Lady Gaga
And if that wasn't bad enough, she's 12 YEARS younger than I am.
Holy. Hell.
Also I share a birthday with Tete Montoliu, a Catalonian jazz pianist. Which has nothing to do with anything. I just like the name.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Also of note
In my random Internet travels of today I found out that I apparently share a birthday with ....
Portrait of a modern 37-year-old
On my calendar today it says "My Birthday!" Not that I need reminding, it's just nice to look forward in the calendar and have something nice to look forward to.
And below that? "Put recycling out"
Because life just goes on.
And below that? "Put recycling out"
Because life just goes on.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Breathless anticipation
Tomorrow I will be 37. It's the first time I actually kinda feel old. Not that I am old. Just I am for the first time aware that I will be 40 some day. And it's not that far away.
I mentioned my birthday to my son, who was thrilled for me.
"Do you know what?" he said. "Mom, tomorrow's your birthday so you ... " vibrating with excitement "you get to choose ANY ... " more breathless quivering "you get to choose whatEVER video game YOU want to play!!"
I can hardly contain myself.
I mentioned my birthday to my son, who was thrilled for me.
"Do you know what?" he said. "Mom, tomorrow's your birthday so you ... " vibrating with excitement "you get to choose ANY ... " more breathless quivering "you get to choose whatEVER video game YOU want to play!!"
I can hardly contain myself.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Parenting I did right
I talk a lot about bad things about being a parent and mistakes I've made, so let's change the channel for a bit, shall we?
This morning we were at a playdate with a little boy, let's call him A. A is The Boy's bestest friend at daycare, they LOOOOOOVE each other. A has a little sister, so I went and hung out with their mom and little sister with The Girl for a while. We went to the park, and as we had the girls on the swings, the other mom asked me what was going on with Z, another little boy.
Z has been "friends" with The Boy for a couple years. Z is ... kind of a strange kid. He's boisterous and enthusiastic and a generally nice person, of course, but as a toddler he had numerous food allergies which made him rashy and drooly and he was generally very hard to understand and play with. So he was a bit marginalized.
He and The Boy and A are all the same age, though, and given the dearth of small boys in this particular daycare, the three of them spend a lot of time together. But he's not as fast or as sophisticated or as verbal, and he's often really rough with his play, so they have a love / hate relationship with him.
What she meant by her question is that The Boy and A and Z have been getting along Bee-YOU-tifully lately, and she wondered why. I suspect that it's a lot to do with age -- the boys are just getting to an age where they negotiate and chat better, Z included, so things are just easier.
But about a month ago, I got to daycare and overheard A and The Boy declaring to each other that Z was NOT their friend, and that they didn't like him. Z was nearby.
On the way home I asked The Boy about it, and asked him if he thought Z would like hearing that, and how HE would feel if someone said that about him. And after appropriate responses, I said "You know, you don't have to like him. You don't have to be friends with him. But you can't be mean to him, and talk nastily about him. That's not nice."
The next day, I dropped The Boy off and another little boy started a conversation with The Boy about Z (yes, while Z was RIGHT THERE. Kids. Not subtle.), and how he didn't like him. I looked at The Boy, and he looked at me, and he said "I don't want to talk about it." And then he started talking about what they were going to do.
And I told him quietly before I left that that was a good thing to say.
Better than agreeing, anyway.
I told the other mom that I didn't know what had happened, but I related this to her. As I said -- I don't think it was this conversation that fixed things. I know they were working on things at the daycare too. But I'd like to think that my conversation, and my kid, who is looked up to by some of the other younger kids, had a hand in it.
So ... Yay me.
:)
This morning we were at a playdate with a little boy, let's call him A. A is The Boy's bestest friend at daycare, they LOOOOOOVE each other. A has a little sister, so I went and hung out with their mom and little sister with The Girl for a while. We went to the park, and as we had the girls on the swings, the other mom asked me what was going on with Z, another little boy.
Z has been "friends" with The Boy for a couple years. Z is ... kind of a strange kid. He's boisterous and enthusiastic and a generally nice person, of course, but as a toddler he had numerous food allergies which made him rashy and drooly and he was generally very hard to understand and play with. So he was a bit marginalized.
He and The Boy and A are all the same age, though, and given the dearth of small boys in this particular daycare, the three of them spend a lot of time together. But he's not as fast or as sophisticated or as verbal, and he's often really rough with his play, so they have a love / hate relationship with him.
What she meant by her question is that The Boy and A and Z have been getting along Bee-YOU-tifully lately, and she wondered why. I suspect that it's a lot to do with age -- the boys are just getting to an age where they negotiate and chat better, Z included, so things are just easier.
But about a month ago, I got to daycare and overheard A and The Boy declaring to each other that Z was NOT their friend, and that they didn't like him. Z was nearby.
On the way home I asked The Boy about it, and asked him if he thought Z would like hearing that, and how HE would feel if someone said that about him. And after appropriate responses, I said "You know, you don't have to like him. You don't have to be friends with him. But you can't be mean to him, and talk nastily about him. That's not nice."
The next day, I dropped The Boy off and another little boy started a conversation with The Boy about Z (yes, while Z was RIGHT THERE. Kids. Not subtle.), and how he didn't like him. I looked at The Boy, and he looked at me, and he said "I don't want to talk about it." And then he started talking about what they were going to do.
And I told him quietly before I left that that was a good thing to say.
Better than agreeing, anyway.
