Genie S. Musings

Breathing in, Breathing out

2011-12-30T13:45:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally.

With time to think.

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

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

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

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

2011-12-20T21:38:00.000-08:00

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

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

I felt like super mom.

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

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

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

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

Ho Ho Holidays

2011-12-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

Respite of clean

2011-12-04T15:16:00.001-08:00

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

Day to day

2011-11-19T08:08:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

So here's the thing

2011-11-13T19:22:00.001-08:00

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

* * * *

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-10-09T20:56:00.002-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first weekend

2011-09-10T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

getupgotothebathroommakecoffeemakebreakfastforthreekidseatbreakfastandoverseetwokidseatingbreakfastshowerwashhairandbodydryoffpickoutfitgetdressedfixhairandmakeupifIhavetimemakethreelunchesfindcoatsandshoesanddaycareorschoolsuppliesherdtwochildrenintothecaranddrive.

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

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

Oh my Milestones!

2011-09-01T15:13:00.000-07:00

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

And just like that, my baby was gone.

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

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

My baby.

Hard to believe.

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

Almost the end

2011-08-24T08:43:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nursing gymnastics

2011-08-19T16:16:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because she does.

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

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

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

But.

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

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

It's not a vacation when there are children

2011-08-17T15:31:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vacation.

Two days, but I'll take it.

The latest in femininity

2011-08-07T08:49:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

"Apparently," I replied.

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

Femininity

2011-08-03T20:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

Having said all that?

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

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

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

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

What I'm thinking today ...

2011-08-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

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

So: fresh fruit! Go mom!

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

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

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

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

Over emoting

2011-07-29T14:33:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Uh Oh. It's a toddler

2011-07-28T18:54:00.000-07:00

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

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

Over the course of the day I found her:

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

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

The baby, she is all gone now.

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

Conversations we actually have

2011-07-24T09:00:00.000-07:00

"We have beautiful children."

"I know. They sprang from my loins."

"Fully formed!"

"Unlike how they sprang from YOUR loins."

"Yeah, they were just an idea."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Watch out boys!"

Quite clearly missing the fun gene

2011-07-21T19:28:00.000-07:00

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

Go-kart racing.

Believe it.

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

Walk out, climb in a lawn mower.

Seriously, the thing started with a pull cord.

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

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

Started planning for our next time.

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

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

My inner weeping feminist

2011-07-17T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

"Baybee!" she wept as we said goodbye.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was happy all the way home.

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

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

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

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

My inner feminist wept.

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

She laughed.

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

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

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

I just need to love them through it.

I used to be so good at this

2011-07-14T21:15:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

But wow, could I ever use a nap.

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

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

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

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

out

off

baby!

mama

dada

bye

eat

berry

cat

juice

uh-oh

yay!

shoes

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

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

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

Yeah, I know. Me and my BIG PROBLEMS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such is my life, indeed. Crazy. Wonderful.

Lucky

2011-06-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father's Day

2011-06-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

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

For being my partner in life.

For being him.

Happy Father's Day to him. Happy sleeping.

Well, it's finally happened ...

2011-06-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

Marriage.

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

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

I heard that. I cringed.

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

He shrugs.

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

"it's better."

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

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

*******

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

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

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

I assure him that I will make cake this weekend.

And all is fine with the world once more.

Writerly

2011-06-10T18:30:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

And *no one had said anything*.

Awesome.

Sent from my iPad

Exacting

2011-06-10T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Passing it on

2011-06-09T07:21:00.000-07:00

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

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

Whee!

Sent from my iPad

Bored

2011-06-07T12:24:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

But I do.

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

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

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

I sympathize with him, to be honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A brief moment of harmony

2011-06-04T16:34:00.000-07:00

Chowing down

2011-06-01T18:33:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Has related intestinal distress.

Crazy. Just ... crazy.

Sent from my iPad

Thinking

2011-05-31T12:11:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

Liar liar

2011-05-29T08:07:00.000-07:00

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

Lies lies lies.

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

It's aggravating, is what it is.

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

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

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

Saga, continued

2011-05-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

So when we last left our heroes ...

No, wait. That's not right.

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

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

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

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

Annnnnd in the meantime: we have success!

