Various forms of happy

This morning it's snowing like the dickens where my parents live, an unusual happening. My seventy-year-old father is digging them out, and while helping him, my mother builds a snowman. Seeing what she's doing, my father comes over to help. They soon after send a photo of said snowman, four snowballs high, complete with eyes, mouth, carrot nose, and hat.

I love that they still have fun. It's all the more surprising given my dad's been a total grump the last ... er, well, the last year or six. A snowman! Will wonders never cease. It made my heart warm, to see that.

Also I then got treated to a short talk about how awesome! and easy! it is to take photos on a camera-equipped iPod Touch. And you can just send them! Right away! It took less than a minute!

I laugh. How do you think I get so many photos of my kids at the park? I ask.

Parents.

* * * * * *

There's no snow where I am, but the house is cold. I am unused to this. I'm doing laundry to warm it up. It uses electricity, sure, just as turning up the heat does, but at least I get more done with laundry heat.

* * * * * *

I gave my daughter a straw cup this morning, in yet another effort to try and help her decide to eat or drink. It had juice in it. Straight juice! Nothing can be yummier! She took it and held it and played with it and loved it. And then I leaned down and showed her how to put her mouth on it, and her entire face lit up and she held it up for me to drink again and again and again. She giggled and giggled and giggled. Nothing is funnier than feeding mummy!!

I appreciate the nurturing, I really do. I just wish she would let me do the same for her.

* * * * * *

The other day, after sending the party invites with the charity request, a little boy came running up to my son and asked if he could bring a present. Can I please bring you a present? He begged. "Please?!" My son said no. "It wouldn't be fair," he said. "Everyone is just supposed to bring two dollars." I could not have been more proud, even more so given the offered present was a light sabre.

But lest ye think I am denying this other child the joy of picking out a present, I will let his mother know that the donation thing was, as noted, a suggestion, and that her child, should he wish, can certainly buy a present. It's just a suggestion. And I think it's nice that the other little guy wants to buy my little one something.

And don't worry, at last news my in-laws were out buying out the stores so I doubt the child will be too badly deprived. Maybe he'll even get a light sabre. Or not. It seems he's less fixated on the gifts than on the party, which is kinda what I was going for anyway.

* * * * * *

I read a short article today and the associated comments on what Canada needs for daycare. The choices the article and the short poll gave were a national daycare system or the current "child allowance" of $100 per child per month. As a working parent, it would be my strong, strong preference for a national, regulated excellent daycare system, and not just because the $100 I get for each child a month doesn't cover even a quarter of my daycare bill.

In the comments there were the usual strident cries of the stay at home mothers "I didn't have children to give them to someone else to raise!" and "everyone can do this if your priorities are right!" both of which make me want to scream. I could write (and have written, I think) whole posts about how dumb those statements are, and how insulting they are and all I can think is that the people writing them are desperately unhappy at home and have to last out self-righteously to make themselves feel better. (And there, that's my guilty working mother lashing out!)

But in the end all I need to do for myself is to remember just how happy, well-functioning, and well-adjusted kids and parents are in Denmark, where I lived for a while, which has a daycare and school care system similar to Sweden, which was top-ranked for family-friendly government. Each of those countries have excellent state-sponsored daycare. Each has women making a contribution to the work force, and each are productive societies, generally happy populations living in countries with low crime rates. And no one should think for a single second that those things are coincidences.

Having someone else raise your child? *snort* Let me tell you: the kids and the adults they become in those societies do just fine, thankyouverymuch. Staying at home isn't the charm for happiness and success some people want you to believe.

And now I'm off to collect my son from his almost state sponsored daycare, which is modelled on and run according to the precepts of the Scandinavian model. I know. I asked. I knew there was a reason I liked it so much.

And given that I know my son will see me and beg for "10 more minutes, please, mommy! I want to play!", my son clearly does too.

Various and sundry stuff

So much for that fear no one will come to the birthday party. In less than 24 hours I now have confirmed 15 guests -- minus the four of us, sorry, so eleven kids. I have five left to reply. My son informed me this morning that I forgot two friends.

And did I mention? The party is three weeks away! Apparently they are very keen. I am throwing my son the party of the year.

It will be madness! It will be chaos! It will be ... wow. I have no idea how I, a homebodied introvert, decided this was a good idea. I think I will need to lie down in an isolation chamber for most of the next day before I stop vibrating from the over stimulation.

* * * * * * * *

So it turns out that the nut allergy at daycare is NOT as bad as they thought, and we are in fact allowed to bring things that say "may contain nuts" or "manufactured in a facility that also processes nuts". No ACTUAL nuts, of course, which still sucks since I love peanut butter with unparalleled enthusiasm, but this is at least much easier.