I told the other mom that I didn't know what had happened, but I related this to her. As I said -- I don't think it was this conversation that fixed things. I know they were working on things at the daycare too. But I'd like to think that my conversation, and my kid, who is looked up to by some of the other younger kids, had a hand in it.
So ... Yay me.
:)
Friday, March 25, 2011
Sorry
Most days it's ok. I get up, and I make breakfast and coffee and answer questions and change diapers and tidy and clean and shop and cook and bandage and smile and encourage and don't think much about the knitting that's been sitting at 12 rows for more than two weeks, the first knitting I've attempted since she was born, or the millions of books I've bought with the hope that I'd get to read them, but I never get to. This is what I signed up for. And if there are days I lay in bed and think Get up, darn you, this is what you wanted, so behave like an adult, well, I'm allowed, some days. Provided, of course, that I do, in the end, get up.
Which is to say: Being a parent means no time for yourself, I know it does. At least, not until the kids are a little older and self-sufficient, and then not much more then. It's such a short bit of time, it's such a small piece of my life, and I think that it's appropriate when your kids are small to sacrifice some of yourself to make sure they get a good start in life.
The time I do get to myself is pretty much only the time when I'm nursing, and even then, it's mostly in the dark because my daughter gets very distracted when eating so we lie together in the dark for 20 minutes or so. She's quiet, I'm quiet, and during those times I read stuff, what I can. But it's not books, because it's not light enough, it's just whatever I can read on my iPhone in the dark. Some of it is good, some of it isn't, but it's better than nothing.
The other day when I started playing a video game on the iPad that The Boy and The Man enjoyed, I was pretty stoked to find something that I could do easily in my time to myself. Something fun. Something that recalled that I'm more than the mom and wife and tidier-of-all-things. It isn't a big deal, of course it's not. But it was fun. I got pretty far, it's one of those games that gets better (and harder) through successive levels, and I did pretty well if I do say so myself.
So when I got out of the shower this morning and my son -- very chirpily -- said "I'm sorry mom (not sounding sorry at all) but I deleted your game!" well, I was upset.
I admit it. I cried.
This morning I was tired. My daughter was up in the night and took a long while to settle again. They both woke up early. The Man is sick, so I'm trying to help him rest but that means I'm picking up the slack. So I admit that I'm feeling really sorry for myself, really overworked and underappreciated and losing of myself. It wasn't the game. It's a stupid video game. It's that everything I have, everything that's mine, is swept under the rug for later. Every. Little. Stupid. Thing. Even the video game.
I got upset and I cried and The Boy got upset and got mad, and then he got madder, and he acted out, and we got madder, and it was a terrible morning. Over a video game. I know. I'm kind of ashamed of it, to be honest. It was a huge to-do over nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.
Not that I am nothing, not to say that. But the fact is that The Boy only thinks of it as a video game he deleted. He doesn't see the rest, he's five. He doesn't see what I give up and go without and if I asked for this and I signed up for it, I am in fact fine with this, it doesn't need to mean it's all gone. I get to keep the damn video game. And I know that someday he'll remember this and say to me, when he's 20 "Do you remember that time I deleted your game and you cried? What the hell was THAT, mom??!"
It's ok. It really is. I'm fine and I'm no longer sorry for myself and I have at least assured, by God, that he'll never delete a game again. He thinks video games are the most important thing ever, now, because he loves them and now even MOM cried over them, so clearly he is right to ascribe importance to them of something akin to deities. It's a huge parenting fail.
But some days, you fail. It's just life, it's just being a parent.
Which is to say: Being a parent means no time for yourself, I know it does. At least, not until the kids are a little older and self-sufficient, and then not much more then. It's such a short bit of time, it's such a small piece of my life, and I think that it's appropriate when your kids are small to sacrifice some of yourself to make sure they get a good start in life.
The time I do get to myself is pretty much only the time when I'm nursing, and even then, it's mostly in the dark because my daughter gets very distracted when eating so we lie together in the dark for 20 minutes or so. She's quiet, I'm quiet, and during those times I read stuff, what I can. But it's not books, because it's not light enough, it's just whatever I can read on my iPhone in the dark. Some of it is good, some of it isn't, but it's better than nothing.
The other day when I started playing a video game on the iPad that The Boy and The Man enjoyed, I was pretty stoked to find something that I could do easily in my time to myself. Something fun. Something that recalled that I'm more than the mom and wife and tidier-of-all-things. It isn't a big deal, of course it's not. But it was fun. I got pretty far, it's one of those games that gets better (and harder) through successive levels, and I did pretty well if I do say so myself.
So when I got out of the shower this morning and my son -- very chirpily -- said "I'm sorry mom (not sounding sorry at all) but I deleted your game!" well, I was upset.
I admit it. I cried.
This morning I was tired. My daughter was up in the night and took a long while to settle again. They both woke up early. The Man is sick, so I'm trying to help him rest but that means I'm picking up the slack. So I admit that I'm feeling really sorry for myself, really overworked and underappreciated and losing of myself. It wasn't the game. It's a stupid video game. It's that everything I have, everything that's mine, is swept under the rug for later. Every. Little. Stupid. Thing. Even the video game.
I got upset and I cried and The Boy got upset and got mad, and then he got madder, and he acted out, and we got madder, and it was a terrible morning. Over a video game. I know. I'm kind of ashamed of it, to be honest. It was a huge to-do over nothing. Nothing nothing nothing.
Not that I am nothing, not to say that. But the fact is that The Boy only thinks of it as a video game he deleted. He doesn't see the rest, he's five. He doesn't see what I give up and go without and if I asked for this and I signed up for it, I am in fact fine with this, it doesn't need to mean it's all gone. I get to keep the damn video game. And I know that someday he'll remember this and say to me, when he's 20 "Do you remember that time I deleted your game and you cried? What the hell was THAT, mom??!"
