Primary Caregiver

Awhile back, I had to fill out this form for Harper's new idea of a monthly child care allowance. It's not an idea which I wholly support, but who turns down free money? Not I. On this form, I had to write down who was the "primary caregiver" of The Boy. I instantly wrote down myself, of course. But that got me thinking, and the more I thought, the more I got confused. What does this mean?

The Husband and I decided to have a baby together. When 'creating' The Boy, well, we obviously did that together. We painted his room, and bought the furniture and prepared for his entrance into the world together. So when did I become the primary caregiver?? When, I carried him inside me for nine months, I was The Boy's source of nourishment and transportation for that time, and although The Husband was a great help, I was essentially on my own. That's nature, and that's unavoidable. But surely, upon The Boy's first breath outside the womb, I stopped being the primary caregiver, and reverted to one half of a team, right? Well, yes...and no.

The Husband was the perfect support partner - always there to lend a hand. I simply could not have done it on my own. Frankly, I don't know how single parents do it, and I have no interest in finding out. But the reality is, that while you are breastfeeding, you are the primary caregiver. The Boy could survive without seeing The Husband, but could not go one single day without seeing me. What about breast milk in a bottle, you ask? Of course, yes. But I do think that some of the major benefits of breast milk do not come simply from consumption, but from the bonding that ensues, the close body contact. The repercussions of missing feedings are no fun either. And, for us at least, The Boy simply would not take a bottle for about nine months. So it was me and him against the world.

The Husband and I had a sort of unspoken agreement that, while I was on maternity leave, should The Boy wake up in the middle of the night, I was the one that had to get up with him. After all, The Husband had to work the next day. But then, so did I right? Granted I didn't have to look presentable, and I didn't have to speak in coherent sentences. But I did have to care for The Boy. I did have to feed him and change him and entertain him. I did have to get behind the wheel and take him to doctor's appointments and whatnot on days that I was literally blacking out due to lack of sleep. That is work, and possibly the most important work out there - raising a human being. But, as it was work, it was understood that everything concerning The Boy was my primary responsibility.

The question that remains is, once you're past the initial hurdles of gestation and breastfeeding, how, in a two parent household, there can even be the ranking of primary vs. secondary caregiver?

I don't know how it works with stay-at-home moms, and I don't pretend to. I did have have taste of it while I was on maternity leave, though, and what I do know is that when you decide to be a stay-at-home mom, while you may be accepting the position of primary caregiver, it shouldn't mean that you're signing up for a job that is twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If I was at home now, you can bet that I would be lobbying for a SAHM Union in which we set out laws that determined the number of hours worked each day, and anything over and above those hours would be compensated, with official recognition being the minimum and expensive presents being the maximum.

But, why do so many women who go back to work end up doing two jobs: the one that pays them money, and the other of Primary Caregiver to their child(ren)? Is it unavoidable due to the gender requirements of the role? Are we such control freaks that we refuse to let our partners have more autonomy? Or are we so entrenched in the stereotypes of the male being the Primary Breadwinner and the female being the Primary Caregiver that there is no escape?

I don't think that our partners should be reduced to glorified babysitters who have no real authority. Unfortunately, I don't think that we, alone, have the ability to solve this problem. I think that many men enjoy handing over the reigns of power and simply going along for the ride. I have heard of men that boast of never having changed a poopy diaper. Ever. Is this something to brag about? That they enjoy all the benefits of having children without having to deal with any of the crap? I thank my lucky stars that The Husband was not one of these men.

On the flip side, though, the women put up with it for a variety of reasons: maybe they don't know how to ask for what they want; maybe they feel their "money jobs" don't compete with their partners'; or maybe they feel that this is what they signed up for when they decided to have children. But it begs the question: if a husband and wife were both professionals, making the same money and working the same hours, who would be the primary caregiver in this situation?

I don't know the answer to this. What I do know, however, is that the term "primary caregiver" should be considered outdated. Or, at the very least, should be considered outdated where both parents are working (as this is the only situation where I can speak with any authority whatsoever). I believe that for true equality, we need to think more in terms of "Co-Caregiver". What say you?

Post Mortem

COSTUME: Had high hopes of making it from scratch in a sort of Martha Stewart homage, but ended up buying it online instead. Had to explain what he was more times than I would like, but always got a laugh when I did. (In case you're wondering, he's "L'il Sprout", the Green Giant's son). The Boy was not so enthused. He kept saying "Jackey - off!" and "Nooo hat!". Oh well, got a lot of compliments on the hat. When he wore it, that is.

DECORATIONS: Wasn't going to decorate the porch at all, but have learnt my lesson from past years. Kids won't come to your house if you don't decorate. Not even if you stand on the porch and say "Come here, kid, I have some candy for you...!" (Why do the kids run away? Hmm). We kept the porch PG, because The Boy seemed put off by the scary stuff at "It's My Party". The pumpkin was my first attempt at designing a carving (it's Count von Count, if you can't tell). And thanks to Hallowe'en, The Boy learnt two new important and useful words: spider and eyeballs. Or rather, "'Pider!" and "Ahh-balls". Sometimes it was just "Balls!" though, which caused some uncomfortable moments.