One of the things I did when thinking about this was to write to a certain mom's advice column to ask about this -- given how tiny the risk is, with a child who is not anaphylactic, is this actually a reasonable precaution? And I realized two very important things:

1. It's important to stress your reason for writing. I didn't mean to suggest that I wouldn't comply with the rules, what I really wanted to know was how necessary they were. I don't have a kid with allergies, and what I was hoping for were readers to write in and say "actually, the risks are pretty big, there's a lot of contamination" or "no, it's kinda over the top." What I got was instead "Geez, aren't you being kinda petty for choosing granola bars over a kid's health?" I wasn't GOING to choose granola bars. I just wanted to hear from people in the know how risky it actually is.

2. People don't often read the whole way through. I specifically put in that the kid in question did NOT have an anaphylactic response. I don't KNOW what the response is, but I DO know that the teachers don't carry epipens, which they would have to if the reaction were that severe. And there were a bunch of commenters who said "My kid has anaphylactic reactions to nuts and if you've ever seen that you'd never ask this question, you horrible woman." Italics mine, but seemingly implied.

Sigh.

All I wanted was a reasoned discussion of where the line is between one kid's health and the convenience of the 25 other families that are around this kid. And when the kid's health issues are a rash and / or hives, and the risks are already very small, do we need to have that outright ban? Or can we assume the risks of contamination are small, the risks of sharing are small, so perhaps that kid can enjoy his granola bar that he likes?

Bah. Some days, humanity is hard.

And might I just add that I cannot quite believe the intense DRAMA (some of it of my own making, I admit) that this has caused. WOW. I hereby declare never to use the word peanut on this blog ever again.

* * * * * * *

I'm heading off with my daughter this week to a pediatric specialist to find out about her oral aversion issues. I wasn't much concerned with her lack of eating until I remembered that at this age my son would voluntarily put things in his own mouth. He didn't have much appetite for real foods, but he would attempt them. Sometimes.

My daughter on the other hand won't put anything in her mouth. Not even her own fingers, for the most part. And those? She'll gag on. She gags on HER OWN FINGERS. Now some might say that she's kinda dumb for triggering her own gag reflex on her own, but I am kinda thinking that perhaps her gag reflex is just BEYOND what it should be, and that's the reason for her food issues.

I still do think that she'll grow out of it on her own, but it is pause for thought.

* * * * * * * *

In other news, my plumbing hates me. In the last 24 hours the shower, the dishwasher, and the toilet have all backed up. I just washed two sinkloads of dishes by hand. I hate doing that. It's why I HAVE a dishwasher. But I'm willing to do it as long as it's just a terrible coincidence and not a sign that the sewage below us is completely backed up and going to explode upwards coating my entire place with feces.

Although given how much I've complained about decluttering and how I'd like to start over again, maybe that wouldn't be so bad ...

Gauche ..

So I just sent off invites to my son's party. Normally I would have invited 5 kids, one for each year, but this year we decided our place was just too small, and so we rented a room at a local community centre and they let us bring up to 20. So I invited 14, all the kids of his age at the daycare and a few extra friends.

But the thing is that my kid doesn't need 14 presents, or 20 when you consider he'll get one from us, one from his sister, one from each set of grandparents, probably one from each auntie and family ... so lots. He doesn't need 20 new toys. We don't have room, anyway.

So we decided to follow the lead of another of his playmates and ask for two loonies -- one for a present for him, one for a donation to a charity.

I felt a little uncomfortable asking for this, but I know if it were me I'd be thrilled -- no agonizing over a present! No side shopping trip! Just bring a couple loonies and we're good to go! So I'm hoping the other parents feel the same.

Anyway now I'm just sitting back waiting for the RSVPs, and am feeling bizarrely nervous. What if no one wants to come? I must keep reminding myself: my son is way more popular than I was. It'll all be fine. Heh.

The funniest thing in the world

We woke up this morning early. Dear Lord in Heaven early, so we are groggy. At breakfast, The Man and I sat and drank coffee (we bought a coffee maker a while back, chucked the gentle tea out the window) and made sporadic conversation. The Boy sat nearby, eating cheerios and playing with Lego at the table.

"This coffee is great," said The Man. "What did you do?"

We're new at coffee, so we're trying to optimize our coffee-making.

"I used three-quarters of a cup of coffee instead of two-thirds," I replied. "I couldn't find the third cup measure."

He looked at me blearily, half-awake. "Is that more?"

I stare back at him blankly.