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

Sure!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sent from my iPad

Paging Dr. Googlek

2011-05-25T20:54:00.000-07:00

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

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

It's beyond frustrating.

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

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

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

Just kidding.

Sent from my iPad

So much to say! So little time to type!

2011-05-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

******

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

******

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

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

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

*******

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

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

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

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

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

Daycare, Day Ten

2011-05-17T09:47:00.001-07:00

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

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

Sigh.

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

That *I'm* ok.

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

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

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

It will be a trial.

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

The State of Things

2011-05-15T09:05:00.000-07:00

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

Pauses to pick up baby and nurse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pause to settle children again.

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

Say WHAT? Usborne books FTW!

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

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

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

God yes. I hope so, someday.

But not now.

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

And now, back to the weekend laundry blitz.

Daycare, Day Five

2011-05-09T20:55:00.000-07:00

After a Friday that I am glad will never be repeated, and a weekend of clinginess including a trip in the car that gave us brief hysterics, I was definitely not looking forward to today's daycare event. We got ready like usual and went out the door as usual and arrived The Boy's daycare as usual and she was in a fine mood. We went to her daycare. She was fine. Smiling! Happy! Eager to play! We sat around. We chatted. We tried nursing but she was not keen. She wanted to have some fun. So I stood up to go.

"eh? EH? EHHHH!!!! EHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"

She was not amused.

I got back into my car and drove it to where I could park. And cried. It feels so wrong, leaving her. I don't think that leaving children of her age is a great idea, and I miss her dreadfully. I want to be closer to her with every fibre of my being, but I don't see a way to do that. I can't work without some kind of care, and I want and need to work. So.

I went in to work. I worked. It was kind of nice to be thinking again. I ate lunch, had a walk, chatted with co-workers. Sat down at 2pm for some tea. Realized it was nice -- really nice -- to sit for a bit with some tea, to not be interrupted.

I left early, at 3:30. I'd been in touch with the daycare, they said I could come at the end of the day if I wanted, that she was "fine", but I didn't know just how she was, so I left early.

And I got there, and she was sitting at snack, and she looked up and saw me, and grinned. She grinned. She smiled and waved back at the caregiver who was with her. Flirted a little. She went with me over to the couch to nurse, but pointed outside. The other kids were all just heading out, and she wanted to go too, dammit! So we nursed, and went outside, and she wanted down, and wanted to play, and didn't want to go home.

I still hate this decision. I still hate leaving her, and I still think 12 months is too early. But it's a hell of a lot easier to do when she is obviously liking where she is, who she's with, and having fun.

Incidentally -- one of the reasons I love her daycare (even if I don't like leaving her there) is that they call to update me. They called post nap, and said she'd only slept for a short while, but that she'd been "resting" in the caregivers' arms for an hour or so. Yeah -- they cuddled her, for an hour. If she can't be with me, at least she's with people who really, honestly, seem to care for her.

Centipede Assassins

2011-05-09T17:08:00.000-07:00

The Boy, backyard: AHHHH!!! AHHH!!! CENTIPEDE!!

Me: That's ok. Centipedes can't hurt you.

TB: Q (from daycare) says they can kill you!

Me: Oh, in some parts of the world centipedes are dangerous. But not here. The ones here aren't poisonous.

TB: They don't have to be poisonous to kill you!

Me: .... Well how do they do it then?

TB: They have KNIVES. In between their TEETH. I saw them kill some guy!

Me: .....

Do five year olds have special hallucinogenics?

In other, much more amusing news ...

2011-05-05T22:33:00.000-07:00

So my son informs me last night that "it's very dangerous to have a splinter in you and not get it out because it will CATCH ON FIRE!!"

When I laughed out loud, long and hard, at this news, he then huffily explained to me that since the source of this information was "at least 45" (i.e. older than me) that the older informer in question must be right.

Ah the land of kids, where the older you are, the smarter / more knowledgeable you are.

It wasn't until The Man heard this story this morning that he realized that what The Boy had probably heard and misinterpreted was that splinters left in skin can become INFLAMED.

I laughed long and hard at that one too. But for different reasons -- mostly that the word nerd in me hadn't ever put that together.