PHOTOGRAPHS: Lousy. Took 30 shots, and could barely find any that weren't out of focus, or where The Boy didn't turn away at the last minute, or where he wasn't trying to remove some part of the costume. No smiles. And why do my eyes always look bloodshot? (I'm not a drunk! At least, I hadn't drunk anything last night...)

MANNERS: We tried to teach The Boy to say "Trick or Treat", but to no avail. We did manage to convince him to say "Candy please" but that only worked for about two houses. After that, it was just "MORE CANDY!". Over and over again. Then he started taking the candy from our bowl and putting it in his bag.

CANDY: Lots, given that he is still under two. Is it wrong that The Boy hasn't actually had any of 'his' candy? Is it wrong that we are the ones who are eating the candy? I think we are walking an ethical tightrope here, but, ohhhhhh, the candy!

CONCLUSION: Not bad for Hallowe'en #2. The Boy was a bit overwhelmed by the all the fuss, but got into it by the end. The candy part won him over. (I knew he was my son!) Good times.

Corner of the Sky

I've always wanted my life to be extraordinary. I think that everyone dreams that when they grow up, they will lead an interesting life full of romance and excitement. The real life equivalent of a roller coaster. It's quite possible that those who experience a mid-life crisis are those people who have clung to this dream for so long that they believe it is essential to their happiness, and have recently come to the conclusion that it is not going to happen. It is too late.

I have always been determined that I won't be one of those people. That when I get the end of my journey, I won't say, "If only I had...". I had vague dreams of living the life a glamourous celebrity: travel, riches, trendsetting. Not surprisingly, my life is nothing like that. Travel is going to the in-laws for dinner. Riches is deciding to get an extra shot in my latte. Trendsetting is finding a cute winter hat for The Boy, and gloating whenever someone asks me where I found it (WalMart, $6.49). Ahh, the life of a glamourous mum!

I've often wondered - have a settled? Have I chosen to take the easy, comfortable route?? Is there some life out there that I should have, some road not taken??? And then I feel immediately guilty for thinking such insurgent thoughts. And then I curse myself for feeling guilty. After all, people are free to think what they want. Thinking is not reality. Thinking is not even wanting. Thinking is just that - thinking. Everybody imagines the "what if" scenario. It's these fantasy scenarios that allow us to muddle through the more mundane tasks of life.

Today, The Husband and I went to see the musical Pippin. For anyone who doesn't know the show, and mostly only diehard musical fans know of it at all, it is about a young man who believes he is extraordinary. He "wants (his) life to be something more than long". Accordingly, he spends a very long time trying out various roles (warrior, king, lover, "husband/father") only to quit them because they just don't fit. They're too ordinary. He believes there is something more out there for him. At the end of the show, the Lead Player suggests that the only proper finale for an extraordinary person is to, in one final moment of beauty and purity, light himself on fire. A grand exit for a great person! Pippin refuses, realizing that he doesn't really want the applause and the acclaim, but rather that he had found happiness when he found a widow and her son, and stayed with them for a year playing (unwillingly) the "mundane" role of husband/father:

I'M NOT A RIVER OR A GIANT BIRD
THAT SOARS TO THE SEA
AND IF I'M NEVER TIED TO ANYTHING
I'LL NEVER BE FREE
I WANTED MAGIC SHOWS AND MIRACLES
MIRAGES TO TOUCH
I WANTED SUCH A LITTLE THING FROM LIFE
I WANTED SO MUCH
WE NEVER CAME CLOSE, MY LOVE
WE NEARLY CAME NEAR
IT NEVER WAS THERE
I THINK IT WAS HERE...

In short, I guess, it is the idea that the extraordinary is found in the everyday. We are extraordinary every day that we wake up beside the person that we love. We are extraordinary every day that we pass that love on to our children. We are extraordinary in the mere creation of that most magical thing called: our family. What may seem "mundane" to an outsider is an integral thread in the fabric of existence. Money, power, celebrity are all wonderful things, I'm sure, but what are they worth if you have no one to share them with.

I have just started volunteering at the library, and the student that I was working with was asked to name his favourite things, and what did he write down? Not TV, or sports or candy. He wrote: "my family". Out of the mouths of babes...

I have found my corner of the sky. I'm mighty glad I did. Now I have the chance to be truly extraordinary.

Jackety Yak

I love so many things about the fall season. The changing foliage that makes a drive up the Don Valley actually pleasant. The festive pumpkins and chrysanthemums on everybody's porch that ease us into the holiday season, and whisper promises of better things to come. The crisp, clean air that envigorates the senses and makes me feel like I can take on the world, and change it for the better. What I don't love about the season is that it heralds the onset of what I lovingly refer to as: The Jacket Wars.

