever sought, all we continue to seek. The acceleration, special programs, alternative schools -- all just so he doesn't dread going to school each morning. And if he doesn't, well ... then we don't really need to worry. I guess we'll just play out the year, and see where next year takes us.

* * * *

The Girl is now 19 months, and talking and ... well, being a toddler. She walks, runs, climbs, likes to try to jump, squeals with laughter and frustration, talks in two word sentences and is working on more, loves her mama and her daddy and her Naynee -- she nicknamed her brother, but no one else -- and has made friends with two or three of the kids in her daycare, and calls them by name. She flourishes, bringing emotional wreckage wherever she goes, as is appropriate for the age.

Some of her best words include "yogik" for yogurt. She eats like a bird, but can eat her weight in mandarin oranges. She continues to love her Baybees, and has started liking to draw as well. Or rather, scribble on paper. She's finally discovered books, but doesn't have much patience with them. As in, she can sit through a few readings, but only a few. Which may well be normal, but her brother could sit through lengthy readings of picture books for hours (literally) at this age, so. But I'm not comparing. Really.

I recently went and got her hair cut, her little wisps tamed into a tiny toddler bob. She, like her brother, is not blessed follicularly (is that a word?) and continues to have very fine, thin hair that doesn't grow much in the front half of her head. I'm not terribly worried -- by the time he was two, The Boy had decent hair, and by three he had as much hair as any kid. Now at five he's got a whole lot of thick hair. So perhaps she will too. But all in all, hair or no hair, she's delightful and maddening and gorgeous and fun and I just can't wait to see what she does next.

* * * *

They are exhausting, they are busy, they demand a lot. I am tired, I am in need of some serious alone time. But I am so, so lucky.

My office has changed a lot since I started. It used to be filled with people my age, and we were all having children. Now, while there are still some people my age, and some older, more of them are younger. Two are getting married this summer, another two are almost affianced. All have admitted they are looking to have children. One of them I speak with more often spoke to me this week of another colleague across the organization, a man who has a severely autistic son. He and his wife aren't having any more; having this one has affected their lives so much, they can't handle another child. She admits to me that she's pretty scared of having kids, of having that happen. And I said yes, I was too. That being pregnant with the first was very scary, with the second no less so, from that point of view. To my credit, I didn't actually worry about it too much -- there's nothing you can do, after all -- but it's there. What if, what if, what if?


It's clear by now that my son is not autistic. Nor has other neurological issues, at least those as evidenced by five years old. My daughter similarly. We see so much bad news these days that it feels very much that I got a lucky roll of the dice, twice, and what a sigh of relief that brings. But the fact is that these things, albeit more common, are still pretty rare.

But that doesn't stop me from being grateful and counting my blessings, all the same.

* * * *

One of the recent changes at work has meant that the position above mine as just come open and available. I'm humming. And hawing. And thinking. The position itself isn't that interesting to me, but it's serious career advancement -- management experience, overseeing internal operations of a 12 person team. I'll still get to write. But not nearly as much. I won't be the writer any more, won't have that as my title.

But I'm still considering applying. It's good career experience, and now that the kids are here, I had planned on doing more with my own career. No matter where I go in future, good career experience will be helpful, as will a long record of promotions.

And the fact is that as much as my title says "Senior Writer", I do very very little writing any more. I'm more like "Senior Editor", which is fine, but it's not writing, nor is it -- importantly -- the kind of editing I'd like to do. I like editing. I am considering doing more editing in my future career. But this editing-under-the-guise-of-writing, no time for actual writing, no time for creativity, just churn out someone else's stuff (or my own, from years ago, recycled) and hope for the best ... well, it's mind-numbing.

There's a possibility that this new position will allow me to still continue to write -- and what's more, to write the stuff I *want* to write, and to delegate the rest. And so that, combined with the added responsibility and experience and stuff ... well. Maybe it will be worth it. Plus ... maybe if I'm not editing all day, I might have the mental energy to write more at home. Here, or privately, which is something I've wanted to do for such a long time.

I'll still miss having "Writer" as my title though. That was a cool eight years.

* * * *

Anyway. The kids are calling, the morning has begun, and I need to get going. There's coffee to be drunk here, people, and it's not going to drink itself.

If I don't get back here again, happy holidays.

Respite of clean

A brief respite of time, made possible by a playmate and an independent toddler, for all of five minutes. I had a week at the end of which I felt coated in emotional toxicity, and I don't think it's a coincidence that I have so far spent all weekend clearing things out of my house. I feel somehow cleansed, and it is a good physically exhausted feeling. I am almost, almost ready for Christmas, now that some of the old year's detritus has moved on. 2011 has brought some disastrous things for people around me, and hasn't entirely been smooth sailing here either, and it feels so much like a new start that I feel somehow certain that 2012 will be a good change.

Day to day

This morning I watched the sun rise. It's a nice day, clear skies, sunny, so the sunrise was pretty nice. And it wasn't exactly super early, either. Sunrise somewhere around 7 or 7:30. But I'd been up for an hour already, and awake since 6am, so it honestly felt like the sun was getting a good lie in.

I'm sick this week with a cold. Not a bad one, yet, I guess -- I can still breathe and function, but I'm tired and my sinuses hurt and my throat feels awful first thing in the morning. I made a big pot of tea and intend to just keep filling it all day. You see, The Man is away on yet another business trip, so I'm solo parenting all day. Well no. He gets in at 4, I think. But between luggage and travel and possible delays, and bedtime at 7, let's face it: in terms of kids, I'm alone all day.

I'm getting used to the travel. I used to dread it. Bedtime alone! With two kids! And then forget sleeping well. Every single noise I'd wake up. Was one of the kids awake? What were the cats doing? WAS THAT SOMEONE IN MY YARD?! And now -- maybe it's the cold -- I'm all "screw this. SLEEEEEEEEEPPPPP" And the kids are better at bedtime. Or rather, The Boy is. Instead of yelling for me juuuussst as The Girl is dropping off and thus waking her and then having to start the whole process again, he can wait until she's sleeping just reading his books. It's fantastic. I love five.

This weekend I need to -- along with all sorts of other things -- do some volunteer work for the daycare, and I have a big week at work, and I really do need to be well rested for all of it, and that just doesn't seem likely.

But instead of concentrating on the negatives, I will try to keep in mind the positives: that my two kids are delightful. That they are healthy. That we have lots of yummy food to eat. And a warm house. With a fireplace. And that yesterday's snow has melted.

And you never know. By Monday, maybe I'll have had enough ruminating time that that proposal will just write itself.

So here's the thing

I haven't written a decent email to anyone in months. Literally. Months. Any by "anyone" I mean in my personal life. I write decent emails at work, I suppose, but they are pretty uninteresting and kind of short, and let's face it, they don't count. But the fact is that I don't sit down and type anymore, probably because at the end of some days, that's just too much energy exertion. Yes, I know, that sounds unbelievably lame. But here's the thing: being a mother to two small kids is the most exhausting thing I've ever done. And some days, it's all I can do to just stay awake past 8pm. And many days? I don't even do that.

* * * *

It's interesting, actually. Being this exhausted actually made me realize how much better I feel than I used to. I've been eating gluten free for almost three years now. Six and a half years ago -- before children and pregnancy -- I used to come home at the end of the week and barely make it through a Friday night engagement. Now I'm still asleep mid-evening on Fridays, but I have two children. Clearly, somehow, I have a LOT more energy.

* * * *

Yesterday we took the kids to the pool. An hour later, I remembered why we only do it twice a year. Because it takes me that long to recover.

I kid, but I'm kind of serious. It took The Girl an hour to touch the water without screaming; within 10 minutes of her finally being ok with it, The Boy was whining and weeping with exhaustion and cold (he has no body fat. None. An hour in a pool takes a huge amount of energy to stay warm for him, and by lunchtime he's a weepy mess.)

We went out for pho afterwards, at a tiny hole in the wall cafe around the corner, the only white people in the place. It was pouring rain outside, the windows were steamy, the kids ate ravenously, and then we all went home and laid in bed.

Later that afternoon we lit a fire, and played in the living room. The Boy talked about how much fun the pool had been. The Girl nodded in agreement when we said we'd go back. I guess it's good that their childhood memories will be the fun in the river part of the pool, the hot soup, the fire place fire with the rain outside. Not the tears.