Back to work blues

2011-05-05T18:42:00.000-07:00

I spent the morning feeling lost and overwhelmed. It was her third day at daycare, my third back at work. She was eager to get out of the house, and fine with being left -- she barely batted an eyelid as I left her, just as she has been each morning so far. When I went to get her she cried for the first time, but had been fine all day. A little fussing here and there, but generally very good tempered, talking and laughing and enjoying her little self.

But me. I am a little lost without her. Foggy. Missing something. Wishing for her. Missing the endorphin rush from breastfeeding her.

And I sit in my office, and wonder what I'm doing, and re-think this decision, and I comfort myself with thoughts of a job change, of quitting in six months once my contract is done. You never know.

I sit and wish I could move away and start all over again, taking my cozy and comfy family, just the four of us, away.

And then despite it all, despite the uncertainty of my decision and the uncertainty of the future, I feel lucky, because I have so much, everything I ever need, in just three other people.

Now it's a saga

2011-05-04T21:24:00.000-07:00

So my daughter. And the eating. Oy vey. I wrote a while back that she'd started eating. And she had. She'd started sticking things in her mouth -- toys, food, and her own fingers! -- and stopped gagging. So much. I bought baby food. She ate it. Ay me! It's all fixed!

Not so much though. Because she's one and purees are IT. That's all she can get down. The other day I managed to get her to eat a bit of very over cooked rice and overcooked carrot. They were ALMOST puree but not quite. And that was a major victory. A whole new accomplishment.

She's ONE. Most babies, by this age, apparently, can eat dry cheerios. I wouldn't know, I never had a baby who could do that at one. (I don't breed gifted eaters, it seems.) But still. My last baby wouldn't have gagged on mushy rice. He might not have liked it, but I wasn't forever hauling him out of the high chair to whack him on the back to prevent choking, is what I'm saying.

The infant development people think that she's "delayed" and would probably figure it out, but why not help her out with a little therapy -- OT, speech therapy, what have you. But not now. Not in May, when she's started daycare, let's start in June so she's not stressed out by too much at once. Which frustrates me because I should probably have started in April, but I put it off. I was just so relieved she was eating that I just kinda figured it was all fixed and would go away on it's own.

The pediatrician, who I saw today, thinks it's possible she's got a little esophageal stenosis (narrowing. Just narrowing. To save you looking it up.) going on and so we should get an upper GI xray with barium and ... stuff. And then insert a balloon to blow up her esophagus. Because maybe that's why she can't swallow anything thicker than puree.

Uh. Yeah.

It's so strange how something that's just a non-issue at 6 months turns into a personal idiosyncrasy at nine months turns into an annoyance and a worry at 10 months and into full on hospital time at 12. What's even more strange is that her growth is great, 50th percentile for weight and 75th (!!) for height, so ... well, clearly she ain't starving. Oh, yeah, I know, she can't survive solely on breastmilk for too many years but it's also not like she's losing weight and not thriving. She's thriving, baby. She's thriving.

Sigh.

Anyway. The referral for the upper GI takes a month or so, so I have a month to get her to eat a Cheerio so I can cancel the whole procedure. Wish me luck.

Seizing the moment

2011-05-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

I used this morning's (mostly dismal) election results to educate my son about "making the best of a bad (dismal) situation".

Sigh.

(conservative majority? Really Canada? I have no words. I feel like I don't know my own country any more.)

May

2011-05-02T14:46:00.000-07:00

Blogging has been very hard with a mobile baby, and back-to-work prep, and wanting to just spend as much as time as possible away from screens, frankly. I've been spending my sparse spare time at the new daycare, acclimatizing The Girl -- not leaving her, of course, but visiting and letting her get a feel for the place and the people. She's been enjoying it, and it paid off in spades this morning when I waved bye-bye and there was No. Crying.

Seriously.

At all.

I mean, from her. I left her there, walked out to my car for my things, sat down and cried. I'm going to miss my baby, miss my easy days at home, miss having a relatively clean house, miss having time to myself, and miss most of all the rainy afternoons when I'd crawl into bed with my daughter and lay there half asleep while she snoozed, feeling her tiny body calmly sleeping cuddled against me.

It's not like any of this is over and done with. There will just be a lot less of it. Which is sad.

Anyway I am thrilled she survived her first hour without me. (Daycare initiation: one hour the first day. Two the next. etc.) Totally thrilled and pleased she had a good time.