The Boy was born in the winter of 2005, an especially frosty January fit only for Mr Coldmeiser. Despite this, or perhaps, because of this, we still went outside each and every day, even if it was only for a walk down to Starbucks and back again. Each and every time we went outside, I steeled myself for the requisite twenty minutes of screaming while I inserted The Boy into his bunting bag (and, quite possibly, seventeen layers of blankets), simultaneously cursing my inability to leave the house without torturing the child. I was sure that next door neighbours were going to call the cops, who would burst in at any moment and crown me as Mrs Unfit Mother of the Year.

Winter of 2006 rolls around and The Boy is a year old, and much more mature. Now, instead of a bunting bag, we have a one-piece snowsuit with a jaunty looking Winnie and Tigger smiling and waving on the front. It should go a lot easier this year, right? Wrong. I underestimated The Boy's ability to roll over and crawl away. (I remember being so happy the day he learnt to roll over...what went wrong?) Now, I have to hold him down with one hand and endure a thirty minute temper tantrum, flailing legs and all. I was kicked in the face more times than I'd care to remember.

Ahhh, fall 2006. The Boy is approaching the two year mark, understands - and can follow - simple instructions, and is remarkably easy-going after all the earlier grief. He's mellowed. This should be a piece of cake, right? Wrong again. For The Boy, alas, has learnt the power of "No". Or rather "Noooooooooooooooooooooo!". Yes, that's more like it. On a very good day, The Boy will get his hat, scarf and mittens for me and dump them ceremoniously on the floor at my feet, before running away. On an okay day, The Boy will run away droning "Noooooooooo" before he hits a wall (not hard, but yes, hits a wall), turns around, shoves his thumb in his mouth and trudges grumpily back in my direction. Just when I think I can put the jacket, he runs away again, laughing like he's just tied someone to the proverbial train tracks. Most days, I have to hold him firmly while resolutely putting on his outdoor clothes and listening to outraged complaints, troubleshooting arms that get pulled out of the jacket two seconds after they've been inserted.

I've tried games, songs and the only thing that has made any difference is the fact that I've spent the last year saying that Lunar Jim wears a "hat" and "mittens" before going out into space. And, to be honest, the only reason I said that was that I couldn't think of the actual terms for an astronaut's garb at the time, and it just stuck. Sometimes, the Boy will tolerate mittens and a hat. The Jacket is still evil. It is the Enemy. Some days (okay, most days), I feel like I've put in a full days work before I even get to the office. Sigh. I still love the fall. I just never knew it would talk back, à la yakety-yak.

Tagged!

Cool! I've been tagged by Bub and Pie to answer the following important questions. I love these things...!


1. You can flip a switch that will wipe any band or musical artist out of existence. Which one will it be?

Wow. The hardest question first, huh? I considered such "artists" as K-Fed, Megadeth and Hanson and finally settled on: Kenny G. (NOTE: For all you Kenny G lovers out there, please skip to question #2). He's not attractive, his music is not romantic, and he's everywhere. The fact that he worked with greats like Barry White and Aretha Franklin doesn't even endear him to me. I know that a lot of people love him, but I gotta say I just don't get it.

2. You have the opportunity to sleep with the movie celebrity of your choice. We are talking no-strings-attached sex and it can only happen once. Who is the lucky celebrity of your choice?

Since Bub and Pie already chose my default - the scrumptious Mr. Darcy - I feel compelled keep looking (I mean, how many one night stands can a guy have before you start to think that he'll sleep with anything that moves??). Matthew McConaughey, hands down. No intelligent conversation, but I'm guessing the raw, animal passion would compensate. And the yummy southern drawl don't hurt either...ma'am.

3. You have the opportunity to sleep with the music-celebrity of your choice. Who do you pick?

Umm, does Mark Wahlberg count? Cause if you've seen his Calvin Klein ad, you'd understand. Marky Mark -- you had me at "Hello."

4. Now that you've slept with two different people in a row, you seem to be having an excellent day because you just came across a hundred-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Holy shit, a hundred bucks! How are you gonna spend it?

Ideally, I would spend it buying some new clothes (ones that actually fit my post-baby body, since my pre-baby clothes are too small and make me look like an awkward, walking sausage). In reality, though, I'd probably blow it all at Baby Gap.


5. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere. You have to depart right now. Where are you gonna go?


Italy. Coffee, Art History and Red Wine. How can you go wrong? Oooh, and pizza! What about pizza?! All four food groups in a portable format. Good times.


6. Upon arrival to the aforementioned location, you get off the plane and discover another hundred-dollar bill. Shit! Now that you are in the new location, what are you gonna do?


Did you not read the answer to #5? Wine don't come cheap! (Nor do Italian men....wow, did I really type that?...what you must think of me...)