It's ok. It really is. I'm fine and I'm no longer sorry for myself and I have at least assured, by God, that he'll never delete a game again. He thinks video games are the most important thing ever, now, because he loves them and now even MOM cried over them, so clearly he is right to ascribe importance to them of something akin to deities. It's a huge parenting fail.
But some days, you fail. It's just life, it's just being a parent.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
After only eleven months, I think I have this housewife thing licked. Today? I'm wearing an apron.
* * * * *
My daughter has suddenly decided that solids are TEH AWESOME. Over the past couple days she's had cereal, cream cheese, avocado, chicken broth, and minestrone soup. No lie. Who is this child? Never mind. It's a good thing. Hopefully she keeps it up. By the time daycare rolls around she'll be eating pizza on her own.
* * * * *
Every day my daughter's hair gets redder and redder. Kinda. Like a strawberry blond. Or a ginger, but the colour of actual powdered ginger, not what people mean when they say ginger hair. Coppery, in some lights. Oh, hell, I still don't know. In some lights I think well, it's copper, for sure! How could I possibly think otherwise? and in others? It's just brown. Hopefully when the last of the birth hair falls out, and we get a reasonable amount of it, it'll be clear.
Or not. Maybe she'll just have copper highlights.
I'm not entirely sure why it matters to me, but I guess it would just be nice to have an answer when someone stops me and says "Hey, what colour is her hair?" It happens more often than you'd think.
* * * * *
I was supposed to hear from the daycare today about a spot for her. I didn't. I'm not worried, but it sure would be nice to have it all nailed down. I've got one kid settled. Once I get the other one done I think I can buy some wine and sit down.
* * * * *
My daughter has suddenly decided that solids are TEH AWESOME. Over the past couple days she's had cereal, cream cheese, avocado, chicken broth, and minestrone soup. No lie. Who is this child? Never mind. It's a good thing. Hopefully she keeps it up. By the time daycare rolls around she'll be eating pizza on her own.
* * * * *
Every day my daughter's hair gets redder and redder. Kinda. Like a strawberry blond. Or a ginger, but the colour of actual powdered ginger, not what people mean when they say ginger hair. Coppery, in some lights. Oh, hell, I still don't know. In some lights I think well, it's copper, for sure! How could I possibly think otherwise? and in others? It's just brown. Hopefully when the last of the birth hair falls out, and we get a reasonable amount of it, it'll be clear.
Or not. Maybe she'll just have copper highlights.
I'm not entirely sure why it matters to me, but I guess it would just be nice to have an answer when someone stops me and says "Hey, what colour is her hair?" It happens more often than you'd think.
* * * * *
I was supposed to hear from the daycare today about a spot for her. I didn't. I'm not worried, but it sure would be nice to have it all nailed down. I've got one kid settled. Once I get the other one done I think I can buy some wine and sit down.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Use your special Batman powers to ... IMPEACH
Scene: my home, this afternoon.
Batman is searching for bad situations. Super Mom and Wonder Baby are in the kitchen, cooking dinner.
Batman: I have found the bad guys!
SuperMom: Where are they?
Batman: They are in GOVERNMENT!!
SuperMom: *uncontrollable laughter*
SuperMom: What are we going to DO?!
Batman, solemnly: We can't kill them.
SuperMom: No, but we can IMPEACH them!!
Batman, tips head, considering: Like knocking out?
SuperMom: Sure. That'll work.
Perfect until perfection runs out
My daughter ate almost half a tablespoon of cereal this morning. I realize this seems like a tiny amount but the fact that she ATE is such a huge victory that I feel like shouting it to the world. Which I am, kinda, in a very small bloggy way.
When I talked to the daycare a couple weeks ago in anticipation of a spot, I told them she wasn't eating, and they blithely told me they could handle it. I don't think they realized that I meant she doesn't eat at all vs she kinda maybe doesn't eat much and has only a tiny spoonful here and there. I mean, two weeks ago she wouldn't open her mouth. As good as they are, I don't think they can cope with a year old baby with the eating skills of a five month old. Now I'm estimating that she's at least a seven-month-old equivalent, which isn't awesome but is at least better than a kid who can't cope with anything at all.
* * * * * *
Speaking of care and children, the real point of this post was to say that I met my kid's kindergarten teacher yesterday. We opted for the private kindergarten at workplace, because we heard great things about it, and because it'll hopefully be easier to have the two kids at the same place for another year. And because we might move in another year so the local schools might not be so convenient. Anyway. We had the orientation and I almost fainted in delight at just how freaking awesome this guy is. It's a guy! For one thing. And he used to be a construction worker. (Yeah, wrap your head around that!) so he does a lot of carpentry with the kids, including using power saws (Just let me pause a moment to rid my mind of the image of my fingerless child). He also sews with them. All of his curriculum is based in science, math and reading are taught through science (how many planets? let's read about planets!). He surpasses the provincial requirements for scholastic achievement, even moving into multiplication if the kids are interested, but the focus of his program is still mostly social so that the kids are prepared to move into a bigger school the next year. He gives the kids homework, but it's homework he makes himself, with puzzles and games, and he hand draws it all, hiding pictures of himself through it. It's also all optional but because it's fun, most of the kids do it. Because it's private, there's the head teacher and TWO others in the classroom ALL DAY (including the before and after programs, which are held in the same space), so there's a 1:9 ratio.
swoon
I mean, if someone had taken my child and made a school for him in mind, they couldn't have come up with a better place. Seriously. I mean, this is five year old heaven.