"It's more," said the other side of the table. "Three quarters is more than two-thirds. Hey, mom, want to see the funniest Lego thing in the whole world?"

We look, and we laugh, but not at the Lego. At a four-year-old kid who can parse fractions at 7am better than we can.

Choices

My two babies were both home today. One's babyhood is much behind him, another is pulling out of hers as fast as she can cruise. I first saw each baby at nine weeks along, a tiny blob with a flickery heart beat. First felt them at around 14 weeks, the first quickening of life. First felt their effects on my body even earlier than that.

Long before the time it's still legal to abort them.

I've always been pro-choice. And I thought somehow that becoming a mother would make me more so. I know the perils of pregnancy and the pain of motherhood: I know very well that no one should be forced to go through either without expressly wanting it. It's not fair to the mother, and not fair to the child. If you are to sacrifice your life for another human being, you have to want to do it. Otherwise all you end up with is resentment.

I still believe that.

But for the first time in my life, I understand the pro-life argument. While I used to passionately argue against the personhood of the fetus (if it cannot survive on its own, it's not a person. It's still part of the mother. Ergo, her decision), it's so very hard to argue that with the same vehemence when I saw those tiny blobs, and they became the two people next to me on the couch. It's a life. It's potential. And the idea of terminating that is horrifying. Sick-to-the-stomach nauseating, panic inducing. Wrong.

But.

There's an article on today's CBC on Robert Latimer. For those of you not living in Canada 20 years ago, this man was convicted of the mercy killing of his severely disabled daughter. He still argues his right, his actions were merciful and borne of love. But the fact is that he took a life that many argue he had no right to take.

I don't condone killing another human being. Especially now that I've created two. I can't imagine ever doing it, and should I ever find myself pregnant again at a time when I cannot be pregnant for one reason or another, I can't imagine terminating it even so.

But. There's always a but.

The fact is that I'm not in that situation. And I'm not in the shoes of another woman who is pregnant and needs to terminate. I wasn't in Robert Latimer's shoes 20 years ago, watching his daughter suffer and watching her quality of life deteriorate. I can't judge. 


So that is why, despite seeing the tiny flickering heartbeats of my babies, I will still defend another woman's right to choose. I'm not her, I don't live her life, I don't know what desperation drove her to her decision, any more than I know what it is to watch your disabled child suffer. And I pray I never do. If there is any kind of God, I believe that instead of condemning those faced with those decisions, He would instead lay a hand on them in benediction, for having had to face one of life's worst possible decisions.

Pulling the plug

Every thing about parenting, especially mothering, is a divisive issue. Go to any parenting site, and you will see. I read a few of them. Babble. The Stir. And the more I read the sadder I get. When I first happened upon parenting sites, I was thrilled. Tips! Recipes! Advice! News! It's great! But most of all? Support. Support for parents who all have to make difficult choices in the breast vs bottle, sleep training vs co-sleeping, working vs being at home etc. etc. etc. I tell you, almost five years into mothering, the support of an understanding mother who is going through what you are is invaluable.

I do have it, in some ways. Mom friends who I chat with IRL. But between work and parenting and lives, it's hard to get together with people IRL, and sometimes you need an answer -- or a listening ear -- right now.

Lately however all I've been finding online is division. And it's been making me sad. Each site is becoming more and more a personal blog rather than an information one, with certain bloggers raising inflaming issues without a new perspective, but rather to seemingly fuel the fires of discord. And I finally snapped this morning and wrote something rude, like a troll, in a comment, which I've never done before. And I got flamed in return, probably deservedly so. And I so, so much wanted to write back.

I didn't. I took a deep breath and walked away. And I'm thinking now that I can't remember the last time I found something truly useful and informative on those sites. And wondering if perhaps my time can't be better spent. And thinking that maybe I'm better off just spending my last two months with my children instead of reading about parenting.

And maybe at some point I need to nurture the side of me that isn't a parent.

So I'm pulling the plug. I've deleted the sites from my bookmarks, I need to step back and take a break and consider if I'm getting value from them or not. I don't want to be that woman.

I just want to find a community, you know? A community of support despite differences. A place to go where I can find good information, read about issues I care about. It shouldn't be so hard to find. But it is.

Varied updates

I took my daughter to the doctor today to talk about her lack of eating. She's gaining weight and growing taller, although dropping in the percentiles. Nothing I was not expecting, so I'm not worried. (But still tired and always hungry.) The doctor, however, is sending us to a pediatric dietitian, and told me to feed her "ANYTHING!!" so she will eat, including the various "made for baby" snacks like Baby Mum-mums which I generally avoid since they are just processed white rice and hello, that's kinda ... well, kinda junk food, you know? Processed white carbs? Haven't we yet learned that that kind of stuff is pretty bad for you? Aren't I better off just feeding her .. I don't know ... RICE?