I'm sure I'll remember it that way too. And as much as I'm exhausted at the end of the day, one day I'll look back and wish they were tiny again.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Why, yes, I am still alive, thank you for asking!

I haven't had a lot to say that's even remotely interesting -- I've written a few posts that I've immediately erased, to be honest, because reading over them bores even me. And it's my life for pete's sake.

So! Happy Thanksgiving to Canadians! I hope you had a nice one. We watched football and ate turkey, so I think we've pretty much covered the stereotypes.

The football isn't usual for us -- Friday morning at work The Man texted to say his company was given a mess of tickets to the BC Lions game on Saturday night, and should we go? And take The Boy? And we kinda hummed and hawed over it, because -- well, we're not big fans, AND it was after bedtime AND The Boy has never seen a game, but in the end were all hey, they are free tickets and we've never been and a live game is usually awesome fun even if you're not a fan. Which was true. The kid wasn't really able to sit still at all, and I had NO idea what was going on most of the time, but it was fun and I'm glad we went.

True story: I must be Canadian because while I have no trouble following the tiny puck around the ice in televised or live hockey games, there were many many times the other night that I had NO FREAKING CLUE where the ball was. I mean, sure, just look at the largest group of guys, that's usually it, but ... yeah. I was amused by my obvious deficiency.

What else is new? not much. The kids have both had a couple colds -- god I just LOVE back to school!! -- and they both regularly flip back and forth between I LOVE DAYCARE / SCHOOL!! and I HATE DAYCARE / SCHOOL!!! NOOOOOOO!! DON'T MAKE ME GOOOOOOO!!! which is always fun. The Girl is still being as girly as possible -- she demands lotion for her little hands as often as she thinks of it (she is a very well moisturized child) and I'm sure that in my future there will be a horrifying discovery of lotion over every available surface in a given room, but as of yet all the dispensers are out of her reach, THANK GOD. Her face lights up every time I let her wear the shiny gold shoes someone gave her as a gift, and she happily click-clacks around the house in them for a good twenty minutes before she moves on to something else, and admires herself in the mirror. I've picked out a new baby doll for her for Christmas, one with diapers that can be changed and clothes that can be taken on and off, and various other accessories including a bed, because a few weeks ago at daycare I stayed with her and watched her take her own baby (with her always!) to the wee cradle, tuck her in beside the daycare babies, cover them with a blanket (and a pat!) and rock them to sleep, and then go clean the daycare play kitchen. I kid you not.

I mean, sure, soon thereafter she went back to the cradle and yanked the dollies out by the hair and threw them on the ground, which I assume is not going to be part of her future childcare routine, but watching that first part was truly surreal.

The Boy is a true kindergartener, and is getting along well. His teachers have told me they've noticed he's a bright one ("he corrects me when I read things wrong!" "He told me all about pollution and nitrogen in the air!") but also tell me he gets along well with his peers, which is good. He himself tells me that he loves kindergarten, except for the "paperwork" which is the only time they do stuff that is similar to the regular classroom work he'll be doing for the next 12 years. He hates that part. I think mostly because it doesn't come easy to him, he actually has to learn it, and practice it and a.) he's had a lot of other things come very easily to him and b.) he's a perfectionist, so this whole "I can't do it perfectly instantly" thing is really a big deal to him. I'm trying to be patient and encouraging, but holy hell it's hard not to be frustrated and kind of concerned about it. But ... you know, there's only so much I can do, right? Anyway, he is happy for the most part, so that's something. Something pretty important.

It's all the more wondrous to me that he can spend hours at a time on the iPad playing a game over and over and over again until he's actually quite good at it, but the idea of practicing letters until he's good at those is horrifying to him. But you know, nowadays people actually make a reasonable salary playing video games for money, so unlike those cautionary tales of old, encouraging him to be good at this is probably not a bad idea.

Oh! And I also realized while I was on the stereotype fling with my daughter that my son is pretty typecast as well -- a friend of mine's two boys have every appearance of being the solid jock set, but both have lovely quirky traits (one is REALLY into Disney princesses, for instance) that give them such lovely complexities. My son is somehow the superhero / comic / video game kid, and while this is not entirely surprising to me given his family (and of course not at all upsetting), I wonder how I managed to birth such very model children (model not as in perfect, but as in moulded / typecast.)

I then almost wrote that I sure hope my kids surprise me one day and thought ... yeah, no. I don't hope so, to be honest. I mean, becoming a Republican might be more than I can stand.

The Boy got his very first school photos the other day and I of course bought the entirety of the set. They have this very clever set up now, different from when I was a kid when you brought the order form home first and your parents were all "meh, we'll just get a couple 5x7's for the grandparents!"and paid just for those. NOW they take the photos and send home the whole package of your kid looking FREAKING ADORABLE and then tell you that the entirety is this One! Low! Price! And how can you send back the rest?! I mean, please, I am not made of stone here people. In any case, I was both enamoured of the photos and delighted that through no effort besides cheque writing on my part, I had Christmas gifts covered for grandparents and aunts / uncles / cousins alike, so woo-hoo!

THAT in turn led me to create a Christmas gift list on my iPhone and I now have plans in motion to order most of it online this month so that the two weeks holiday I have planned over the holidays actually IS holiday and not the usual mad crush of frantic activity trying to get things bought / wrapped / baked all the while visiting family in far flung locations. Wish me luck.

Annnnd that's pretty much the fall wrapped up for you, in a nice neat package with a bow. See you in January!

The first weekend

I realized this week, sometime in the middle of the night, that as hard as it has been to get to work on time for the past four and a half years that I've made the daycare-work run, that suddenly THIS year, I need to get the KID to school on time. My workplace, bless them, turned a blind eye to my coming in an hour late or even an hour and a half as long as my work got done. I was only inconveniencing myself, for the most part, by ensuring that I had to pull stuff together at nap time over the weekend. (Or more often, work like a mo-fo when I WAS there.)

But now I need to get the kid to school on time, which has effectively solved my getting to work late problem. But instead of just inconveniencing only me when I'm late, I'm now affecting my kid AND his class if he's late.

So my new morning routine is not to sleep in one tiny minute, and to just not sit down for a single second for the hour I'm home in the morning. It goes like this:

getupgotothebathroommakecoffeemakebreakfastforthreekidseatbreakfastandoverseetwokidseatingbreakfastshowerwashhairandbodydryoffpickoutfitgetdressedfixhairandmakeupifIhavetimemakethreelunchesfindcoatsandshoesanddaycareorschoolsuppliesherdtwochildrenintothecaranddrive.

And the best news? I get to do this every school morning for the next, oh, ELEVEN YEARS.

Oh. Weekends. Oh my how nice you are when I get to sit down.

Oh my Milestones!

We went to my parents' early this week. Or late last. One morning my mother drove us out to a nearby farm for produce -- mostly corn, this time of year -- and on the way back, a 20 minute drive, my son got bored and started playing with his loose tooth. Just as we were pulling on the off-ramp of the highway, he said, all casual-like, "Hey, I just pulled out my tooth!"

And just like that, my baby was gone.

He started kindergarten this morning. He's ready. He's SO ready. He's been waiting for this for a month, he's excited and psyched and so, so pleased to be there. It was just a couple hours, time for a story in story time and some outside play and a snack -- nothing he hadn't done before -- but it was different.

There's just something else that has changed, you know? He wears jeans and huge sneakers and has a new haircut and there's a hole in his mouth. He has homework! (Guess how old the teacher is!) He has a backpack in his cubby for his things.

My baby.

Hard to believe.

Even harder to believe is that I managed not to cry when I left him there for the first time. Really.

Almost the end

For four years now, I have left work, hopped in my car, and drove five whole minutes to the daycare to pick up my son. For four years, it's been my favourite part of the day. When he was a toddler, he'd run over to me, covered in smiles, shouting my name. (sometimes my actual name, because he had sussed out that everyone had a mama, and no one else had a myname.)

I went to years and years of parent meetings and daycare potlucks. I emptied and filled cubbies and water bottles, enjoyed and endured small talk with other parents (mostly the former, thankfully!). We went from one centre to another, talked about friends and friend mishaps and joys and sorrows. I've picked him up happy and found him, once, on the couch sobbing "mama! mama!" which nearly broke my heart. The caregivers and teachers became friends, and in some circumstances were a lifeline, a resource, when I needed to talk and figure out this thing called parenting. It's been an amazing experience, because the daycare was such a great place for him: the most amazing part has been watching my shy, unsure, book-loving toddler morph into a confident, happy, outgoing boy.