And then next year comes the cold stark reality of regular public school.
Oh I jest, I jest. I spoke to the principal at our local school the other day and they seem really great. She has some great programs and a great attitude and she's passionate about her school. So I'm feeling good about him going there. But no matter how much those teachers love their jobs, they still don't have the resources this school has, and the sheer number of kids they need to accommodate with fewer teachers means no matter how passionate they all are (and it's not just the principal, I spoke briefly to another teacher when I went and registered, and he was extremely nice too), there's a limit. It's not the teachers I'm blaming, at all. It's that most teachers within our system are underpaid and overworked and the little extras are too much to ask.
It's a system that has been crying out for help for years but the government cannot invest in children. They don't vote!
This last weekend we were having lunch on a nearby grocery patio, and were approached by a man who said he was running for the NDP in the next federal election (for the non-Canadian: he's a strong, strong leftist running for the Canadian, not provincial government) and he needed a bunch of local signatories to say he could run here. After we signed, he asked if we had any questions. I asked his position on a national child care program. I'm a woman in my late thirties sitting with two young children in a nice part of town of the most expensive place in Canada to live, chances are I'm a working parent and I'm HIGHLY in favour of national child care, which I am, so if he'd answered not in favour he'd be pretty stupid, but he said all the right things.
Next time I want to ask about the state of the schools. Because my daughter is about to be signed into an excellent daycare spot, where she'll stay until kindergarten, so my daycare worries are pretty much done. Next up: fighting for excellence in schools.
Sigh.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
A good day
My daughter ate! And not under duress! Totally mouth-opening, normal baby eating! Like 10 bites!!! With tiny chunks and there was no gagging and vomiting!!!
Also, I'm pretty sure she got a spot at the daycare centre I wanted.
Awe.Some.
Sent from my iPad
Monday, March 21, 2011
In other news ...
Rice is evil.
Or: Salespeople always lie.
We have a dishwasher, as I've mentioned. We bought this dishwasher a year ago December, which is to say 15 months ago. It's a great dishwasher. I love it. It's efficient, it's quiet, and it almost always cleans the dishes to a glorious shine.
We did some research before we bought it because our last dishwasher was such a hunk of crap (It was a Maytag, by the way.) The new one is a Bosch. The only thing we didn't love about it is that it didn't come with an internal macerator, which we read was an Excellent Feature.
The salesmen assured us it was not a problem. They showed us the filter. "Not a problem!" they said. "Look how fine the mesh is!" (It is fine. Like a coffee filter.) "Nothing can get through unless it's mushed up by the water pressure! And if it is so mushed it can't clog the drain! And it's easy to remove if you do need to clean it!"
And it was true. Or seemingly.
Because the guy who came and fixed it pulled out rice. Rice and a few seeds. "You don't have a macerator in here," he said. "The drains are clogged."
"They said the filter would catch that," I stammered.
He looked at me like I was quite possibly the dumbest person alive. "No. You need to rinse the plates."
Now I'm dumb AND a bad housekeeper.
So now I rinse. I rinse to the point of crazy. I rinse yogurt, people. Yogurt. Seriously if the drain can't handle plain yogurt I'm not sure what the world is coming to.
But at least I'll be saving $300 and numerous derisive looks by doing so.
Or: Salespeople always lie.
We have a dishwasher, as I've mentioned. We bought this dishwasher a year ago December, which is to say 15 months ago. It's a great dishwasher. I love it. It's efficient, it's quiet, and it almost always cleans the dishes to a glorious shine.
We did some research before we bought it because our last dishwasher was such a hunk of crap (It was a Maytag, by the way.) The new one is a Bosch. The only thing we didn't love about it is that it didn't come with an internal macerator, which we read was an Excellent Feature.
The salesmen assured us it was not a problem. They showed us the filter. "Not a problem!" they said. "Look how fine the mesh is!" (It is fine. Like a coffee filter.) "Nothing can get through unless it's mushed up by the water pressure! And if it is so mushed it can't clog the drain! And it's easy to remove if you do need to clean it!"
And it was true. Or seemingly.
Because the guy who came and fixed it pulled out rice. Rice and a few seeds. "You don't have a macerator in here," he said. "The drains are clogged."
"They said the filter would catch that," I stammered.
He looked at me like I was quite possibly the dumbest person alive. "No. You need to rinse the plates."
Now I'm dumb AND a bad housekeeper.
So now I rinse. I rinse to the point of crazy. I rinse yogurt, people. Yogurt. Seriously if the drain can't handle plain yogurt I'm not sure what the world is coming to.
But at least I'll be saving $300 and numerous derisive looks by doing so.
I'm approaching back to work with a bit of ambivalence, I must admit. There's a big part of me that can't stand the thought of it, mostly because I can picture in my head my daughter crying and reaching for me at daycare and the thought makes my stomach heave.
But there's part of me who wants to go.
I didn't realize this until last night. I was lying in bed wondering to myself why I was angry, why I was annoyed with things so much and the answer is this: I'm really bored.
I hasten to assure you I am not bored with my children. I am bored as SH*T by the cleaning -- dishes, laundry, tidying -- that I have to do every single day.
I can imagine that if all I had to do all day was lie on the floor with my kids while my five year old told me amusing stories about the "game" we were playing and the baby crawled all over me and showed me her latest delighted find my shoving things in my face, then I might be a bit more keen.