7. The Angel of Death has descended upon you. Fortunately, the Angel of Death is pretty cool and in a good mood, and it offers you a half-hour to do whatever you want before you bite it. Whatcha gonna do in that half-hour?

Run with scissors. Eat a turkey dinner and then go swimming right away. Take a bath and leave the towels on the floor. Any combination thereof. Now's the time. Carpe Diem. I'm such a rebel!

8. You accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what's even cooler is that they endow you with the super-power of your choice! What's it gonna be?

The power to make things, people or situations that you see on TV or in movies exist in the real world. That way, whenever someones says, "That only happens on TV...", I'd say "Oh yeah? That's what you think!" My name would be TV Girl or better yet, Movie Girl, just for a little irony. First thing I'd do is create a holodeck. Then...Indiana Jones. Oh yeah, baby.

9. You can re-live any point of time in your life. The time-span can only be a half-hour, though. What half-hour of your past would you like to experience again?

June 1st, 2001. Las Vegas. A room at Bellagio....(get your mind out of the gutter!) The Husband proposed. One of the "significant life events" that actually lived up to the hype. (I won't tell you what the others are, sicko!)

10. Rufus appears out of nowhere with a time-traveling phone booth. You can go anytime in the PAST. What time are you traveling to and what are you going to do when you get there?

England, 1595. I'd really like to find out, once and for all, whether or not Shakespeare wrote the plays attributed to him, and be done with it.

11. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

One regrettably alcohol-sodden New Year's Eve, when, depressed from a recent breakup, I hit on a guy from my art class. I don't remember a thing. Unfortunately, he did. Ouch! Talk about your awkward conversations...

12. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit... you can move to anywhere else in the world! Bitchin'! What country are you going to live in now?

Hawaii. It's hard to believe that stress could possibly exist in a place as pretty as that.

13. The constant absorption of magical moonbeams mixed with the radioactive vegetables you consumed earlier has given you the ability to resurrect the dead famous-person of your choice. So which celebrity will you bring back to life?

Princess Diana. I think that she had a lot of good left to do in this world, and is therefore truly missed.

14. What's your theme song?

Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves. I have a soft spot for one hit wonders.

So, if you're still reading...well, if anyone is reading, actually...I tag Kittenpie and Penelopeto. You're it!

Paved with Good Intentions

WHEREIN The Boy WON'T EAT HIS VEGETABLES AND NoMo SINKS TO A NEW LOW...

I consider myself a reasonably smart, fairly well-educated, sensible person. I have done a lot of reading and logged a lot of hours at the table. I sometimes even venture to offer advice to people (when they ask for it, of course) on tactics that have worked for me in the past. I thought I was working out an approach that worked for me and for The Boy. It's funny how you have every intention to do the best job mothering your child that you possibly can, and still fall very very short. Here's how last night's dinner played out (both actual conversation and inner dialogue):

NoMo: Are you ready for some yummy "broccoli pasta"? Oh, it's going to be so good I can hardly wait! (I can't believe that I'm already lying to The Boy and he's not even two...)
The Boy: (Where's the pasta?)
NoMo: Look, it's broccoli pasta! (I wonder if he's buying it?)
The Boy: Tasta! (I want pasta!)
NoMo: It is pasta, remember we cooked it together? It's pasta with a yummy cheesy sauce! (Lies, lies, lies...oh what a tangled web--)
The Boy: Cheess! (I want cheese!)
NoMo: There is cheese right there in your bowl.
The Boy: Cheess!! (Did she not hear me? I want cheese!)
NoMo: There is cheese there. Remember we made the cheesy sauce together? Mmmm it's so good. Look, Mummy's eating it! (Wow, this broccoli and cheese is actually really good. If he'd try it, he'd like it.)
The Boy: Soup. (Cheese soup, ok I'll eat some cheese soup, but none of that green stuff.)
NoMo: Don't you even want to try the broccoli pasta??
The Boy: No. Cheess! (No frackin' way am I eating that green stuff. Why won't this woman give me some cheese??)
NoMo: Fine. Here's some cheese. Mummy is taking away the yummy broccoli pasta. Mummy is very sad because the Boy won't even try the broccoli pasta when Mummy made it just for The Boy. You've hurt Mummy's feelings. (Mum is Sad. Very, Very Sad. She had a bad day. What a day Mum had. Wow, not only am I being emotionally manipulative, but I'm quoting Hop on Pop. This is bad. I need a timeout.)

So there you have it, folks. The Boy is not even two years old, and I've already resorted to guilt. And The Boy did not eat any vegetables, or really anything at all, other than cheese. The Boy: one. NoMo: nothing. How many strikes until I'm out, I wonder? They should really have a manual for this Mother-gig.