Today I am home baking cupcakes. For his goodbye day. Tomorrow is his last day, and next week he starts kindergarten orientation.

Truth be told he's still going to almost the same place. He's going to the private kindergarten offered by the same organization, which means I will still pick him up five minutes from my office, around the same culdesac. I will drive by his old daycare twice a day, every day.

But it still feels like a huge freaking deal. And I am feeling sad, like I am losing something, like something is being left behind. A milestone reached, and overcome, and passed into memory.

And yet at the same time, I am kind of excited -- he's my first born, my first baby, and he's grown and changed so much from the big fat baby into a long lanky boy with messy hair and his first loose tooth. He still has the same big brown eyes, and now he talks non-stop, with new ideas and things he thinks are funny, and I just can't wait to see what my wonderful 5-and-a-half year old will do next.

You know, besides singing me a song about doo-doo, and laughing uproariously.

Nursing gymnastics

So apparently there's an international nursing symbol. This:

And then there's the international symbol for nursing a toddler:

And ... oh, but it's true.

See, I'm still nursing my daughter. She's 15 months. A toddler. When we go to bed at night, I lie with her on the bed. I'm on my left side, she is on her right, to my left. (Yes, always. She has a preference. I will not even mention what this has done to my bustline.) She nurses like that for a minute. Maybe a minute and a half. Then she heaves her little body up on top of mine, so she is lying on me, I'm flat on my back, she's now looking at where she was lying. I am not allowed to touch her at this point. If I put my hands on her body, even to steady her, she lifts her head, finds my hands, and pushes them away. I don't have to tell you that this is not pleasant for me.

Sometimes in this position, she lifts her right leg, twisting around in a way that would make my yoga teacher very proud. It's detoxifying!

Lately she then moves from the top lying position back over to my left side, but she arranges herself at a 45 degree angle, lying length wise down my left arm, on her belly. Got that? I can't even draw it for you. Her head on my shoulder, her feet at my hand.

Should I let you know here that she does all of this without delatching?

Because she does.

And then? For the next twenty minutes, she switches back and forth between these positions every minute or two. You may think I am exaggerating; I am not. Up. Down. On the arm. Off the arm. Do not touch me mother. You are just the vessel, you must just lie quietly.

Sometimes, when she gets bored, she plays. She bites softly, and giggles. And is puzzled when I get mad. It's fun! Really!

There are times I think this is not worthwhile, let me tell you.

But.

For the times when she's sick, when she won't eat due to teething, when she needs the comfort and the closeness, for when I need the same, it's incomparable. She reaches up, touches my face, looks into my eyes. Smiles. Pats my chin to make sure I'm still there. It brings us together after we've been a part, and is probably the only way I can cope with being separated from such a tiny thing for so long at work.

And despite feeling like a jungle gym, it's so, so worth it.

It's not a vacation when there are children

Last week we were on vacation. Kind of. Sort of. Kind of in the way that there was a weekend, and then Monday. We took the kids to daycare. I got my hair done (wheee!) and we had lunch, but then I went to work due to a deadline, and The Man went home to pack, clean, cook, shop, and get us prepared for the trip.

Monday evening we put the kids to bed and tried frantically to get ourselves finalized, when The Girl woke up with That Cough. You know, the seal-barking, fever-accompanied CROUP cough. She tossed and turned and coughed all night, a burning hot little body near mine.

We called the airline the next morning, and they very kindly changed our tickets from 10am Tuesday to 10am Wednesday, but cheerfully charged us an arm and a leg to do so.

We medicated, rocked, soothed, and comforted. We packed some more.

We left Wednesday, still ill. Still sneezing and needing immediate kleenex, OMG ew. We organized The Boy and The Girl on the airplane with books! and toys! and babies! and snacks! and an iPad! and sat back and endured 1.5 hours of airplane, got a rental car, drove three hours (through which The Girl, mercifully, slept).

And then there were grandparents. The next day, cousins and aunt and uncle. And there were beds to be made and children to feed and soothe when cousins didn't want to play, and clothes to clean and naps to procure and safety to oversee. There was a girl child who still was sick and not sleeping and a boy child who couldn't quite keep up and who doesn't enjoy the same outdoor pursuits as his cousins, and there was a grandma who didn't know that bedtime was 7pm and that dinner at 7:15 would throw a spanner in the works, to say the least. (Or rather, it just meant that I fed one kid early, coped with a really overtired kid the next day, and didn't get any dinner.) There were games to play and acreage to explore, and swings to build. I played basketball for the first time in 15 years or more.

On the way back there was much screaming on the flight, to the delight of my fellow passengers.

Tomorrow we are taking them both to daycare, and I feel immensely guilty about it. But Oh My Lord, it's two days, two days of not having to constantly be on for someone else's needs, two days of the year when it's just us, which we haven't had since April of 2010. So.

Vacation.

Two days, but I'll take it.

The latest in femininity

I am always on the lookout for new shoes that fit my daughter, she of the tiny feet and difficulty with hard soles. So when I was out for a walk the other day I went in to a nearby (really really expensive) baby store to see what they had, and was pleased to find two brands I hadn't seen before, with soft soles, in her size.

My daughter was with me, sitting in the stroller, and when she saw I had picked up the BOX of shoes -- how she knew what was in it, I have no idea -- she immediately started pulling off her own shoes and socks, saying "shooz! shooz!" She held up her foot for me to try them on.

I obliged, of course -- I mean, I was thinking of buying them, after all. And once on, she held up her foot, twisting it this way and that to admire the new footwear. She cooed over them. The saleslady was agog.

"It starts this early, does it?" she asked.

"Apparently," I replied.

Thankfully, at least this time, there were no temper tantrums when we left the store new-shoe-less.

Femininity

My daughter learned two new words yesterday: airplane! and truck! and she said them every time she heard said item pass our house last night. It was either a very busy night or we're just completely used to the number of large transport vehicles pass our place.

As a side note, seeing the delight on her face when she gets something right is just melt-worthy.

* * * * * *

The Man took The Girl out to the store on his own over the weekend. "She needs shoes," I said. "Soft-soled ones." She has foot issues -- the tiniest feet ever known on a 15-month-old, and obvious trouble with hard soled shoes. (As an aside, every single woman I have ever mentioned this to has gasped in delight and said "But that's GREAT! She'll get all the CUTE SHOES! On SALE!")

He arrived home with a pair of pink Mary-Janes, complete with decorative holes, which are completely impractical for daycare, given her predilection for sand and water, but are of course adorable. I kinda rolled my eyes, because it seems so daddy-like, you know? To buy her pretty things? And the fact is she can wear them a lot -- home, and inside daycare. So it's not like they are useless.

What's even more fun is how much SHE loves them. The next morning they were the first thing she asked for, and she wore them around all day, for part of it in her diaper. Diaper and pretty shoes. So. Yeah. It's clearly a girl I'm raising. In contrast my son has had a two pairs of shoes for the past six months, a worn out pair of runners and some sandals. I asked him if he wanted new runners, and because it involved going out of the home i.e. away from the computers and books he said no.

Sorry about the stereotypes I'm suggesting here but as I've written before, I live in the house where all stereotypes come true. Look for me to morph into June Cleaver over the coming months. I did find my pearls the other day (while searching for something else).

* * * * * *

Speaking of stereotypes, my daughter has been calmed from upset over the past two days once with a promise of lip balm and once with a promise of lotion. Not just the containers, the actual stuff. I ... I can't even ... Yeah. It's like -- I GET IT, universe. SHE'S A GIRL.

You may wonder why I find all this so surprising, and the reason is this: there's a photo in my old school things of my class from kindergarten. It's a small class. The girls are all in front. The boys are all in the back. The front row is a pretty row of all little dresses. Mostly pink, some frilly. Until the girl in the middle, who is sitting there in worn denim overalls, bright yellow socks and runners.

Which is, obviously, me. Me, a little girl who spent her weekends playing in the garden and climbing trees and playing with Lego and refused -- REFUSED -- to wear dresses for almost her entire growing up life. People, a childhood friend of mine who I hadn't seen in years came to my wedding and was SURPRISED to find me wearing a dress. AT MY OWN WEDDING. THAT'S how much of a tomboy I was. I never owned barbies, I never wore pink, I never wore dresses. I distinctly remember cutting a dress with scissors as a toddler because my mother made me wear it. It was a knit dress. It was ruined.