And totally aware that this is Not Over Yet.

An hour means no eating and no sleeping. Heck she was only just getting tired for her first nap when I got back. Everything changes with a sleepy baby. Or a hungry one.

But you know, one hurdle at a time. This first one we scaled with ease, and I can't tell you how happy that makes me. There's nothing worse than walking away, smiling, from a screaming, reaching baby. And not having to do that today was a gift.

* * * * *

In other news, we're having a federal election today. We're also having a provincial by-election in this area, so our mail has been FULL of campaign stuff recently. I appreciate it, most of it. But one of my biggest pet peeves is negative campaigning. Don't send me stuff about the bad things your opponents have done, or will do. Tell me what You Will Do for me. I can make up my own mind. It's insulting to me as a citizen, and can I just say? Politics is full of negativity. The world is full of negativity. Be positive for a change. Put that out there.

I won't vote for you on principle otherwise.

What more is there to say?

2011-04-30T20:52:00.000-07:00

Today she turned one.

I can remember -- some of it very vividly -- every moment of her birth. Of waking in the night, of timing contractions, of trying to convince myself this wasn't it. Of driving to the hospital, still talking and sometimes laughing. Of the 20 minutes of screaming and the surprisingly fast delivery.

I don't understand how something I remember so clearly could be so long ago.

She laughs, she cruises, she is in to everything. She wants to constantly be involved. Her big blue eyes are complimented everywhere we go. Her feet are so tiny that while she's in 12 month clothes, she's still in six month shoes. I can't find boots for her anywhere.

She has a tiny tail of the last of her dark birth hair down the back of her neck. The rest of her hair is a light auburn colour. Kinda. Ish. The birthmarks that covered her eyelids and forehead at birth are mostly faded, but they darken up when she's upset, or too hot.

She is fascinated by her brother's toys, and tries to put lego together but can't quite manage it. But she'd much rather play with anything of his than anything of hers.

She's trying so hard to talk and walk, and the effort to master two major things at once is too much, and she can't quite do either. She says "mama" and "dada" but not really to either of us; she can imitate me saying "hiding" and "babies" because those two words are repeated in her favourite books. She loves pointing out the birds in her books. Her favourite books have birds as the main characters. No idea why.

She loves books. After months of kinda pushing them away, of not really getting it, now it's all she wants to do. The last few times we've had tears it's because I've stopped reading. You know. After the tenth time. Unlike her brother she will want to do the same book over and over and over and over again, for days on end -- and then never again.

She is almost entirely a being of pure delight. Her smiles are full body experiences, her entire body quivering in delight, tensing herself and kicking her legs in happiness. I love seeing her first thing in the morning and cuddling her last thing at night. I love her more than life itself.

She's been here only a year, but it feels like forever.

One year ago

2011-04-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

About to pop. Double chins even! Whee!

I gave birth to my mother

2011-04-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

My daughter has my mother's nose. And her facial expressions. And something about her, maybe it's just my perception, that reminds me of my mom. Which is mostly sweet and endearing, being that I'm fairly fond of my mom and all. Their personalities are not that similar, yet, but just certain expressions that give me a turn seeing them on my toddler's face when I've seen them on my mother's for almost 40 years. She's my mother, with blue eyes and auburn hair instead of green eyes and brown hair.

Admittedly though it's disconcerting while nursing.

Theologically messy

2011-04-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

Someone has heard that the Easter Bunny is coming soon, so created and put this up to ensure his fair share of the Easter loot. Yes, that's the fireplace. What? Do you think the Easter Bunny gets in through the front door?!

I don't know quite what to do about this but it's clear my parental role as educator of my child re: Christian theology AND cultural interpretations of holidays is a major FAIL.

Where was I?

2011-04-18T13:32:00.002-07:00

So my daughter got herself a daycare spot -- I think I mentioned -- so I've been going. Kinda. Sporadically. When I feel I really really should dammit. Because of course, going to her daycare spot means I am going back to work and nah nah nah would like to keep my head in the sand about that one.

The daycare is great. Honestly, great. If I could design a great centre for toddlers with caring people and wonderful, appropriate activities, this would be it. My boy went, and I'm thrilled The Girl will get to go to the same spot.