Turn, turn, turn

I just got back from a girls weekend away in Niagara on the Lake. Well, it was more like a night, really, as we left TO on Saturday morning and came back on Sunday morning. Seems like a bunch of mums just can't stand to be away from their babes for too long. I guess if you have to have an addiction, a cute baby is one of the good ones.

Some time back in August, the Mums group that I was a part of back when I was on maternity leave had one of our rare get-togethers - rare because we're all back at work. One of the mums suggested that we plan a weekend away, and of course, I said I was interested (who wouldn't like a weekend off?) mainly because I thought it would never actually come to pass. Wonder of wonders, it actually did.

Our mums group is rather large, and a splinter group of mums (9 in total) decided to take the plunge and leave the babies with the hubbies for the weekend. I debated going for a long time. It was a lot of money, for one. I didn't want to spend my precious weekend time away from The Boy or The Husband. But more importantly, would I even have a good time? I mean, I hung out with these women once a week for a couple hours, and we had several extra get-togethers, but could we actually spend a whole day and night together without getting tired of one another. Well, since this is my year for turning over a new leaf and doing things that I thought I would never do, I decided to go. I am glad I did.

Yes, we talked about our babies a lot. A whole lot. How could we not? Even if we didn't meet in a mums group, I don't know many women with children who could avoid talking about them for long. But we also talked about home renovations, wine, books, careers.....and, well, had adult conversation. It was so civilized. During the day we drove around NOTL and did some wine tastings, and at night we went to Peller Estates and had a private tour and a four hour dinner. Wow. Most of my dinners these days last ten minutes, if I stretch them out. No worrying about snacks. Now worrying about naps. No stressing because The Boy won't eat vegetables - again. We even decided to form a Book Club. It was Heaven.

The only sour note to the event (other than the fact that I still have this dastardly cold), was an innocent comment made by one of the mums. You see, I've always felt like a bit of an interloper in this group. They all met in a "Bringing Home Baby" class, and after the class was over, they decided to keep meeting. After five months of miserably walking the streets by myself pushing a carriage with only my thoughts to sustain me (not very nourishing those post-natal brainwaves), I met up with a friend of mine from FitMom who invited me to join the group. She said they wouldn't mind, and I was desperate for company. So I went week after week, and they didn't mind, although somehow I always felt that they did mind, just a bit. Eventhough I was there more regularly than the actual group, I wasn't part of the original group. Ironically, this was the class that I was supposed to attend, but was never able to because we were having so much trouble in the beginning with breastfeeding that we were in and out of the hospital non-stop for weeks. Anyways, I never felt totally accepted, but I assumed that it was just me being my usual paranoid self.

Last night, I don't even remember what we were talking about, but one of the mums said she always thought of me as "The Movie Girl". This is in reference to the fact that I was a regular at the local Mini Matinées. Every week I'd make the half hour walk to the movie theatre to see whatever show was playing (even if it was "Herbie Fully Loaded"...yes, I actually sat through that...). What can I say? I was my sanity. It was a little bit of normalcy in a world that had gone absolutely crazy. I felt that if I could get back that one little bit of my "old life" , I could deal with almost anything. And The Boy slept at 1pm like clockwork most days, so it all worked out. Most of the Mums Group were a bit horrified that I did that every week, and although they were never confrontational about it, I saw an edge of judgment in their eyes.

These mums are all educated, intelligent, career women whom I like and admire. I'll admit that I sometimes felt like the were "out of my league", so to speak. I think what I'm slowly learning, though, is that that kind of thinking is the real problem. It's my perception of myself that needs the altering, not how others see me. I've taken my first step this weekend. Normally, that "Movie Girl" comment would be soul-crushing to me. And it was for a moment. Now I know that I can see it for the random comment that it most likely was and just move on. Turn, turn, turn.

Boom Goes the Dynamite

OK, so I've been reading so many posts with lists in them that I, too, have the List Fever. Or maybe it's the fact that the buzz I'm getting off this Tylenol Cold has made me leery of my ability to form cohesive paragraphs...Or, maybe I just had to find some excuse to use the above title. (For all you YouTube lovers, you'll know what I mean.)

They say that Life is a learning experience, so here's the highlights of what I've learned so far:

*****WARNING: spoilers*****

Circa Grade School
!!! Monopoly is pronounced 'mah-Awe-pah-lee', not 'Mah-noh-Poe-lee' and is not a rare form of the "kissing disease".
!!! Marigold and Bear from the Polka Dot Door can't actually speak, and nor can any other stuffed animal.
!!! In clue, Miss Scarlett is almost always the killer.
!!! Wearing glasses and braces pretty much qualifies you as a nerd. Putting a sticker in the corner of your glasses, definitely does.
!!! Perms are not cool. Especially if you shave the back and perm the top

Circa High School
!!! Getting drunk in secret is cool. Hangovers - pretend you have the flu, or suck it up.
!!! Sex can lead to: Pregnancy! STDs!! AIDS!!! (Seriously, is there anyone who didn't know this? I learnt this on an Afterschool Special.)
!!! High school dances really are as lame as everyone says they are.
!!! "Pass the Dutchie" by Musical Youth is not talking about a shortage of doughnuts
!!! Perms still not cool. Even if it was someone else's idea.