SO. It's all the more surprising to me that my own daughter wants to wear stuff on her lips and loves lotion and dolls. And disconcerting. I mean, what kind of feminist am I to encourage my daughter to play with babies and wear lip balm at FIFTEEN MONTHS??!

Having said all that?

The other day I was exclaiming over this appearing ultra-femininity to one of the ladies at the daycare, and I commented about how I just didn't understand it! Where had it come from?!

She looked at me in surprise. It was only then that I looked down at my clothing for the day and saw a black pencil skirt, a fitted shirt, a jacket, and heels.

I know. I know. Guess I know who to blame.

And I guess the apple doesn't fall that far from the tree after all.

What I'm thinking today ...

One of the ways I give myself a little "pat on the back" as a "good mother" is by packing my kids' lunchboxes with fresh fruit every day. It feels like the responsible parenting thing to do, you know? All those nice little vitamins and minerals, there's nothing better than fresh fruit. And veggies. But neither will eat those raw. But that's another story. Moving on!

So: fresh fruit! Go mom!

But here's the thing: sometimes, due to time restraints or picky appetites or whatever, the fruit doesn't get eaten. And then by the time it comes home, the nicely cut and washed fruit is often gross and mushy (and, in the case of a hot day and washed raspberries, already molding, I kid you not) and then it's either eaten (by me. on occasion. because God knows the kids won't touch it) or thrown out. And I hate wasting the food.

Enter: the canned fruit, single serving. This has always seemed to me to be such a cop out on lunch. I mean, it requires no effort, it must be, right? REAL mothers cut their childrens' fruit each morning! Not this canned stuff! But survey says that canned fruit is very nearly as nutritionally sound as fresh -- sometimes moreso in winter because the canned stuff is packed when it's at its freshest. And I buy the kind packed in water, not with extra sugar, so that one main concern is negated. And -- what's more -- if the kid in question doesn't get around to eating the fruit, I can just pack it again the next day, no problem at all. No more food wastage! YAY! I mean, that alone is worth a lot of cut fruit, am I right? The added expense of canned fruit is kinda offset through the amount less wasted, I would think.

I really need to get over this mindset, you know? The food is every bit as nutritious, and I don't waste precious time in the morning cutting fruit that I end up throwing away that night. It's a GREAT solution.

(NO, don't talk to me about single serving packages and the environment. It's bad, I know.)

Over emoting

July has been quite a month. Over at Chez Genie we've had some intense discussions around Our Future and What To Do and Where Shall We Go and What Will We Be Doing in Ten Years, due to some job crises and new possibilities, which has been exhausting even though the end result is actually NO CHANGE WHATSOEVER. Which is kind of amusing in and of itself.

If that weren't enough there was a lot of emotional storm going on. The Boy had some meltdowns. The Girl decided she didn't like daycare again, and needed BAYBEE all the time. She hasn't been sleeping as well due to molars, and the weather has been lousy.

One of my personality traits is that I tend to internalize emotion. My own, certainly, but others as well. Two blog posts of people I don't even know had such bad news it knocked the breath out of me and caused me to lose sleep; that's not even counting the two people I know IN REAL LIFE who are facing some of their own worst days. It's NOT my life, it's not even my emotion, but I seem to take it on and live it even so. I tell myself that it's what makes me a decent writer, this ability to slip into someone else's shoes and feelings, but the truth is that some days its just darned inconvenient; I have enough to deal with in my own life without taking on someone else's pain. They didn't ask me to, it doesn't help anyone, and just leaves me reeling in emotional fall out.

Several times this week I've sat in my office or home with a feeling of doom and gloom, a tightening in my stomach and a sick sense of dread, only to try to think about why I'm feeling that way and wondering what's wrong, and then having to repeat to myself "IT'S NOT MY LIFE. IT'S NOT MY LIFE."

This weekend I aim to spend screen free, with a good book, loving on my children and getting lots of hugs and love in return. And I hope that there's peace at the end of it.

Uh Oh. It's a toddler

Yesterday I bought crayons, to feed my daughter's increasing love of colouring. There's crayon on the BAYBEE. On my stove. On the wall. On the floor. And at one time on the back of my leg, when she hiked up my yoga pants and tried to see if "orange-red" would indeed make an impression.

She handed me that crayon afterwards, and said "lellow!". Points given for even naming a colour, kid! But not quite.

Over the course of the day I found her:

* on top of the couch, climbing on the arm
* climbing on the table next to the couch
* trying to climb the coffee table
* climbing on the stool in the kitchen and trying to reach things on the counter
* climbing up onto the seat of the stroller, standing there with a box of cookies I had bought earlier that day.


She said "dankg ooo" when her brother gave her a cookie. She said "bye bye baby!" when we left. She keeps giving us hugs and laughs when her brother plays with her.

The baby, she is all gone now.

And I'm so loving the toddler that I can't begin to be sad about that.

Conversations we actually have

"We have beautiful children."

"I know. They sprang from my loins."

"Fully formed!"

"Unlike how they sprang from YOUR loins."

"Yeah, they were just an idea."

"That they had to pitch to the egg. You know, like a salesman. 'Hey HEY! I've got a nice brown eyed boy here, brown hair, nice tanning skin, pretty smart too. And, let me tell you, WAY better than that blond kid that guy over there is selling.'"

"And the egg is all, 'well, they did say they wanted a smart kid, so ... sure ...'"

"And then the next time, she was all 'No, I have specific orders for a GIRL baby this time, so NO'"

"And there was a sudden cry out from all the male sperm."

"They had protests. 'Male sperm unfairly denied!"

"That's probably why it took so long."

"Yeah. There were little blockades in my uterus. 'HELL NO, WE WON'T GO!!'"

"Until the sexy little redhead came by. 'Hey boys, just let me through, ok?' wink wink"

"And that's how we ended up with a girl who is the most feminine child on the planet."

"Watch out boys!"

Quite clearly missing the fun gene

So today was Annual Team Building Day at Workplace today, so I got to drive my kids to Workplace Daycare and then drive *clear across the city* to go ...

Go-kart racing.

Believe it.

I arrived at 11, alone, the only one who missed the "actually we won't start until 11:15 memo". Watch the safety video, put on a helmet.

Walk out, climb in a lawn mower.

Seriously, the thing started with a pull cord.

And then? We drove around and around for 15 minutes. And I'm ... Bored. I just don't quite get it. By the 15th lap I seriously considered pulling in to the pit and just stopping. I mean ... What the heck is the point?

Anyway. Everyone else loved it. Had a great time.

Started planning for our next time.

But I got off easy. Boring it might have been, but the offered alternative was the Grouse Grind. Every bit as pleasant as it sounds.

(for the uninitiated: http://www.grousemountain.com/grousegrind. My favorite part: "mother nature's stairmaster". Nothing says "team building" like "dying on the side of a mountain.")

My inner weeping feminist

Friday night I found my daughter, as usual, in the daycare garden with all her friends and caregivers. She was playing happily, and I scooped her up and went inside. Near the door was an abandoned "baby" -- a godawful naked plastic thing. The Girl was very excited. "Baybee!" she exclaimed. I obligingly picked it up, absently noting it was a strange place for a toy -- the daycare cleans up pretty well before they go outside, and so the place is often neat as a pin when I get there. I went and checked all the charts -- toileting, eating, sleeping -- crossed her off sign in, grabbed her lunch. She was still holding baby.

"We need to put baby down!" I said cheerily. She obliged.

And then, as she realized that Baybee was going to be left there, the tears began.

"Baybee!" she wept as we said goodbye.

"Baybee!" she wept as we walked to the car.

"Baybee!" she wept as I put her down. She started walking back to the daycare. "BAYBEE!"

I picked her up, assuring her baby would be there Monday.

"Baybee!" she wept in the car. "Up!" as I strapped her in.

I sighed. We went back to the daycare. I am a softie, I spoil my kid. I know.

We picked up the baby. She smiled. My daughter, not the plastic monstrosity.

She was happy all the way home.