I did go and buy some, just to see if she will take to them, and then spent a few moments eating a Baby Mum-mum because while my daughter will not even deign to put them to her lips (and I respect her judgement when it comes to those, let's be honest), she thinks feeding them to me is HILARIOUS. And as everyone knows the way to encourage a baby to eat is to model the behaviour with great exaggerated mmmm-ing noises. So.

And I was right. They are pretty pointless.

Anyway the good thing to come out of this appointment is that the doctor said to disregard the allergy / feeding recommendations and just feed her whatever she will eat, which I was planning to do anyway, but it's nice to have a doctor's confirmation. And I will go to the dietitian, because you never know what you might learn.

In the meantime my daughter is a master at grabbing food, holding it, playing with it, and making chewing motions that are so realistic I sometimes check to see if she has anything in her mouth, so she has a great career ahead of her as a teenage girl who likes to f*ck with her mother.

* * * * * * * * *

Two and a half months from the end of my leave and I am already panicking about going back to work. I can't leave my BAYBEE, even though chances are I will be leaving her at the exact same place I left her brother that I LOVED and WAXED POETIC about to anyone who would listen (and a few more people besides, who couldn't have cared less). So it's not like I'm sending her to a labour camp, is what I'm saying. And then there's the how will we get the laundry done and what about dinner each night and how will I manage to get two small people to daycare and still get to work before noon and AIIIIEEEEE. It's a little early to worry about this, I know. I didn't worry so early with The Boy, but mostly because we were on vacation until he was 11 months, so moral of the story: go away more.

* * * * * * * * *

We've made a decision regarding kindergarten for The Boy, without nearly as much drama as there seemed to be portrayed here. I hope it'll work out ok. The doctor today told me I should really talk to the teacher ahead of time, and I'm of two minds: one, we have no idea how The Boy will react to a classroom setting, and he might just get into the groove and love it even if the work isn't what he imagined, so why create an issue when there isn't one? OTOH, it might be worth it if only to prevent the teacher from coming back and saying "Man, your kid is a handful and can't sit still and doesn't want to learn and you should get him some drugs." if we could just note that oh yeah, he's already done all the curriculum, so he might be bored sorry.


Meh at this point, kindergarten is seven months away and so I'm giving myself five months off thinking about it.

* * * * * * * * *

Apparently the nut allergy at daycare worsened so we are now to avoid every thing that has even thought about breathing near a nut. Which is fine, yeah, I get it. If I were that kid's parents, I'd be concerned too, and it's not worth my time to get worried about it. The thing is, though, that now I'm planning to start making granola bars for him, since between the ones that have nuts and the ones that are made of plain old crap, there's pretty much nothing left. And since my kitchen is not nut-free (and no, I'm not going to do so, given that it's already gluten-free and *I* have to eat *something*) there's always going to be the possibility of my making peanut butter cookies before I make granola bars and then won't the contagion possibility still be there? I'd think it more but ... man, I know nothing about nut allergies. And I hope it stays that way.

Anyway I will of course endeavour not to make peanut butter cookies the same day I make granola bars, and to run things through the dishwasher in between times. All in all I do feel sorry for the kid and her parents. Just glad it's not me.

The Big Brother Prerogative

My son teases his little sister. Holds her too hard. Sits on her. Grabs toys out of her hands, and then taunts her with them. Occasionally pushes her over, gives her little smacks when he thinks he won't get caught. Pulls her arms out of her sleeves and giggles at her confusion.

I spend a lot of time telling him not to do things. Being cross. Being disappointed. Being frustrated most of all.

At the same time I think -- this is what he's kinda supposed to do, as the big brother. It's practically his job to torment his little sister.

But I suppose it's also my job to tell him off when he does it. Sigh.

Skinny

My son was born three weeks early, to the day. Thirty-seven weeks and almost 8 pounds. He doubled his birth weight in three months, weighing in at 19 pounds at four months. He was a baby full of rolls.

Like many EBF babies, his growth slowed remarkably at 6 months. He went from the 99th percentile to the 60th, for both height and weight, over the next six months. And at his last doctor's appointment a year ago he measured in at 50th for weight and 75th for height. My formerly chubby baby has become a long and lean boy, all traces of baby fat gone, his body entirely little boy muscle. His ribs show, his little tummy flat, his thighs no wider than his knees.

He's like me, that way. Pictures of my four year old self all show my clothes hanging from bony shoulders, perched precariously on tiny hips. I remained that way until after I graduated high school.