Circa University
!!! Getting drunk is cool, and does make you more popular. Hangovers are the hallmark of Good Times.
!!! Classes are a lot easier to pass if you actually attend them.
!!! It's not who you are inside, it's how you look that counts.
!!! There are people who don't know awful how you looked in grade school or high school.
!!! Perms may give hair body, but looking back - still not cool. Why can't I learn from past mistakes?

Circa Après University (i.e. "Real Life")
!!! Getting drunk? Not cool. Hangover - even less cool.
!!! It's not how you look, it's who you are that counts.
!!! It's not actually as easy to get pregnant as they told us it was in high school.
!!! Breastfeeding may be "natural" but it is in no way "easy".
!!! My hair is awfully flat. Maybe I should get a perm? Hmmm...

I think I'm growing up. Maybe.

Read My Love

I remember the events of the day that I fell irretrieveably in love with books, even if I don't remember the exact date. I had gone to the Hamilton Public Library and borrowed The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe by CS Lewis. I took it home, and when I opened up the book, I opened up the world. Up until then, I had merely been dabbling in books, it was a hobby that passed the time. On that fateful day, I learnt that a book could not only tell an interesting story, but it could take you to a world you had never seen before, and never would see. Animals could talk. Magic was the norm, not the exception. I was enchanted. I read the book 10 times in a row before returning it reluctantly to the library.

Books have played many different roles in my life over the years, but the most significant of them has been that of friend. As a hyper-sensitive, introverted girl, I found myself more that once deeply hurt by people who I thought were friends. The disparity inevitably arose from lack of understanding. When I made friends, I thought they would be friends for life, without comprehending the fluid, transient nature of most childhood friendships. I turned to books for solace. In them, I found interesting people, exciting new places and shocking new ideas.

Now I don't advocate replacing human relationships with books, but it illustrates how intensely personal reading can be, if you choose to invest yourself in the activity. Many people eschew reading these days in favour of sexier new technologies: television, movies, i-pods, and so on. Most notable among these is the younger generation. I say it's time to put the "sexy" back into reading. It's time to show our children that reading is not only necessary, it's cool. And it doesn't hurt that, in my opinion, every time you read a book you get just a little bit smarter. And smart is sexy, period.

For my part, I am going to introduce The Boy to some of my old friends:

1. Harry Potter (series) by JK Rowling Ok, so I thought I'd get this out of the way first because, technically, I didn't read these books in my youth, but no list could be complete without them. Incorporating magic with the universal themes of friendship and overcoming adversity, these books empower children. And any book that sparks an international reading frenzy, convincing children who don't like to read that books are fun, is ok by me. And the people who think that these books are an evil attempt to promote witchcraft or indoctrinate children into the Wicca religion, should go find something more pressing to worry about. If anyone cares to debate me on this point, I say: Bring It On. (no reference to cheerleaders intended...)
2. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by CS Lewis Well, duh, already mentioned above. But, I'd like to add that although the entire series was great, it was this particular book that caught my fancy. Stepping into a wardrobe, and ending up in a world where it's "always winter and never Christmas" - how cool is that?
3. Blubber by Judy Blume Most people would argue that Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret is the best Blume novel. Not me. Having struggled with my self-image my entire life, I empathized with Linda. I was also fascinated by the struggle of the main character, Jill. Who's side do you take? Should you make a stand, or keep quiet? How do we stop the bullying? In light of the increasing school shootings, many of which are a result of bullying in some form or other, this novel is timely and important still.
4. The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster Have you met Milo, the bored little boy who can't find anything "to do, nowhere (he)'d care to go, and hardly anything worth seeing"? This book, more than anything, taught me the find the exceptional in the everyday. It also introduced me to the wonderful world of Word Play. If The Boy ever says he's bored, I'm going to hand him this book to read.
5. The Mysterious Disappearance of Leon (I Mean Noel!) by Ellen Raskin One of my absolute favourites during my Mystery phase, this is an interactive whodunnit that reads almost like a word game. The author encourages readers to help solve the mystery in footnotes like "REMEMBER THIS PART. WRITE IT DOWN. OR PUT A BOOKMARK HERE. THIS IS A CLUE!"
6. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler by EL Konisburg The perfect book for the Rebel Without a Cause. Claudia runs away to teach her parents a lesson: rebelling against the monotony of her life, unfair distribution of labor, limited television choices and low allowance. She sets up camp in the Metropolitan Museam of Art with her brother, solves a mystery and learns something about art. I loved every minute of it, and have yet to meet someone who didn't
7. Charlotte's Web by EB White A classic that needs no justification. It deals with some pretty heavy stuff in a way children can understand. I've never looked at animals in the same way since. SOME PIG!
8. Ramona the Pest by Beverly Cleary What can I say? I grew up with Ramona and her indomitable spirit and love for learning is with me still.
9. The Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson When I was growing up, there weren't many books that had a boy-girl friendship as the central relationship, but this book is so much more than that. It teaches the importance of true friendships, valuing the "now", and also deals sensitively with the tragedy of loss. If you don't cry, I'd be surprised.
10. The Tomorrow City by Monica Hughes Basically a young reader's prelude to sci-fi novels like 1984 and Brave New World, this book is about a city controlled by a super computer. The author's focus is the idea that technology is not a perfect solution to the many problems solved by man. This book fascinated me and was in the regular rotation - I'd re-read it any time that I didn't have a book lined up to read next.
11. The Prydain Chronicles (series) by Lloyd Alexander One day I came across The Book of Three in a bookstore and bought it because of the interesting cover. I was instantly hooked, and eagerly read all five books in the series. It's the classic coming-of-age story of a boy who journeys from assistant pig-keeper to courageous hero, from youth to adult. It typifies the fantasy novels that I read to this day, and this book was the start of it all.
12. The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson Burnett A timeless classic that can be discussed on so many levels that I won't even try to start here. Suffice it to say that I fell in love with this book on the first page when I was introduced to Mary, the girl that nobody wanted because she wasn't pretty enough. Add to that a forgotten garden with no door, and I was lost forever to its charms.