Saturday morning we woke up to rain. Lots of rain. Downpour of rain. We had no idea what to do with ourselves. The Boy decided to play with his playdoh. A great idea, since The Girl can join in. But of course the playdoh, long since played with, was rock hard.

We decide to go to the toy emporium for more. Sure, we can make more or rehabilitate the stuff we have, but we need an outing, something fun other than errands, so ... off we go.

And we find the baby aisle. And my daughter went. nuts. "BAYBEEZ! BAYBEEZ! BAYBEEZ!" ad nauseum.

We found a plastic baby. On sale. For $7.

My inner feminist wept.

I know this is such a small deal. Really, it is. A small deal. But coming home from the toystore with a nerf dart gun, a plastic baby (and some playdoh!) feels nothing like how I imagined my parenting to be. I hysterically texted a friend of mine. "It's a slippery slope!" I wrote. "It's only a short step from hideous baby to princess dress and heels and tiara!"

She laughed.

I think. It's hard to tell on text.

But here's the thing. She's SO happy. And so is my son, playing with the dart gun. She took the baby to nap. To play with in the afternoon. And she fell asleep with it close to her. She looked for it when she woke up.

I still don't feel totally right about it. I don't want to enforce genders on my kids. But the fact is that part of parenting is letting them be who they are, without any apologies. She LOVES the baby. He LOVES the dart gun. I ... I have to make my peace with it. I hate the dart gun as much as I hate the ugly baby, but they get to live their own lives.

I just need to love them through it.

I used to be so good at this

Oh. My. God. How long has it been since I was last here? 

Or rather: how is it that my life was still manageable with one child but with two has completely fallen off the rails? Do you know how long it has been since I answered a personal email? DO YOU? Weeks. WEEKS. If not Months. If I owe you an email, I'm sorry.

I said to The Man last night that every single Sunday I get to the end of the day and feel like I should be handed a medal. Because between the start of the day at 7am and the end of it around 9 the two of us do. not. stop. I mean the cleaning! The shopping! The laundry! The dishes! The cooking! oh, and the CHILDREN! For TWO DAYS! Yeah. It's just ... wow. And you know? I'm not complaining, not really. Life is full but full is awesome, and having little kids IS a lot of work, and it's just for a short time (you know. In terms of life length.) and we are SO privileged to have such great kids, such healthy kids, and to have each other and to have good jobs that are flexible. Yeah. Life is very good to us. 

But wow, could I ever use a nap.

My parents called the other night wondering why I hadn't used the cheque they sent for a massage. I laughed. The idea of having time off for a massage! The idea!

And then I wrecked my back carrying a 20 pound baby and 15 pounds of groceries and had a massage last Friday, which was blissful. But less so when one is being massaged for an injury, because it's kind of like someone poking a wound over and over for an hour.

SO. The state of things. So! Much! To! Write! So! Little! Time!

Part of the reason for the craziness is that my daughter has now started walking. And GOING. And expressing her opinion as well, which often involves going OUTSIDE, people, what's UP with being cooped up in his BORING LITTLE HOUSE. She talks, too, and says ... what, 20 words? More every day, and her articulation is pretty awesome too. In no particular order, she can say ...

up

out

off

baby!

mama

dada

hi

bye

eat

berry

cat

juice

uh-oh

yay!

shoes

And a few others that escape my memory. But time is precious! Moving on! Her receptive language is awesome too, so that now I can say stuff to her like "Let's change your diaper" and she'll come with me to where the change table is, or "let's eat" and she'll point at her mouth. If you ask her to touch her head she will, and she knows her fingers and toes and says "boop" when she presses her nose. Or in the vicinity of it.

She still has the world's tiniest feet, and wears a 6-9 month old shoe at almost 14.5 months. Keep in mind this is a kid at the 75 percentile for height; it's truly amazing she doesn't fall over more. But somehow she manages to balance on her tiny tootsies, and it's just up to me to find shoes that fit. Which is H-H-H-HARD because most 6 month old babies don't WALK, after all, so all the shoes they have are these little decorative ones, which means that I can't walk into the local cheap place and buy runners, I'm off at the specialty baby stores spending $50 a pop for her for shoes. Which is probably more than I spent on the last pair I bought for me. Two years ago. When I last bought shoes for myself.

Her hair is getting longer, finally, but she's still got that receding baby hairline which is leaving me in a quandary about what the heck to do about it -- cut it? Leave it? The hair on top will soon be in her face, but it's not hair that's appropriate for BANGS, per se, because it's from farther back on her head, but at the same time it's too wispy to go to the side -- at least, too wispy to stay that way, so. 

Yeah, I know. Me and my BIG PROBLEMS.

My son is approaching kindergarten with a great deal of excitement. He's been his usual mixture of wild delight and aggravating annoyance recently. How is it that a kid who can be so thoughtful one minute can be so obtuse the next? Oh, right: a work in progress, as ALL CHILDREN ARE. He's so TALL. And HEAVY! And full of his own opinions on things! It's just ... who is this person? And what happened to my baby? I look at pictures of him as a small baby and I can hardly believe it's the same person. 

We've had no more repeats of the "I'm bored and acting out" behaviour at daycare, much to my relief. It feels a reprieve, to be honest, from what might come next. I had a long conversation with a colleague / friend who I don't see regularly who informed me that last year while I was on leave she pulled her son from the school I was planning to send mine because they weren't able to deal with the fact that he "just wanted to sit in a corner and read!" I ... had no words. I'm trying now not to panic about sending my kid there. 

One thing that is delighting me beyond all reason is his "adoption" of another kid at daycare. It's that time of year that the three year olds start coming to the preschool centres; when The Boy came, two years ago, there was a kid there who was 5 who was SO NICE to him, and always invited him to play and included him, and I was just SO in love with this kid because the transition was hard and he made The Boy feel much more comfortable. And the other day when I picked him up the teachers told me that The Boy had really made friends with this little kid -- really little, he's tiny -- and had been helping him around all day, and even putting his shoes on and stuff like that. It's times like this that you start thinking that all the stuff you do to try and raise a human being instead of a savage is really going to pay off. Thank God.

One of the things I've been marvelling about recently is how stereotypes can be SO TRUE. I never realized this until I had both a boy AND a girl, but I distinctly remember my son, between 1 and 2, suddenly, with no prompting from us, starting to point out all the BIG! TRUCKS! there are on the road. And that morphed into construction vehicles and for the past year or so the kid has been SUPERHERO CRAZY, and we're buying him comic books as rewards for good behaviour. And my daughter? Obsessed with BABIES. OMG the BABIES. Every single picture of a baby she sees, she points out. An ACTUAL baby? OMG the words. She loves her baby doll. She carries it around. She hugs it. She kisses it. She plays with purses and cosmetics and loves to put on and take off her shoes. I bought her new shoes last week. Holy. Moly. The excitement and the Off! On! Off! On! WHO IS THIS CHILD? 

Now I know this isn't the same with everyone's kids, but it sure seems my kids got a how-to book on how to be stereotypical in the womb and / or a big shot of testosterone / estrogen or something because MAN. They are SO. PROGRAMMED. And I mean this not in a brainwashed way, but just in a genetic way. They are who they are, it's just how it is. And now I can buy the dollhouse I always wanted to have as a kid. SQUEEE!

In other life happenings I'm still trying my best to lend support to the friend whose husband just left -- it's still an inexplicable happening, to her, to her children, to her husband's family, and I find it all terribly sad. Another friend is finalizing a divorce; another is having child custody issues. And this morning I got the news that another friend's cancer has metastasized. The news-bearer didn't seem too concerned, didn't know much about it, but Dr. Google seems to think that prognosis is "good" -- but that's a relative good. Good as in 2-3 years, not as it used to be, in mere weeks, I suppose. She's 55. Sure, older than me. But still much, much too young. Another friend is staring down the diagnosis of a chronic illness, and I'm wondering: is this just a bad month? Or am I now at an age where crappy things start happening to people I know? I don't know. And I'm sad about it, very sad, while at the same time feeling oh so very blessed in my life, despite the fact that there are crappy things in my life too. 

The other day I was taking a break -- when a break means, not cleaning, and just paying attention to the children. I lay on the floor, on the playmat, as I often do -- I get to relax, the kids talk to me, and climb all over me, and we laugh and giggle and have fun. My daughter climbed upon me, sat straddled upon my chest. My son, following suit, straddled my legs. He made choo-choo noises, and shouted "ALL ABOARD THE CRAZY TRAIN!"