But unlike me at that age he's already internalized society's ban on fat. "I'm glad I'm thin," he says. "I wouldn't want to be fat." He asks his dad about his dad's own weight gain, which isn't that much. He tells me that it's good that part of me (my waist) is skinny.

I'm partly to blame. As I noticed he was getting thinner I commented, concerned. "eat your dinner! You're getting so thin!" I think now I should have left off commenting at all, even out of concern. He's not ill, it doesn't matter.

Still.

Fact still remains that I look at my skinny son, hear his own judgement, and look at my daughter. If he's internalized this by four, what hope does she have of escaping the body image war? What hope do I have of encouraging a healthy body image in her?

From the "Be careful what you wish for" files ...

Some time ago I blogged about registering my son for local schools and after care programs and the insanity that that process entails. We did our last registrations only a short week ago, and then sat back and waited to see what would come of it.

And.

We got in everywhere. Oh, we don't know about after care yet, but our oversubscribed school system gave me a spot everywhere we asked.

Which is great. Of course it's great. It's just that it places the responsibility for the entirety of my son's next eight years on MY plate (and his father's, of course!), instead of leaving it to fate. I have to decide.


Wa ha ha ha ha. 

Taking it too far

The Boy's daycare is a nut free establishment, I've blogged before. I wasn't thrilled about this, but I do realize that my access to easy and cheap lunches (peanut butter sandwiches) is not worth the life of a child. So I check my ingredients and change my recipes (when needed) to ensure that the stuff I send to daycare is nut free.

But yesterday when I opened the afterschool lunchbag, I found a note on his granola bar -- his carefully selected, nut-free granola bar, a hard-fought choice since all the ones he likes have nuts -- that said "this said it may have nuts, so we couldn't serve it."

And now I'm annoyed. Do you have any idea how many things these days say "may contain nuts"?! I mean, EVERYTHING. So they don't get SUED. So now I have to avoid not just stuff with nuts, but the stuff that might be contaminated in the off chance that my child might share something that might have nuts with the ONE kid who has a nut allergy?

Seriously??!

I'm just ... no. That's crazy. That's too much.

And I don't know what to do about it. Nothing, I guess. I don't want to be the parent who makes a fuss over this, not when children's lives are at stake. But the amount of mights that occur in this scenario make me feel like we're really taking this allergy thing too far.

Clearly needing to get out more

So late this morning we had a dentist appointment, and we arrived home at lunch time in quite a state -- hungry, tired, grumpy, the three of us. By the time we'd slept (one of us) and eaten (two of us) it was nap time at daycare and while they are flexible about arrival time they do kinda prefer it if you don't drop off then. So I just decided we'd stay home, which was fine enough. We went off to a local store with a stroller to do an errand or two.

While out, I decided it was such a nice day that we really ought to hit the park. I'm such a homebody that I honestly dislike going to the park. Why, I don't know. Prefer my creature comforts. Or am just lazy. One or  the other. My son of course was in favour of the idea, so we walked another three blocks to the "good" park.

As we're walking across the parking lot, he's practicing his throwing skills, miming underhand throws and overhand, and then says to me, completely seriously,

"Mom, do you think you could throw a dead mouse WITHOUT blood from here to the fenced-in part like this?" He mimes an underhand throw.

If there's one thing I've learned as a mother it's to just go with the flow.

So I say, "I don't know. I don't think so. I've never tried throwing mice."

He continues to make the motions, trying different moves. "I bet my dad could."

I ponder this information. "I don't know. I've never seen your dad throw mice."

"I bet he did when he was a boy. He's always throwing stuff around. I bet he could."

"Sure, maybe he could indeed."

Clearly we need to introduce this child to the concept of the BALL.

Small

Every week or so I find something new to marvel at with regards to my son and his growth. His legs are longer, he can see over the counter, he can reach the bathroom tap.

And yet even so running ahead of me on the sidewalk I am reminded of how small he still is.

mother desperation

One of the things I haven't figured out as a solo parent is bedtime. Both the kids are ready for sleep at 7, and they both want / need my attention, and so nights when The Man works late / is away we just tend to pile into the king sized bed and sleep together. Me too. If I'm alone all day with the kids I'm exhausted by then!

We've been working really hard and getting The Boy to stay in his own bed, though, so the other night when The Man was working late I just proceeded with the "own bed" bedtime. Stories in his room. Tucking in with kisses. Nursing in the other room. And it worked pretty well, and I was being quite self-congratulatory with it all, having a sleeping baby in the big bed and an almost sleeping four year old in his own bed in another room.