Well, that my short list, anyways. A sort of "12 before the age of 12", in the vein of Kittenpie's recent post. If you have books to add, let me know.

I recently finished The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. Near the end of the book, the author describes reading as an "an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind, and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day." I think that if I can teach The Boy to become a Great Reader, I will have accomplished something very worthwhile.

Un-Friended

Do you have one of these people in your lives? For all intensive purposes, they are your friend. There is no reason on earth why the should not be. You have a lot in common. You attend many of the same social events. You live close enough to each other that distance is not an issue. You even have children the same age. But for some unknown reason, they simply do not like you. You've met the Un-Friend Friend.

What hurts the most about the Un-Friend Friend is the fact that you like them. You want to be friends with them. But no matter how hard you try, no matter what lengths you go to, it is never enough to be admitted into the inner sanctum. No matter what you do, you are always in the wrong. Always on the outside looking in.

The other night, I met the Un-Friend Friend when I was coming out of a Starbucks. She was on her way to dinner with her Real Friends and we had Awkward Conversation #456:

UFF: NoMo!

NoMo: Hi!

UFF: I always see you coming out of Starbucks. Do you never go anywhere else??

NoMo: (trying to make light-hearted repartee) Not really. Nope. It's kinda sad, actually...

UFF: Well, we're off!

NoMo: (watching dispiritedly as they recede into the darkness) Bye...!

Now, really. Was that sly little remark absolutely necessary? Yes, I do like Starbucks. Yes, I am there frequently. Yes, we do cross paths there rather often. I assumed that it was because she lives just up the street, and it is on my way home from The Boy's daycare. And it stands to reason that if she always sees me there, then she must be there too. Right? And, hey...I do go other places! (I just happen to like coffee. Alot.)

I could give her the benefit of the doubt. I could think that maybe she finds it difficult to talk to me. But I am generally pretty good at reading people, and the vibe coming off of her is decidely UN-friendly. And therein lies the heart of the matter. There is the thing that I just can't let go of. I cannot stand it when people don't like me. It irks me. It drives me to distraction. Am I not smart enough? Pretty enough? Cool enough? What??

It can be said that human beings strive for one of five goals in life: Love, Power, Success, Validation or Happiness. You could add Revenge in there too, but since Revenge is merely the reaction to not getting one of the aforesaid five goals, technically it is a sub-set and not an actual goal. For me, it all comes down to Love. We want Power so people will be forced to love us. We want Success so that people will admire us so much that they can't help but love us. We want Validation so that we can prove that people love us. And we want Happiness so that we can attract and keep the love that we so richly deserve.

For me, friendship is one of the key puzzle pieces to achieving the ultimate goal of Love. Friends are there for you when you need them. They support you when no one else will. They listen to your complaints. They challenge you to be better than you are, even better than you knew you could be. In short, they're all about love. Therefore, it is only natural to seek them out, nurture them, protect them. And for someone like me, who, although I have scores of acquaintances, finds true friends hard to come by, I cling to them with the tenacity of that thing from Alien. (Is that why they run away screaming? Hm.)

So why her? Why is this one friendship so important? Maybe it's because of who she represents. She's the Organizer, the "PTA Mom", the Involved Parent who I know I am going to have to interact with over and over again at school functions, neighbourhood gatherings and kiddie classes. She is The Person to Know if you want to get invited anywhere. She is the person you do not want as an enemy. And more specifically, I do think we could be good friends (or at least, especially civil acquaintances). If she liked me. Which she does not.