Such is my life, indeed. Crazy. Wonderful. 

Lucky

We sat in the comfy chairs, in front of the fire. We talked of a host of things, lightly and irreverently. Children. Work. Mutual acquaintances. Family. It would have been cozy, except for the nervous picking at the label of the bottle of beer she drank, and the sadness hanging in the air. And the short, sad laugh that would be interjected into the conversation. "It doesn't feel real," she would say, hiccupping slightly, eyes watery. And we'd move on.

 

We talked about it, of course. Of what was happening. Of what happened to me. Of the way through, of the disbelief, the unreality of it. Not of the future, it's too soon and too scary. Of how I moved away, of not speaking to him in years and years. Of the disconnect, of the healing. Of the lack of children that had to be taken care of, told, divided evermore. "You're lucky," she said softly, looking away.

 

I've long since ceased to think of it as the worst thing that ever happened to me. It's a history, a sad blip on my life, but something that turned out for the best. Everyone has a tragedy, mine is not so bad. I no longer feel like I have "failure" stamped upon my soul.

 

But I've never thought of myself as lucky in its occurrence. As small a tragedy as it was, it was still a Bad Thing.

 

But the thing is that perhaps one of the things that makes me the most sad is that yeah, I am. In comparison, our divorces – mine was better.

 

And I never wanted to be able to say that about it, especially in comparison to a friend.

 

Father's Day

I had drinks last night in the nearby pub with a friend I've know for seven years. She and her husband have been married more than ten years, together for 15. They have two boys, 6 and 4. Last Thursday night her husband told her he was leaving. She's making a huge brunch for him today. "It's not about him," she said. "I asked the boys what they thought he wanted for Father's Day, and they said 'bacon'."

* * * * * * *

It's my ex's birthday today. I don't know why I remember that this year of all years when it's often skipped by without a thought.

No, wait. I do. Because her email of Friday morning, her call of Friday night left me reeling -- they were such a solid couple! It couldn't happen to them! How can you make sense of a world where of all people, the couple you thought was star-crossed is coming apart at the seams?

I guess maybe it's the star-crossed thing.

I didn't sleep much Friday night. I know how much she must be hurting. I know how hard it's going to be for a while. And *I* didn't have kids.

* * * * * * *

The father of my own children is asleep in bed. I hope. My gift to him this Father's Day -- sleeping in. We don't get that much round here, after all. Ironically it's the five year old who I can't contain with quietness, the baby has been given markers and paper and is beside herself.

What can I say about the father of my children, my partner in life on Father's Day? I can say that he doesn't hide things from me like my ex. I can say he's devoted to his children and his family, unlike my friend's soon-to-be-ex. But who gives a care about comparisons. Saying "you're good because you're not like A" is a back handed compliment.

I love The Man for the days when he's just so tired and impatient but he pulls it together anyway to be patient for the kids. I love The Man for trying to maintain a sense of humour in these crazy times. I love him for putting the best he has into everything, for putting his family first. For saying "go out with her. I'm tired and I don't want to put the kids to bed, but your friend needs you."

And for being the smartest and most original person I know. For not compromising on what he believes. For making some of the most delicious meals I've ever known. For comforting me when I'm down, even on days when he needs that emotional reservoir for himself. For being one of the most fun people I know when times are good.

For being my partner in life.

For being him.

Happy Father's Day to him. Happy sleeping.

Well, it's finally happened ...

Marriage.

No. We haven't gotten married. But the concept of marriage had hit the daycare and the kids were excited! And needed to know more! So the teachers told us they'd do a unit on it! And I was all "hey hey! That's great! But ... uh ... we're NOT married so mind you keep your language inclusive, ok?" And they did!

And my son still told them he thinks it "isn't right" that his parents aren't married.

I heard that. I cringed.

So we came home. I made dinner, and over mac and cheese I asked. "I heard you were talking about marriage at daycare. How's that going?"

He shrugs.

"I heard you said that you think your mom and dad should be married. Why is that?"

"it's better."

So the conversation goes on, and I try to explain they the reason we're not married is that we feel it wouldn't make any difference to our lives. "how do you think your life would change if mom and dad got married?" I ask.

"it would make sense." he says softly, and my heart breaks.

*******

A moment later, after some distraction of eating and feeding and babies, and a few words here and there, he says "you get cake at weddings."

Yes, I say. But I'm not getting married just for cake, I say. I can eat cake any time, I say.

His eyes fill with tears. "but if you don't get married," he weeps. "I won't get any cake!!"

I assure him that I will make cake this weekend.

And all is fine with the world once more.

Writerly

So last night my daughter found a pencil. One of those tiny ones. It fit perfectly in her hand. Without missing a beat, she reached under the table to a box of recycling I had placed there while doing paperwork, picked out a piece of paper, and *holding the pencil correctly*, started making marks on the paper.

I took photos. When the heck had she learned that? Isn't she 13 months?!

So this morning when I got to daycare with her, I was pleased to see they had out pens and paper. What fun! I put her down and she immediately picked up the pens and started drawing. It seems a fun thing to encourage, right? So I chat with the carers, put things away, and sit down with her for a bit. A few minutes later I get up to go, and there's a bit of chaos, what with the hugging and the transfer of the child and all.

So I leave, go to work. Boot up computer, make tea, chat with colleagues. Work. Work work work work. And I'm on deadline, so I don't get up from my desk until noon, when I go to the bathroom and ...

My neck? Four or five large slashes of purple marker. And not, like, in a nice line, as one might mistake a necklace or anything. One BIG blotch near my right collarbone, several other irregular ones nearby.

And *no one had said anything*.

Awesome.

Sent from my iPad

Exacting

"How many hours in a year, mom? I bet more than 800."

"I don't know, honey, but definitely more than 800, because there's 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year."

"No, not 24 hours, mom. It's twenty-THREE hours and FIFTY SIX MINUTES."

I know we shouldn't have bought him books!!

Passing it on

The other day when I read a book to my daughter --- one of those toddler ones that involves you kissing your kid because you love them so --- I thought it was very cute when she kissed me. A lot. On the mouth.

It's less cute now because -- at that time, she was suffering from a cold -- and now, she's passed it along to me.

Whee!

Sent from my iPad

Bored

Yesterday at daycare pick up there was a note for me. Please come talk to Y. I groan. The notes are never good.

My son, it turns out, spent rest time picking apart a paint roller. Please have him remedy this, they say. I agree. I sigh. We go home.

He doesn't know why he did it, he says.

But I do.

We talk. Oh yeah, he says. I'm bored.

A little more checking and it seems that while at one point he was allowed to lie and read during rest time, now that's been forbidden. He has to lie on his little cot for 30 minutes, still.

So let me get this straight, I think. You want my kid, who has not had a regular nap in almost three years, to lie still for 30 minutes with nothing to do?

I sympathize with him, to be honest.

Look, ok, I get it. I get that they think that stilling yourself is a crucial skill. And I believe that myself, I do. I mean, this is why I practice, at times, meditation, because I want to learn to slow down. I've been working on simplifying things, at not doing 20-bajillion things at once like I seem to do (I can't just sit and watch a show. I must knit! And read blogs! and watch the show! THERE'S ONLY SO MUCH TIME IN THE DAY, PEOPLE!)

But he isn't like every kid, he likes to think. Constantly. He likes constant stimulation, and he's been like that since birth. Sure, I can try to teach him to meditate, but even meditation for kids recommends only 5-10 minutes to start. NOT 30. So what else can he do with himself? There aren't many five year olds who can sit and do sums in their heads all alone. Not even mine.

But at what point can I bring in the gifted kid card? Won't I just be that mom who causes eye-rolling, oh here we go AGAIN with the special treatment for her kid, cMON lady, give it a rest.

At the same time ... well, next time it might not be a paint roller. He's FIVE. He's BORED. You have given him NOTHING to alleviate the boredom, so he's going to find something himself. It would be far better for you to direct him than allow him to get into trouble himself and then feel constantly like he was being bad. If adults are bored, they can find something to do. Not all adults want to lie still, either. When adults want to rest, they read books. Or watch TV. Or otherwise rest, but not necessarily sleep. This requirement of total stillness is ... well, it's kinda bullsh*t IMO.