Once the baby was settled I crept quietly around the house and then decided I should check the preschooler. As I suspected, he was asleep. Or almost. As I leaned in to kiss him, he woke up with a start. "Mommy! I NEED you!" he whimpered. His eyelids fluttered. I knew he was close to sleep, so I leaned in to him, knowing that in five more minutes he'd be asleep. And I could get up. He rolled back over, but not before placing my hand on his back where he could feel me.

So there I was. 8pm. In the dark of my son's room, lying straddling the very uncomfortable wooden bedrail, one hand pressed to my son's back, the other holding myself up awkwardly, no where to lean my head. One foot on the floor, one on the bed. I know, I know, I need to get some boundaries or something but it was all of five minutes! I mean, I can indulge my kid for five minutes, right? It's not that bad.

It was at that moment, after an evening of meal making, feeding, dressing, cajoling, story reading and diaper changing that I realized: I'm a mom. Because no one other than a mother would be so loving as to endure something so uncomfortable, even for five minutes, just to get a kid to sleep. And no one other than a mother would be so damn desperate.

Asynchronous

My son is four. Four and three quarters, as he likes to tell people. He is also bright. Gifted, I suppose you could say, although we never use the word in front of him. Mostly because it suggests there's somehow something better about him, better than others his age. And also because to be quite honest I'm just not sure how much of a gift his abilities really are.

When he started reading before he was two, we talked a lot about his being gifted. It's impossible to tell the absolute intelligence of a two year old, to be fair. They grow in leaps and bounds, children, you never know where they will speed up or slow down, so we tossed the word around a lot without ever really assigning it to him. But what was clear and what still is clear almost three years later, after reading became math and the ability to add, subtract, and multiply in his head all before age five, is that gifted or not, his brain works in a very, very different way than everyone else's.

I suppose that's the best possible definition of gifted in its purest sense, how it was meant to describe chldren when it was first used. Who knows? All I know is that my preschooler can do math in his head as fast as I can, can read with the fluency of many teenagers, and is starting to grasp himself that he's not entirely like everyone else.

But yet he is. He's four and three-quarters and he likes dinosaurs and superheroes and thinks farting is funny. Being silly is his greatest joy in life, he loves to laugh. He hasn't yet learned when to stop talking, how to adequately read body language, or how to listen. There are days his impulse control is maddening.

He still has the emotions of four and three-quarters. The innate sense of fairness of a preschooler.

And the cognitive ability of someone twice his age. Or more.

What this means for us is that conversations speed from the inhospitable atmosphere of Venus (because he reads, you know. Mstly non-fiction, lots of science. Some math.) or perhaps from the adding of positive and negative numbers into a weeping meltdown over the fact that he just angrily shoved his now-crawling sister away from his book. Or sat on her like a pony. Or he starts shouting that he's NOT HUNGRY OR TIRED when the fact that he's shouting and ragingly angry means that in fact the exact opposite is true.

None of this is a problem, of course. He's allowed to act like a four year old.

The problem is me. Because I get so caught up in all that he *does* know that I find myself thinking whenever he is naughty, "Goddamn he should know better!"

But the fact is he doesn't. Because he's FOUR. He doesn't always know how to control his emotions or act with his sister or control his impulses because he's a preschooler and sometimes preschoolers just ... Don't. But it's surprising, the strange lapse, the huge chasm between his abilities and his age-appropriate behaviour.

One day, I know, it will all even out. His emotional competency will catch up with his cognition. Maybe he'll be seven, maybe he'll be 25. Or maybe it won't. After all, none of us is perfect in this area. But it will get *better*.

All the information you read on giftedness writes about this. The asynchronicity of development, the leaps and the holes. So it's fine, of course. Of course it's fine.

Because what I've come to realize is that it *is* fine. That's who he is. *He* has no problem with it. The problem is only with others like me. Who don't expect what we get from him. We're the ones with the problem. He's perfect the way he is.

For those of us watching, its maddening, heartbreaking, fascinating, and amazing. It's hard to understand, hard to remember his age and what that means.

For him it's just the way it is.

Sent from my iPad

Becoming the mother of two

It was shortly after I posted yesterday that I realized I'd written that post before ... A lot, in fact. The "dear God I'm alone with two children!" post. The "thank God there's chocolate" post.

What didn't occur to me as I wrote it was that there was a point when those posts became joking instead of serious. I don't know when it was, to be honest, but it occurred to me yesterday that the idea of being alone all day with the two kids doesn't fill me with terror like it did six months ago. It doesn't really make me pause at all. Now when my son wants to stay home, I kind of shrug and say fine.