But these children do need to be clothed and fed, and while I might be ok with them wearing slightly stained clothing, I know that it's easier to make even slightly decent meals in a clean kitchen. And let's not even go into the hygiene aspect of a dirty kitchen.
So I do it every day. The dishwasher, loads of dishes, cleaning the counters, sweeping the floor. I tidy toys, and I do laundry, washing, drying, and putting away.
And no one ever sees. I'm like a house elf. My kid puts his underwear in the hamper at night, and a day or so later they end up in his drawer again all clean. Oh, yeah, much of the time he helps putting them away. Still.
And what of hobbies? Well, as I've written before, I can't sit down for a moment without being the kid-magnet, I can't write or read or watch a show or knit without being descended upon within five minutes. That's not enough for more than a page or two of a book or a row of knitting.
Lest you think I'm complaining, I'm not. I am SO lucky to have two kids to take care of and a husband who loves me. I'm so lucky to have a home. I am so lucky to have a whole year off to be with my baby and my son.
But I'm comparing life at home with life at work, where I get to sit alone and drink coffee unimpeded, where I get to sit and concentrate on something important to me for often hours at a time. Where people see and hear me and say thank you. Where I can take breaks and read a book at lunch or go for a walk at the pace I want to walk.
So I'm not looking forward to it. I'm not. But I'm acknowledging that there will be some really, really great things about it.
But there's part of me who wants to go.
I didn't realize this until last night. I was lying in bed wondering to myself why I was angry, why I was annoyed with things so much and the answer is this: I'm really bored.
I hasten to assure you I am not bored with my children. I am bored as SH*T by the cleaning -- dishes, laundry, tidying -- that I have to do every single day.
I can imagine that if all I had to do all day was lie on the floor with my kids while my five year old told me amusing stories about the "game" we were playing and the baby crawled all over me and showed me her latest delighted find my shoving things in my face, then I might be a bit more keen.
But these children do need to be clothed and fed, and while I might be ok with them wearing slightly stained clothing, I know that it's easier to make even slightly decent meals in a clean kitchen. And let's not even go into the hygiene aspect of a dirty kitchen.
So I do it every day. The dishwasher, loads of dishes, cleaning the counters, sweeping the floor. I tidy toys, and I do laundry, washing, drying, and putting away.
And no one ever sees. I'm like a house elf. My kid puts his underwear in the hamper at night, and a day or so later they end up in his drawer again all clean. Oh, yeah, much of the time he helps putting them away. Still.
And what of hobbies? Well, as I've written before, I can't sit down for a moment without being the kid-magnet, I can't write or read or watch a show or knit without being descended upon within five minutes. That's not enough for more than a page or two of a book or a row of knitting.
Lest you think I'm complaining, I'm not. I am SO lucky to have two kids to take care of and a husband who loves me. I'm so lucky to have a home. I am so lucky to have a whole year off to be with my baby and my son.
But I'm comparing life at home with life at work, where I get to sit alone and drink coffee unimpeded, where I get to sit and concentrate on something important to me for often hours at a time. Where people see and hear me and say thank you. Where I can take breaks and read a book at lunch or go for a walk at the pace I want to walk.
So I'm not looking forward to it. I'm not. But I'm acknowledging that there will be some really, really great things about it.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Rant
I'm venting. Feel free not to read!
OK. Seriously, if one more person tells me that I just need to "nurse less" and my baby will suddenly miraculously start scarfing down food, I will probably punch them. I mean, don't they think I've been TRYING to feed her? For going on FIVE months now? That, despite how mean it is to withhold food from your child, that I've TRIED that? I've tried feeding her when she's hungry and not hungry and in between. I've tried purees and chunks and dry crackers. I've tried drinks and smoothies. I've done fruit and veggies and cereals and pasta and every goddam thing I can think of. What no one seems to be able to understand is that I cannot FORCE HER MOUTH OPEN. I cannot FORCE HER TO SWALLOW. Even the doctors have told me in no uncertain terms not to force things, because it will just make it worse. She does not WANT food in her mouth. She gags on it. She spits it out. She's starting to cry when she's in her high chair because she does NOT WANT TO BE THERE. Even though I am happy! And smiling! And offering! Not forcing! DOES. NOT. WANT.
She has a PROBLEM, ok, and I KNOW it, and I'm trying to DEAL with it, with therapy and specialists and whatnot, but telling me I'm just "nursing her too much" is NOT THE F'ING SOLUTION.
I'm nursing her because without that she would quite clearly STARVE.
OK. Seriously, if one more person tells me that I just need to "nurse less" and my baby will suddenly miraculously start scarfing down food, I will probably punch them. I mean, don't they think I've been TRYING to feed her? For going on FIVE months now? That, despite how mean it is to withhold food from your child, that I've TRIED that? I've tried feeding her when she's hungry and not hungry and in between. I've tried purees and chunks and dry crackers. I've tried drinks and smoothies. I've done fruit and veggies and cereals and pasta and every goddam thing I can think of. What no one seems to be able to understand is that I cannot FORCE HER MOUTH OPEN. I cannot FORCE HER TO SWALLOW. Even the doctors have told me in no uncertain terms not to force things, because it will just make it worse. She does not WANT food in her mouth. She gags on it. She spits it out. She's starting to cry when she's in her high chair because she does NOT WANT TO BE THERE. Even though I am happy! And smiling! And offering! Not forcing! DOES. NOT. WANT.