Because he's not a bad kid. And I don't want him feeling this way, not at five. Not ever, of course. But not at FIVE, when he hasn't even started school yet and God knows if he's bored in daycare, he's going to be bored in school. If he can add fractions, I think first grade is going to be a major let down.

I don't know what we're going to do, and it's becoming more and more clear that we're going to have to do something. I don't know what. I don't know how we'll cope.

But I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and have him labelled that problem child when they put him into a situation that even most adults would hate.

A brief moment of harmony

Chowing down

Six weeks ago, I called the infant development specialist in a panic. I couldn't get my almost year old daughter to eat anything. Nothing. Purees only. And then only in minute amounts.

Tonight marks the first night that she's eaten more than her brother.

Oh, she's still not great with everything. She still can't manage certain things, but now it's just a matter of not having molars ... Something age appropriate.

Now she LOVES food. Wants to try everything. Eats a huge amount for a small child. Loves strawberries, and begs for them. Drinks juice.

Has related intestinal distress.

Crazy. Just ... crazy.

Sent from my iPad

Thinking

That the concern raised by local businesses that their children can't get into the local universities and that their workforce is perturbed and wants to move away so as to be closer to these children, and this is a problem for industry ... that isn't this just more helicopter parenting? I mean, my kids are little, I know. But I'd like to think that by 18 they would be capable of moving to another city, living in a dorm, not being within 30 minutes of me. I'd like to think that *I'd* be ok with them moving away at 18, especially to a place like a dorm where there are people to help, people who realize kids are on their own for the first time. It seems to me to be the perfect place to try out a young person's independence, right? In a place full of other young people, supported by other young people and others who are used to young people trying out their independence.

One thing I haven't ever considered, up to this point, is relocating my family so as to be closer to my child in university.

But you never know, I guess. You never know.

Liar liar

Five is a lovely age for the most part. We're really enjoying it. But one of the things we're now encountering is lies.

Lies lies lies.

It's hilarious though, his lies. Did you eat that? Nooooo ... (while mouth is covered in it) Did you wash your hands? Yes! (while hands are covered in dirt) Were you playing on the iPad? No, I was just sitting near it!

It's aggravating, is what it is.

This morning, he got up early. I got up only a half hour later. I let in the cat (This is important for later, i promise.) And I found that the strawberries that were on the counter had been opened ... And bitten ... And cut.

"N, did you cut the strawberries?" I ask.

"nooooo...." he says. "but I DID see the CAT clawing strawberries in two!"

Saga, continued

So when we last left our heroes ...

No, wait. That's not right.

So my daughter seemed ok Wednesday and I plied her with juice and fruit and oatmeal and sat back to wait. By Thursday night it was clear things were not over, and Friday morning, armed with visions of disaster in my head from late-night googling, I was Very Concerned. And likewise, The Girl was Rather Unhappy. Intermittently, thankfully. But still. I'm all done waiting.

I called the doctor's office. She's not in Fridays. I try her cell. No answer. I call the pediatrician. Not in Fridays. I leave a message. Finally I call the local clinic, only to find that the man we call Dr Useless is attending today; Dr Decent will be in tomorrow.

I sit back and wait, because I'm sure my doctor will return my call, and if not the clinic doctor Saturday is fine.

An hour or so later, the pediatrician calls and I explain the situation, and she is all for calling in a mild prescription, so I'm down with it, tell her which pharmacy, and give them a bit to fill it.

Annnnnd in the meantime: we have success!

Not enough, I think, but my intuition says it's a good start and she'll now be ok. Still. Let's go get the prescription anyway, might as well have it on hand, right?

Sure!

So I go, take the kids, into the pharmacy, tell them her name and ... They presentment with THE BIGGEST BOTTLE OF LAXATIVE KNOWN TO MAN.

seriously, this thing was easily 750ml size full of powder. They look at me expectantly, I look at them expectantly, I'm thinking they're going to measure me out some but no. It dawns on me that they think I will be taking the whole bottle, while it finally dawns on THEM that the patient is not me, but the tiny 20 lb human I'm holding.

There is much consternation, as I try to communicate nicely that I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to be ok with taking home 500+ doses of laxative when I'm pretty sure seven will do it. I don't really care that it's mostly paid for by my insurance; I still don't want that much, and I'm pretty sure the doctor could not possibly have prescribed that much. She says helplessly that they USED to have a smaller bottle, but ...

She then remembers that they gave individual adult doses! Whee! Still. One adult dose is 17 baby doses, still too much, but better than 500, right? Well, sure, but they need me to buy the whole BOX of individual doses -- ten -- not just one. So 170 doses instead of 500.

And keep in mind at this point things seem to be moving along, so I'm not even sure ONE dose will be needed, and they are now telling me that I can have a six month supply! Or nothing!

And I start wondering when it was I went through the portal to CRAZYVILLE.

In the end? I left with nothing. And her promise that she'd keep me on file in case over the weekend things went downhill again.

But it's nice to know that if needed I can ensure regularity for the rest of 2011. For the whole family.

Sent from my iPad

Paging Dr. Googlek

I have a mental pact, if you will, not to write about certain subjects here. It's a public forum, after all. I imagine that where I draw the line is rather arbitrary -- I mean, if I describe birth in intimate detail, why *not* discuss, I don't know, my kid's toilet training? And I'm not entirely sure, not sure what I'm doing much of the time to be fair, but there you go.

But having said all that, I did want to just note that why, WHY is it that when you desperately google "toddler constipation remedies" with one hand, why does it come up with "get your child to drink more!" and "try some more fibre!" and not one site -- not one! -- gives you a gddam clue about what to do RIGHT NOW, when right now is a pre-verbal child who has been screaming on and off for two hours (all and only in your arms, btw, hence the one-handed typing), the doctor is closed, and your only option for real medical advice is the hospital? (or Dr. Google)

It's beyond frustrating.

Anyway. Don't worry. The said pre-verbal toddler is fine ... Now.

My computer that she spilled coffee on to .... Maybe not so much. We're waiting until tomorrow to see.

My son who deliberately poured all the prune juice I bought today over the high chair tray to make a sea because I told him he'd had enough time with the iPad today ... Yeah, jury's still out on him too.

Just kidding.

Sent from my iPad

So much to say! So little time to type!

Excuse me for a brief 45 seconds while I brain dump onto the page. Where was I?

Right. Well. Daycare still sucks. I'm having recurrent fantasies about The Man being relocated to a nicer locale so I have a good excuse to quit my job, despite the HUGE amount of headaches that would cause. You know -- moving, for starters. Getting the house packed, sold, finding a new one in a good neighborhood, finding school for The Boy. Not to mention breaking contract with MY work and then owing them a bunch of money. Ha ha ha. Yeah.

The daycare director has been there 23 years and has only had two kids not settle in, so here's hoping that The GIrl will be among the majority. Yes. I asked. Three weeks of shrieking, crying, calling and reaching are emotionally wearing.

Part of The Girl's  bad mood last week was likely due to a cold and the cessation of eating. One supposes that the cold irritated her throat, but solids were a no-go most of the week. Yesterday I watched as she ate a strawberry, though. A whole one. In small bites, of course. But ... Gah. Yeah. It drives me nutty. One day I can barely get her to eat soup and the next she's chowing down a whole strawberry.

******

So that whole rapture thing yesterday was a bit of a bust, huh?

******

So my inlaws are here for the long weekend. When of course the weather turned completely horrible so we're all stuck inside our tiny place. They think we're crazy to live in Vancouver because good heavens, it always rains!

We haven't seen them since Christmas so they showed up bearing gifts, of course, as grandparents are wont to do, including an enormous metal bug for my son (??!!) and a crazy doll-in-a-bag complete with sippy cup and baby food for my daughter. No joke, this doll has two bellybuttons. One's removeable. It's hard to explain, but she is (I think) supposed to have a clean diaper and a dirty diaper, only on the front of the clean diaper is a brand new belly button too. Most disturbing though was that when we first opened her up she had what looked like p*bic hair under there -- same colour as the hair on her head! It turned out to be just a lot of yellow fuzz that came off, but it was creepy to find it all located inside the doll's diaper.

I asked the MIL where she found such an item and she said it was the grocery store they use when in the States, and it was 75% off! So -- perfect! My inlaws are very generous with my kids, both with their finances and their time, so this just made me laugh, but I guess when you buy dolls at grocery store on clearance prices you will end up  with dolls that have hit puberty too early.