Don't get me wrong, this parenting thing is still hard. It's a very hard job especially when you have terrible patience, as I do. I snap at them still, I get frustrated. But I'm human. It happens.

I knew it would eventually happen. Even six months ago when even the idea of a whole day alone was tiring, I knew I'd get to this place eventually. And I have.

And it's a good thing too, because the hub's business trips are going to start up again soon. You may want to ask me again in a month if I am still this calm and confident. Heh.

Sent from my iPad

Home

Even though my sleep was poor last night, when The Boy said he wanted to stay home, I acquiesced. I know that some day, I will remember all these days I had at home and regret that my children are grown and gone. I will wish to hear my four year old's sweet voice again, when he only calls once a month from his work in an oil field in Ghana. The missed nap that occurred because he couldn't be quiet is nothing compared to the extra time I get with them both, sitting on the floor, a jungle gym for both my children, squealing and laughing.

It is the best of times, really.

Especially when there's chocolate pudding in the kitchen I can eat by the shovelfull directly from the container. Somehow it makes it all better.

And I'm not done yet ...

The kids are all right.

My son is five weeks from turning five. He is very slowly turning into a rational adult. It's very slow, but the ability to reason and temper emotions is starting to show through, which is a great relief as anyone who's ever parented, interacted with, or been in the near vicinity of a preschooler will attest. He has boundless enthusiasm for the things he enjoys and responds with great distress to the things he doesn't.

He's turning into quite a leader in play -- even with older kids he'll attempt to corral them into what he wants to play. He's not always successful, but he does love to try. He has made friends at daycare -- real friends, not just kids he hangs with, but kids he really seems to get along with. And he's decided some kids aren't nice, and he doesn't like them. C'est la vie. With age comes discrimination, I suppose.

He's not always terribly nice to his sister, but she loves him to bits. He pushed her over the other day and then hid when she started wailing. He pushes at her surreptitiously, hoping we won't notice. And yet sometimes gets down and hugs her and kisses her and wants to play with her. She'll take anything as long as he's paying attention to her.

His knowledge and understanding of the world still continues to amaze us. Half the time he's off in his own little world and we have to yell his name to get him to come to, and then every once in a while he'll come up with something that proves he was totally listening and taking it all in all along, like yesterday when he told my mother that in the caves we went to in Mexico almost three weeks ago the stalactites are hollow and the stalagmites are solid. From a kid who forgets that I told him to get dressed not 30 seconds after I said it. And then tells me, "Sorry mom, but I forget things almost instantly." No sh*t, Sherlock. Try not to sound too cheerful about it because mama's blood pressure just might go through the roof.

We had a discussion this morning about kindergarten, since The Man got up at 6am to register him for after school care (many parents wait overnight for this. In the cold. In February. But we are blessed to have more than one option, and we object to the insanity, so instead he went around 6:30. We are miraculously 12th in line. For what I believe are 11 spots. Ha.) I told him he'd learn the names of the letters and how to read. He scoffed. And then told me that what he wanted to learn was "How those glow signs work. The ones with the letters!" I told him I wasn't sure that the mechanics of neon signs was on the kindergarten curriculum, but that he could ask. I think perhaps he is going to be very disappointed with school. But we're talking it up anyway. Yay kindergarten! It's going to be so awesome!!!!1!


On our trip back from Orlando we had two delayed flights and a long long journey, and it was late and we were all tired and I started at one point to cry about it, and he came over, very concerned. "What's wrong mom? Why are you crying? Do you want a hug? I'll give you a hug. You'll feel better." And I did, because he thought and he cared and he wanted to make it better. God he's awesome. A huge amount of work, and he drives me crazy, but wow awesome.


The Girl is now nine months old. She started crawling mid-December after four months of trying to do so, and has given that over now in favour of cruising. If I take into account her brother and her own track record I predict she'll walk in a few months ... soon enough, but too soon, if you know what I mean. She's now at that lovely "I can get up but can't get down" phase which means she spends a great deal of time fussing at me, panicked about her vertical state. It's great.

She's learned how to wave and can now even do it at appropriate moments, which makes us melt. Communication! Someone's in there!! I mean, sure, she's been smiling and laughing for months now but waving seems somehow the next step to talking. Don't ask me why.

Speaking of talking she can now say "ma-ma" "da-da" and "na-na" which pretty much covers immediate family, although she says them completely indiscriminately so whilst the consonants are good the meaning behind them is clearly lacking. Still. It's a good thing.