She has a PROBLEM, ok, and I KNOW it, and I'm trying to DEAL with it, with therapy and specialists and whatnot, but telling me I'm just "nursing her too much" is NOT THE F'ING SOLUTION.
I'm nursing her because without that she would quite clearly STARVE.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Operation: Declutter
I'm happy to report that two closets today netted me four large bags of stuff to get rid of.
I'm less happy to report that the house looks no different than it did earlier this morning. How do we have so. Much. STUFF??!
I'm less happy to report that the house looks no different than it did earlier this morning. How do we have so. Much. STUFF??!
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Mom of a girl fail
Clearly this is why the girls in The Boy's preschool all have short hair. The experienced moms of girls know that these barrettes are the gateway drug to driving yourself batty and going broke.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Future Plans
So my son is still fixated on the good guy / bad guy dichotomy. I'm told it's normal for little boys. So the other day we're driving and he tells me that policemen are cool because they are the good guys. And I ask if he'd like to be a policeman when he grows up.
The Boy: No. I want to be a SCIENTIST.
Me: (mentally patting myself on the back for raising such an intelligent and wonderful child who chooses something so worthwhile as a profession. And hooray! For the superhero / bad guy / good guy obsession loosening its grip!) Oh, that's great!
The Boy: Yeah. Cause then I'll make a potion that will turn me into a SUPERHERO and I'll get to HELP the police!
Me: *fail*
The Boy: No. I want to be a SCIENTIST.
Me: (mentally patting myself on the back for raising such an intelligent and wonderful child who chooses something so worthwhile as a profession. And hooray! For the superhero / bad guy / good guy obsession loosening its grip!) Oh, that's great!
The Boy: Yeah. Cause then I'll make a potion that will turn me into a SUPERHERO and I'll get to HELP the police!
Me: *fail*
Aftermath
So yeah. I called. They will call me. "Didn't you get a cover letter?" they ask. Yes, I reply. But while the cover letter says "we want to keep waiting times to a minimum" and "we would like to arrange an appointment" it doesn't EVER say "we will call you" or "please call us". It just says "we'd like to arrange an appointment" and then STOPS.
Perhaps, I suggested, this should be more clearly spelled out.
So we wait. We will wait and see.
Perhaps, I suggested, this should be more clearly spelled out.
So we wait. We will wait and see.
Developmental Abilities
My daughter has, on a few occasions, now deigned to open her mouth and accept nourishment. Don't get too excited: at most she's ingested over the past two weeks about two tablespoons of food. In TOTAL. But it's such a huge step forward from not allowing ANYTHING in her mouth that I'm pretty happy about it.
One of the recommendations from the pediatrician was to put a referral in to an occupational therapist so that we could, if needed, after 12 months is she still wasn't eating, address what might become an oral aversion, given she puts nothing in her mouth. We both felt this was unlikely, that she was much more likely to start soon, as she has done. We still have a long way to go, but it's looking more and more likely that she'll just figure it out on her own. Late. But fine.
I almost completely forgot about the referral, to be honest, and just expected a call from some therapist at some point in a couple months. I don't know how this works, luckily.
But what came through the mail today was a Package. A Package with a capital P. With probably a dozen different sheets and information and stuff to read, along with brochures and letters and ... I had no idea what it was to start with, until I finally read the letter about a referral with a cc to the pediatrician, and then I remembered.
I've read a couple blogs by parents of kids with varying disabilities, and the hoops and issues they deal with sound overwhelming. This package gave me an altogether new appreciation for this. I mean, not only is there a ton of information to go through before we even talk to them, but for the life of me I can't find -- anywhere -- any information whatsoever on when our appointment might be, or how to go about getting an appointment, or what I should do next. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I mean ... what? What should I do? There's nothing that even says "we will call you soon" or anything. Believe me. I checked. I'm tired and sick and worn out but I checked.
What if I were a concerned parent? What if I were a parent who already had so much on my mind like my baby isn't developing, I think something is really wrong? I don't think that about my baby, I don't have that stress, but I imagine if you did you really wouldn't want to sift through all that information only to find that the one thing you needed to know wasn't there.
To add insult to injury, there IS information on how to appeal a decision, and the various ways you can appeal. and how the appeal process works, and who it goes through first, second, third, and fourth. Which just makes me realize even more acutely how tough things are when your kids aren't healthy.
Gah.
Anyway. I shall call. I shall ask. I shall endeavour to keep feeding my child, so much as she will allow.
And I will continue to thank my lucky stars that it isn't anything more serious.
One of the recommendations from the pediatrician was to put a referral in to an occupational therapist so that we could, if needed, after 12 months is she still wasn't eating, address what might become an oral aversion, given she puts nothing in her mouth. We both felt this was unlikely, that she was much more likely to start soon, as she has done. We still have a long way to go, but it's looking more and more likely that she'll just figure it out on her own. Late. But fine.
I almost completely forgot about the referral, to be honest, and just expected a call from some therapist at some point in a couple months. I don't know how this works, luckily.
But what came through the mail today was a Package. A Package with a capital P. With probably a dozen different sheets and information and stuff to read, along with brochures and letters and ... I had no idea what it was to start with, until I finally read the letter about a referral with a cc to the pediatrician, and then I remembered.
I've read a couple blogs by parents of kids with varying disabilities, and the hoops and issues they deal with sound overwhelming. This package gave me an altogether new appreciation for this. I mean, not only is there a ton of information to go through before we even talk to them, but for the life of me I can't find -- anywhere -- any information whatsoever on when our appointment might be, or how to go about getting an appointment, or what I should do next. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I mean ... what? What should I do? There's nothing that even says "we will call you soon" or anything. Believe me. I checked. I'm tired and sick and worn out but I checked.