*******

Friday afternoon we were told to leave work early for the long weekend. I was planning on doing so anyway, because the inlaws were arriving, but it was two hours earlier than planned. So I debated for a bit and decided that no, despite the daycare woes, I would NOT go pick up The Girl that early, but I would -- goddammit -- take some time to myself which I haven't had (barring two haircuts) in well over a YEAR, here, people. I had a gift card for a local bookstore so I strolled down and went to look at books ...

And ended up spending my entire hour in the kids section, picking up three books for my son and one for my daughter. Not only did I not buy anything for myself, I didn't even make it to the adult section except for a cursory glance at the new arrivals section.

I say this not to tout my own skills and dedication as a mother, but rather to roll my eyes at myself. I complain about not having enough time for myself, but as soon as I do get some time, I immediately spend it on the the children, if not with them. One might start to think I like my martyrdom. I look lovely in a crown of thorns.

To be fair, I have a lot of books to read since I haven't been able to get to them with the kids around, and there are three books coming out that I want to read -- but one's out late this month, one in June, and one in July, so what's the point of buying new books for me now? I will certainly be spending enough on me later this summer. For books I'll never have time to read.

But I'm not complaining! Secretly, clearly, I like it.

Daycare, Day Ten

Daycare is doing wonders for my child's receptive language skills. Any mention of the words "mama", "go", or "bye-bye" garner an instant response from her. Need I include the word "negative" in that sentence?

She can also now wail "mama!" very loudly. While crying.

Sigh.

From all reports, though, she spends her day exploring and eating and playing and there's nary a tear in sight. She's happy to see me when I get back. I keep saying this over and over in the hopes that it will reassure me that this is ok, that she is ok.

That *I'm* ok.

I know that The Boy went through this. I know that The Boy is ok. I know that he's thriving, he's got excellent social skills and is outgoing and confident. I know this. I also know he's a different child, and that he's different than me, and that little girl me probably would have had a different experience. A more negative one. I can't project this on my daughter, that's not fair. But I fear it, all the same.

And I also know that someone who worries this much about her children, who sacrifices over and over and tries always to put her children first, probably has nothing to worry about. My kids have it better than 90% of the world's population. And if they grow up and resent me for daycare and can't see that they were born into immense luxury by world standards, well ... there's not much I can do about that, except to try and gently point that out while they are growing up. Without, you know, exposing them to the plight of starving children and making them feel guilty about having enough to eat.

The Girl has become more and more clingy the past weeks, to the point where if there's a choice between me and her father -- her otherwise beloved father -- she will become hysterical until I take her. This weekend the in-laws arrive, and I will spend much of my day reassuring my MIL that no, the baby doesn't hate you. But you can't hold her, or play with her, or touch her without her reacting negatively, because she is afraid that you too will take her away from mama.

It will be a trial.

This is all a trial. But if my daughter can't learn to weather trials without coming out stronger, better, and more able to cope, then I'm not doing my job as a parent.

The State of Things

Well, it's been two weeks since I started back to work.

Pauses to pick up baby and nurse.


And I suppose it's going as well as it can. The job is the job, the same one, albeit with a few title changes, that I've had since 2003. I feel old. The colleagues are the same as when I left a year ago, and they are good people, if people I have little in common with. The one person I do have something in common with is my replacement, who left Friday. She was hired, so says the Manager, because "she reminded us of you", and hell he wasn't kidding, we're the same height, build, hair colour, hair length, eye colour, and propensity towards missish librarian dressing and mannerisms. She's someone I could see being friends with but it's kind of laughable to see two shy, introverted people try to get to know each other. My sense is that she would like us to be friends too, so we made friendly overtures but any extrovert watching would have been puzzled by the intense amount of self-consciousness present in the room.

Anyway she's leaving for another job within the Overreaching Organization, so we have a promise of lunch once she's settled.

Pauses to put baby down. Or not. Up! Down! Cuddle! Claw off face!


The Girl has finished two weeks at daycare, and has greatly surprised the caregivers with her ability to settle in and cope. She cries when I leave (once reaching and saying -- possibly for the first time! -- "MAMA!!" which of course shattered my cold, cold heart into a million pieces), but only does so for five minutes or less, and then doesn't cry the rest of the day. She fusses a bit, here and there, but eats, sleeps on the mat like the other kids, and spends her time exploring the centre with great enthusiasm. It's getting easier to leave her, knowing that despite appearances she is having fun -- most days when I get her she's smiling happily and shrieking (happily) about something or other, so clearly she isn't being tortured.

She's noticeably clingier than usual, but I'm feeling better about leaving her now. I remember with The Boy it took three weeks for us both to feel better -- the mythical doing something 21 times makes it a habit -- so now we've completed two weeks I have reasonable hope it will get better. Oh, I know there'll be hiccups in the road. But she's spending the day with what feels like a grandmother, a fellow experienced mom, and a girlfriend of mine ... with some other kids. It's hard to feel too bad about that, especially when on occasion I get to think and converse and have a cup of tea without being interrupted. Oh, and earn a paycheque, the first of which came in on Friday and my bank account ceased its panicked wheezing.

This last week started out with her eating tomato soup and baby puree and baby cereal, and ended with her eating spaghetti, goldfish crackers, and raw apple. Two weeks ago I tried to feed her cooked rice, and in the space of 5 minutes she gagged on it three times, and I hauled her out of her high chair and said "That's it! No more solids!" She can eat puree for the rest of her life, right? Watching your child gag and get that panicked look in her eyes as she's scared is a horrible feeling. And two weeks later this morning she successfully held a piece of raw apple (with me hovering about close by, don't worry.) It just goes to show. I'm planning to cancel the upper GI test. If she can get down a goldfish cracker, that's close enough to a cheerio IMO.

She's very close to walking now too, which is lovely, and so close to talking, and I am SO looking forward to the latter because then we can stop with all the EH! EH! EH! and I can actually figure out -- a little bit -- what's going on in that tiny head.

The Boy is five and gangly and gorgeous and amazing. His hair is too long. His first tooth is loose. Not VERY loose, mind you, just the tiniest amount loose and I have a strange panicky feeling that he's growing up too fast OMG.

Pause to settle children again.


He's a wild mess of crazy silly behaviour and seriousness beyond his years. He runs about like a lunatic making crazy noises from his mouth; he sits with his father to discuss subatomic physics and surprises him by saying "Dad, I already know what gluons are."

Say WHAT? Usborne books FTW!

He's just so typically five in many ways. Long skinny limbs, moving at the speed of light, laughing at everything, crazily affectionate with hugs and kisses, loving video games and soccer and lego. He eats like a champion, willing to try almost everything but decisive with his likes and dislikes. Likes: macaroni and cheese. Pizza. Sushi. Pho. Anything with cheese. Applesauce. Broccoli (cooked). Dislikes: sweet things, for the most part, raw vegetables ("too crunchy!"), spicy things, sticky things. He talks and talks and talks and talks, from the moment he gets up to the moment he falls asleep. Silence is not a feature of this house.

One of the strange affects of daycare has been to take my formerly very reticent, shy, and introverted quiet son and turn him into a very exuberant child who prefers to be surrounded by people. Seriously, before he went to daycare, he and I would go to those "mother and tot" gatherings, and he would refuse to sit on the mat with the other babies, but would insist that he sit on my lap in the chairs. Preferably in the second row back. So he could observe, from a distance. He was so unresponsive to strangers that a lady in a store asked me if something was wrong with him. Within three months of starting daycare he was a much more interactive child; now at five he likes an occasional day at home, but is clearly very happy to be at his daycare, playing with his friends. I once had concerns about him being in after school care, long hours after long hours at a desk; now I don't. I have a feeling the after school care will be his favourite part of the day.

I lie in bed with him at night, on the rare occasion I can get away from The Girl, and we put our faces close together, and tell each other we love each other, and I do. I love him so much, this strange changeling of a child, no longer my baby but my incredibly fast-changing, losing teeth little boy who will tomorrow have grown up and graduated college and be moving in with his partner in life "Hey mom, wanna come for Christmas?"

God yes. I hope so, someday.

But not now.

Now I'm still enjoying a Sunday morning, making pancakes in the kitchen to feed the kids. It's a crazy, chaotic sleepless existence, but among all that is perfection.

And now, back to the weekend laundry blitz.