Her hair continues to confuse us. In most lights it's a nice light brown, but in sunshine it looks golden blond and in some special sunlight it looks like red gold. So the jury is still out, nine months in, on what her final hair colour will be. I imagine it will likely keep changing through her childhood, but it sure would be nice to have a sincere sounding answer when people ask. "Brown?" sounds like I don't ever really look at her.

Which I do. A lot. I mean, we're together 24 / 7, except for that pedicure three weeks ago. Because she is still, Dear LORD, not eating. I don't mean to harp on about this but it's consuming my days. Because all I do is stand in the kitchen and eat. I just made rice krispie squares. I'm saying here in public that I think they will be gone by tomorrow. Because they are easy and close and hey it's rice! It's healthy! And I will eat them and eat them and eat them to try to fill this ravenous hole inside me. I have been making special trips to the grocery store to try and find something she will ingest. Nine months arrived Sunday and I was all "Dr Sears says she can have DAIRY!" and the very next day I was at the grocery store getting organic plain yogurt. Which she ate. Kind of. Not really. But she made a lovely finger paint with it.

I made a doctor's appointment for her, similar to the one I made for my son at this age, but instead of going in all panicked about him Not! Eating! my intent with this one is just to make sure she's still growing appropriately and then to sigh resignedly and keep nursing her until she deigns to eat. However I'm sure I will still greet the doctor with some amount of panic. It's what I do.

Aftermath

The trip was nice. We managed to avoid most of January in the rainy Pacific Southwest (so it is in Canada, after all), by virtue of our skills in procrastination. Normally the time share points allow us a single week away, but if you book SUPER late they give you a "discount" of sorts. That coupled with the fact that we forgot to go on vacation last year meant we got three whole weeks away, two in Mexico (no one wants to go there these days, what with all the terrorists and shootings and kidnappings etc.) and one in Orlando. 

As is our usual with southern vacations, the weather was unseasonably cool, which meant we had a week in Mexico of merely 20 degrees Celsius and some rain. Which is better than 5 and raining as it was at home, but does make Mexico rather dull, especially if one is at a resort and the most interesting activities are playing in the pool and playing on the beach. Neither is much fun in the rain, as my four year old will attest. But we also got almost a week of 25+ and sunshine, which allowed us much pool fun and landed two of us (neither me nor baby) with sunburns, so I suppose really it's good it wasn't all sunny. You'd never know we slathered that kid with 50 sunblock each day. But he does have a totally adorable tan line above his butt now.

I enjoyed the first pedicure I've had in ... almost two years. The woman scrubbed my feet with the exfoliator and then tucked it into my purse murmuring "You can just use this in the shower on occasion!" as a tip, I suppose. Which was appreciated and all but I do exfoliate on occasion. I suppose the types of clients she usually sees actually get pedicures more often, so don't have such shocking heels. So it was a tad embarrassing but my feet much enjoyed it. And given it was pretty much my only baby-free hour, it was a very nice time.

We spent three days in Orlando walking about theme parks that were almost caricaturely overdone but which brightened the faces of my son and husband, and which I admit were fun. I rode rides and carried my 20 pound daughter for upwards of eight hours at a time, given she could nurse and sleep and ride in the Ergo, and came home to find that my back was pretty much done with that. A few days of taking it easy on the carrying has helped much, but it's a darn good thing she's pulling to stand and starting to cruise. I won't last much longer carrying her everywhere we go.

Travelling and vacationing with children is not for the faint of heart. We never got to sleep in, nor enjoy a late and slow dinner, nor really enjoy the "happy hour" (11am to 1pm. WTF?) at the resort in Mexico. We didn't spend long afternoons napping and reading by the pool, nor luxuriate in lengthy spa treatments. It was still go go go go go with an almost five year old, dinner and bath and bedtime by 8 for both kids and then collapse into bed ourselves after a day spent walking! playing! swimming! running! beaching! More than once The Man and I looked at each other and thought that perhaps we should have come alone, because it wasn't exactly getting away from it all. And we had kinda needed that.

And yet we stayed, one night, at the Magic Kingdom, late to watch the photos and shows and fireworks, and I held my daughter and saw my son sit on his father's shoulders, in awe of the majestic performance, and I held my partner's hand and I knew deep down inside my soul that this is what it's all about. This moment is the one I will miss when they are grown and gone, the knowledge that I was the one who rocked his world, who brought him to that magical place, where he clutched my hand and shrieked with joy. He loved DisneyWorld, and I loved watching him, and being there with them all was a dream coming true. Not the place, the place  didn't matter. It was the joy and the togetherness and the family that mattered. 

In such a way, it was everything I had ever wanted, and that was nothing that rainy days nor long delayed plane trips nor long active days nor lack of relaxation nor anything else could dampen.