What if I were a concerned parent? What if I were a parent who already had so much on my mind like my baby isn't developing, I think something is really wrong? I don't think that about my baby, I don't have that stress, but I imagine if you did you really wouldn't want to sift through all that information only to find that the one thing you needed to know wasn't there.
To add insult to injury, there IS information on how to appeal a decision, and the various ways you can appeal. and how the appeal process works, and who it goes through first, second, third, and fourth. Which just makes me realize even more acutely how tough things are when your kids aren't healthy.
Gah.
Anyway. I shall call. I shall ask. I shall endeavour to keep feeding my child, so much as she will allow.
And I will continue to thank my lucky stars that it isn't anything more serious.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Begin again
Yesterday we hosted -- at the local community centre -- a fifth birthday party for my son. We invited everyone his age at his daycare as well as a bunch of friends who've already passed through the centre -- a reunion of sorts. We sent 19 invites, and 15 kids came, and while the craziness was pretty amazing, the kids had a lot of fun. It was the first time I've ever organized a birthday party that big, and I thought it was a good time to do so -- when The Boy is six months from leaving that daycare system for good, when the kids will disperse to their local schools and they may not see each other again.
The other parents agreed with me. We seem to share a sense of melancholy over the daycare ending. Many of the kids The Boy has been friends with for almost three or even four years -- some he's known since his toddler days, and they went though the system together. They've stayed friends through all of that, and I've gotten to know the other parents too. It's been a really, really good experience, one I'm grateful to have -- not only the daycare, but a sense of community and camaraderie in raising small children ... which is not an easy task.
And yet at the same time I'm feeling sad about my son moving on, I realize that I'm just about to start this all over again with The Girl. She's due for a spot in May, hopefully at the same toddler centre, and I'll get to know a whole new set of parents, this time as the mom of a daughter. And I sure hope that I'll get to host a big fifth birthday party for her with all her friends from all the years she was in care too.
The other parents agreed with me. We seem to share a sense of melancholy over the daycare ending. Many of the kids The Boy has been friends with for almost three or even four years -- some he's known since his toddler days, and they went though the system together. They've stayed friends through all of that, and I've gotten to know the other parents too. It's been a really, really good experience, one I'm grateful to have -- not only the daycare, but a sense of community and camaraderie in raising small children ... which is not an easy task.
And yet at the same time I'm feeling sad about my son moving on, I realize that I'm just about to start this all over again with The Girl. She's due for a spot in May, hopefully at the same toddler centre, and I'll get to know a whole new set of parents, this time as the mom of a daughter. And I sure hope that I'll get to host a big fifth birthday party for her with all her friends from all the years she was in care too.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Friday muck
I keep working on a post about my wonderful five year old but I have a nasty sinus cold and headache, it's pouring rain, Japan is collapsing, my cat is loud and obnoxious, the baby has a gooseegg, the dishwasher has been broken a week meaning lots of loads of dishes and is now fixed but we spent a bunch of money that just isn't really there at the end of a maternity leave, and I'm trying to prepare for a party tomorrow and my trip to the dollar store this morning got plates, cups, napkins, party favours, balloons, and even party bags but forgot UTENSILS. And it's not like they can just pick up the cake to eat it, it's ICE CREAM CAKE.
My head is a fog. My body hurts. I'd like to go to bed.
But the dishes call.
My head is a fog. My body hurts. I'd like to go to bed.
But the dishes call.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Child magnet
I haven't knit since before my daughter was born. Not for lack of desire: it's just not an activity (pointy sticks and knottable yarn) that goes well with baby care.
You'd think it would get better now she's older, but now I have a different problem: the mommy magnet. Meaning that if I ever find myself sitting comfortably on the couch, ready to knit or -- for example -- write a blog post, I am within mere minutes covered with children. I can sneakily sit down when my son is reading in the other room and my daughter is engaged with a toy and still, somehow, moments later, I am covered in children.
Incidentally this also works if I'm in the kitchen cleaning, or in the bathroom showering. My daughter, the mommy-seeker, has discovered the many advantages of mobility.
I do regret the loss of personal autonomy. I miss knitting. But this stage only lasts so long, and they will be grown before I know it.
And meanwhile I knit while standing at the dining room sideboard. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Accomplished
The week's grocery shopping is done, three loads of dishes washed (since the dishwasher is broken), the toilet plumbed (and $150 spent for the privilege of a burly and rather handsome man to come into my ensuite and flush my toilet), and four dozen mini cupcakes baked in preparation for the big event tomorrow: The Fifth Birthday.
Five. My little boy will be five. I can't believe it.
Five. My little boy will be five. I can't believe it.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Away
My father is a university professor. Or was, I guess, although he still maintains an office and goes in everyday despite being forcibly retired five years ago. Anyway. One year many moons back he took a sabbatical, and for many many reasons (many more than I want to / can go in to now), he went away for part of it alone.
Six weeks, as I recall. I was eleven, my sister would have been 14. We stayed home with my mom. It was a fine time, I don't remember one way or another it being either bad or good. I don't remember it being any different from any other time my dad went away, which wasn't much.
What I do recall is that he came home one evening, around dinnertime, in the car (he'd driven down south for the trip). And my mother, my normally very reserved and calm mother, RAN out of the house to meet the car before he'd even finished pulling in. My normally calm and logical mother, almost in tears. I remember being kind of surprised at that. She hadn't seemed to miss him overly, not moreso than I'd have expected.