But.

But every time I think of it, my stomach feels like lead. There's just ... so much. There's her lack of desire to sleep for anyone but me. There's her almost total lack of eating and drinking on her part. There's ... leaving my BABY, of course.

The sick feeling is also part born of perfectionism. I know from last time that the beginning of daycare means months of trying to be a good mom, good wife, good with the household, and good employee, and failing fairly miserably at each one. There are simply not enough hours in a day to accommodate meals, daycare prep, goodbyes, working, pick up, dinner, and the lots and lots of holding that a child newly at daycare needs. And I see in my head the tear-streaked face of my daughter, the disappointment of my son, the frustration of my boss and the stress of my husband as we go through these next few months and it eats at me.

And that coupled with the special eating issues that The Girl has which might just mean I leave my office 2-3 times a day to run over and nurse her which will take a half hour at least means that I'm looking at a full summer of DEAR GOD THIS SUCKS.

It's just going to be Hard. Very Very Hard.

I keep trying to remind myself that I felt this way about daycare last time, and my son THRIVED at daycare. Oh, sure, some days he didn't want to go, but it's helped him immeasureably with his social skills and self-confidence, and I'm so pleased for him. He is a far, far more self-assured five year old than I ever was, and I hope very much that this will translate into good self-esteem and good peer relationships as an older child.

And I also keep trying to remind myself that I'm actually terrible at predicting the future. That heck, she might just surprise me. That given my imagination, I can imagine a lot of bad scenarios, and the reality will be nowhere near as bad as I fear (but also probably not as good as I hope, since I can imagine some pretty awesome scenarios too).

Today I went shopping for dinner, and was berating myself for just not trying hard enough. I haven't tried ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for my daughter to eat, and I clearly should have been, before now. I should have done this or that or anything and everything else. So I went and bought some other things to try. Beating myself up over it the entire time.

I came home and found the bottle that I bought for her weeks ago, that she has often played with and thrown about but has always resisted mightily drinking from, God Forbid, because clearly it's filled with poison and the nipple feels funny in her mouth or ... God knows. Something.

And I filled it with juice, not water, because maybe the sweetness with tempt her. Rot her teeth and fill her with empty calories, but heck anything will do.

And she held it. And drank.

A little bit, of course. A tiny little bit. Some of it ran down her front. Much of it, really. But she tried. And she swallowed. And in that tiny swallow I managed to find a little bit of hope that it won't be all that bad, after all.

At the beach

2011-04-15T13:50:00.000-07:00

2011-04-14T20:23:00.000-07:00

One year ago today I was waiting. Waiting, waiting waiting. I was closing fast on 37 weeks pregnant, and tired of it, and wanting the baby out and terrified of giving birth.

A lot has happened over the past year, but somehow it's impossible to believe it's been a year already. My daughter is almost toddling, and I talked to my boss today about coming back to work.

And I'm pretty sad about it. It's part time work. She has a great daycare spot. We'll still be together. And I know that not only is this very likely the best possible decision for all of us, for so many reasons, but also that in the off chance it doesn't work out, I can probably quit my job in 2012 and stay home. So it's all good. Really. It is.

But I am so, so sad anyway.

2011-04-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

It should not be surprising to me that the bottom half of my cup of coffee is cold.

Portrait of a Sunday morning

2011-04-10T08:51:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to rain. And the sound of The Boy's voice. Please don't come in here, I prayed. The Girl was still sleeping, and hadn't slept all that well; we have a playdate this morning that if she's overly tired will be disastrous. The Man got up, put on a movie for The Boy, back to bed. The cat meows. The cat is outside, in the rain. The Man lets him in, dries him off. The cat continues to meow, wanting back outside. The Man lets him out. Back to bed again.

Around 7am The Girl's internal clock went off and her eyes popped open. She has amazing circadian rhythms that way. 7am, awake, every morning. The Boy was similar at the same age. I never set my alarm for work.

I ply her with a box of bandaids, her favourite toy, for a few more minutes in bed. Out of the box! Into the box! Out of the box! Into the box! Ok, not so much with into the box.