It's only now that I realize that no matter how well it had gone, no matter how much help we were and how easy it was, it's HARD being a solo parent. You miss your co-parent a lot, and not just for the stuff they do, but for the feeling that you're in things together.
Which is to say: I'm very pleased that The Man is home today after two weeks away. My co-parent is back. And Thank God.
Six weeks, as I recall. I was eleven, my sister would have been 14. We stayed home with my mom. It was a fine time, I don't remember one way or another it being either bad or good. I don't remember it being any different from any other time my dad went away, which wasn't much.
What I do recall is that he came home one evening, around dinnertime, in the car (he'd driven down south for the trip). And my mother, my normally very reserved and calm mother, RAN out of the house to meet the car before he'd even finished pulling in. My normally calm and logical mother, almost in tears. I remember being kind of surprised at that. She hadn't seemed to miss him overly, not moreso than I'd have expected.
It's only now that I realize that no matter how well it had gone, no matter how much help we were and how easy it was, it's HARD being a solo parent. You miss your co-parent a lot, and not just for the stuff they do, but for the feeling that you're in things together.
Which is to say: I'm very pleased that The Man is home today after two weeks away. My co-parent is back. And Thank God.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Aw, who cares about a title? It's just a bunch of stuff.
So this week has been epic in terms of daycare and kindergarten stuff -- I got offered a daycare spot for my daughter, turned it down, because I am insane, in the hopes that a different one will come up at the right time at the exact right centre ... all I can think is that I've become delusional because the idea of turning down a good spot at a good centre is insane in this city. So here's hoping that the spot I am thinking will come open, will do so, AND that we will be offered it. I am perhaps too optimistic for Vancouver.
However, I DID get the kindergarten call I had been waiting for, and I have my orientation (not his. Mine.) set up for later this month. I asked the lady on the phone if I should have a one-on-one meeting with the teacher as well, and she kinda paused. "It's not that he's got special needs," I hedged. "I just want to know if I should chat with him about my kid now or if he prefers to meet the kids first." She opted for the latter, which is fine with me. Maybe setting up my kid for expectations isn't the best way to go.
* * * * * *
I spent the better part of this week with my mother, first at her house and then at mine. I find having her in my space is stressful, mostly because every suggestion she makes feels like a criticism of the way I do things. Oh, I get that that is MY problem, not hers, I'm merely explaining my stress. Plus similar to my in-laws she cannot just sit and play with my kids, for instance, she always has to be DOING something. In that light, I did learn something that illuminated our differing philosophies in child rearing. This year, despite my many complaints about it on this blog, I have been trying to make sure I get time home with my son as well as my daughter. I work full time, this is my one chance, really, to spend more time with him. And so lots of other things don't get done. The house cleaning, for all I bitch about it, for one thing. So yeah, I complain about my kids driving me crazy, and I complain about the messy house, but I also realize that my kids are only little once. The messy house is a messy house, I can clean it now or I can clean it in five years, it'll still be here. My son wanting to spend his time with me is fleeting.
But my mom, in coming over to my place, was all "We need to get things done! Let's take The Boy to daycare! You take him most days, right?" And I said no, he stays home some weeks several days, as many as three. "But you need to get things done!" she gasped. "And you're already paying for it!"
Well, yes. I do have things to do. I am paying for it. But my kid's childhood is more important than money and a clean house.
* * * * * *
The house, incidentally, is a mess. Hope his childhood memories aren't entirely of living in squalor.
However, I DID get the kindergarten call I had been waiting for, and I have my orientation (not his. Mine.) set up for later this month. I asked the lady on the phone if I should have a one-on-one meeting with the teacher as well, and she kinda paused. "It's not that he's got special needs," I hedged. "I just want to know if I should chat with him about my kid now or if he prefers to meet the kids first." She opted for the latter, which is fine with me. Maybe setting up my kid for expectations isn't the best way to go.
* * * * * *
I spent the better part of this week with my mother, first at her house and then at mine. I find having her in my space is stressful, mostly because every suggestion she makes feels like a criticism of the way I do things. Oh, I get that that is MY problem, not hers, I'm merely explaining my stress. Plus similar to my in-laws she cannot just sit and play with my kids, for instance, she always has to be DOING something. In that light, I did learn something that illuminated our differing philosophies in child rearing. This year, despite my many complaints about it on this blog, I have been trying to make sure I get time home with my son as well as my daughter. I work full time, this is my one chance, really, to spend more time with him. And so lots of other things don't get done. The house cleaning, for all I bitch about it, for one thing. So yeah, I complain about my kids driving me crazy, and I complain about the messy house, but I also realize that my kids are only little once. The messy house is a messy house, I can clean it now or I can clean it in five years, it'll still be here. My son wanting to spend his time with me is fleeting.
But my mom, in coming over to my place, was all "We need to get things done! Let's take The Boy to daycare! You take him most days, right?" And I said no, he stays home some weeks several days, as many as three. "But you need to get things done!" she gasped. "And you're already paying for it!"
Well, yes. I do have things to do. I am paying for it. But my kid's childhood is more important than money and a clean house.
* * * * * *
The house, incidentally, is a mess. Hope his childhood memories aren't entirely of living in squalor.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Thinking...
That it's kinda ironic that I learned from my ex's parents about the kind of parent -- especially to adult children -- that I *didn't* want to be, and I'm learning now from my spouse's parents about the kind of in-laws -- and grandparents -- I *do* want to be.
It's nice to know that when I traded up for a partner I was trading up for the rest of the extended family too.
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