I get up, The Boy is watching his movie, let in the cat, who concedes defeat from the rain and wanders inside, quiet this time. I cut up bacon, both children herd into the kitchen. The Boy gets his stool, watches it cook, The Girl demands up so I end up, as I so often do, cooking on the stove with The Girl in the sling and The Boy watching.

I make coffee, stir the bacon, get out eggs. Crack eggs, scramble, drain bacon, dump in eggs. Coffee brews. Finish cooking, get plate, go to change diaper. The Boy burns his hand on the pan trying to be helpful and take eggs to table. Get freezer pack, soothe tears, sit on kitchen floor cradling both children. Take eggs to table, wipe high chair tray, change diaper (not there, in the other room!), sit The Girl down, pick out eggs for her. The Boy eats. I eat. I encourage The Girl to eat but while she tries she does spit out every bit of egg she gets in her mouth. Decide that she could use some help with solids.

Finish eating, wipe down The Girl, pick her up, wipe down tray, go get coffee. Finally. Sit down to try to do grocery list. The Girl wants up, needs breakfast. Nurse.

Help The Boy clean off coffee table. Negotiate over whose responsibility it is to take away mess thereon. Help open playdoh. Dole out playdoh to each child. Sit back to enjoy coffee.

Get five minutes. If that. More playdoh negotiations, some tears, pay attention, look what I made.

And a dirty diaper will get me to my feet again. Two hours into the day. No rest for the weary.

Another gorgeous day

2011-04-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

Today we went on the swings.

(no. No shoes. She pulled them off en route and then LOST one so I gave up. I figure the "good mom" points for going to the park cancel out the "bad mom" points for no shoes in 13 degree weather. That's Celsius before you call CPS on me.)

Sunshine and dirty toes

2011-04-07T12:47:00.000-07:00

AKA wow my patio needs cleaning!

Also of note

2011-03-28T09:41:00.000-07:00

In my random Internet travels of today I found out that I apparently share a birthday with ....

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.

Portrait of a modern 37-year-old

2011-03-28T09:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Breathless anticipation

2011-03-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Parenting I did right

2011-03-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

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.

:)

Sorry

2011-03-25T14:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-24T17:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Use your special Batman powers to ... IMPEACH

2011-03-23T16:22:00.001-07:00

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

2011-03-23T08:49:00.001-07:00

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.

A good day

2011-03-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

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

In other news ...

2011-03-21T10:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-21T07:56:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-18T14:05:00.002-07:00

Oh, and yes, by the way, this latest post is borne of the frustration that despite her accepting food a week ago, she's now gone on another eating strike and I haven't been able to convince her to eat anything all week.

AGH.

Rant

2011-03-18T14:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Operation: Declutter

2011-03-17T14:57:00.000-07:00

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??!

Mom of a girl fail

2011-03-16T14:10:00.000-07:00

The barrettes. Nice, no? Alas after searching teh internets for barrettes that would stay in wispy hair and then making a special excursion to buy two of these at exorbitant expense ($8! What can I say? I'm a new girl mom) she promptly lost one.

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.

Future Plans

2011-03-14T18:49:00.000-07:00

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*

Aftermath

2011-03-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Developmental Abilities

2011-03-14T10:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Begin again

2011-03-13T09:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Friday muck

2011-03-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Child magnet

2011-03-09T10:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Accomplished

2011-03-07T15:15:00.000-08:00

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.

Spring

2011-03-05T12:46:00.000-08:00

A month later than last year but still awesome.

Away

2011-03-04T15:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Aw, who cares about a title? It's just a bunch of stuff.

2011-03-03T14:40:00.000-08:00

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.

Thinking...

2011-03-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

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.

Various forms of happy

2011-02-23T15:30:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-21T18:33:00.000-08:00

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 ..

2011-02-20T19:58:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-20T07:55:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-17T18:06:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-17T13:56:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-16T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-14T18:12:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-13T11:42:00.000-08:00

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 ...

2011-02-11T13:34:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-10T13:56:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-09T15:10:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-07T13:14:00.001-08:00

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

2011-02-06T15:47:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-05T07:51:00.001-08:00

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

2011-02-04T11:04:00.001-08:00

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

2011-02-03T16:26:00.000-08:00

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 ...

2011-02-02T20:37:00.001-08:00

The kids are all right.

2011-02-02T14:10:00.000-08:00

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.