I am constantly in awe of the people who have the self-possesion to go through life not caring whether people like them or not. They are courageous. They are independent. They are the ideal to which I aspire. Maybe someday I'll get there. Till then, I'll be the strange girl at Starbucks offering to buy you a coffee in the hopes that you will be my friend.

Polkaroo Parents

I must confess, I spend a lot of my time convinced that everyone out there is a far better parent than I am.

Everywhere I go, I am assailed by images of family bliss. The young man walking with his newly pregnant wife, who is serenely working away at an ice cream cone. The new parents cautiously pushing their (of course) sleeping baby in the Bugaboo. The seasoned parents working the local park -- throwing a frisbee to the older child while simultaneously wearing the newborn in a sling and hanging on to the dog's leash, talking on the cell phone and drinking a grande Starbucks something-or-other. It's a thing of beauty. It's inspiring, really. It's a large part of why we moved to this neck of the woods. So why is the reality so far from the image?

The Husband and I are no slouches when it comes to parenting. We work hard at it and we are sincerely trying to do our best by The Boy. But it has recently been brought to my attention that there is a potentially serious flaw in our approach. We are rarely both with The Boy at the same time. We are Polkaroo Parents.

Yes, that Polkaroo. The large, vaguely kangaroo-like thing wearing a polka-dot muumuu, and appearing weekly on Polka Dot Door. Now, there was nothing much to Polkaroo other than the surprising fact that at no time did the two hosts of the show ever see him at the same time.

Every couple has to work out a way to deal with the addition of their new little bundle of joy to their lives. Some parents "cut bait" and set adrift their old lives and become completely focused on the baby. Some parents try to recapture their former lives as if nothing has changed. We have tried, I think, to do a bit of both. When we're home with The Boy, we're 100% present -- playing, singing, laughing. Obedient to every command of "Mummy...sit!" or "Daddy...(your) turn!". But when we are gone, we're gone. The Husband is starring in a musical, and I am going to school part-time.

The end result, as mentioned, is that we're rarely both spending time with The Boy simultaneously. There's a lot of "Okay, I can pick The Boy up, take him home, give him dinner, if you can make sure that you're home by 7pm pm at the latest so that I can get to such-and-such a place on time".

I don't know if this how families usually work, but so far, it's what works for us. It allows to thoroughly enjoy our time with The Boy, without feeling like we're giving up our selves. But I do worry that we're not often a full family unit. I don't want The Boy to grow up thinking that if he is with one parent, it necessarily means that the other parent isn't going to be there. I don't want his first sentence to be the classic Polka Dot Door line: "Aw, I missed him again."

To assuage my guilt and soothe my nerves, I try to remember that it's all a part of my Theory that Everything I Needed to Know I Learnt from Family Ties: if the parents are loving, happy and fulfilled then everything else will just fall into place. And, heck... if it worked for the Keatons, it can't be all bad....Right?

Water, Water Every Hare

The other day, The Boy pointed to his Velveteen Rabbit and said the word "bunny" for the first time. It's funny how a seemingly innocent word, said in an even more innocent situation, can be the catalyst for so much. A virtual can opener for a very large can of worms. Follow me on my ruminative journey if you dare...

The word "bunny" naturally led to Bugs Bunny (where else?). I remember waking up early every Saturday morning, grabbing breakfast in my pyjamas and hunkering down for several hours worth of cartoon watching. Most days, I would be still be in my pyjamas at noon, at which time, my mother would threaten me to get outdoors and stop watching so much tv. My all-time favourite cartoon was the episode called "Water, Water, Every Hare". In it, a mad scientist, à la Boris Karloff, is after Bugs Bunny's brain. Bugs falls asleep and is carried out of his rabbit hole by a rain storm and is deposited at the nightmare castle of the Evil Scientist. Bugs wakes up from his trance, finds out that his brain is going to be removed and used to give life to large robot, and naturally opposes the plan. He escapes the clutches of the Evil Scientist who, in turn, sends this big, hairy orange monster (wearing sneakers) to catch Bugs. During his escape, a bottle of ether gets broken and the whole chase goes into slow motion. I was glued to the tv every time this episode was aired, and I know that if it was on tv now, I would run (not walk) to the nearest set to watch it. I can still hear the Evil Scientist:

Evil Scientist: [running in slo-mo] "Come... back... here... you... rab... bit."

I wondered how a mere cartoon could leave such an indelible mark on my brain. And what made me think of it now, when all The Boy said, really, was "bunny"? Could the obvious be true? Do I identify with a bunny?? The answer is yes. My life in the past few years could be said to parallel this dastardly cartoon. I'm not a rabbit. I've never been captured by an Evil Scientist. And, I don't really remember being chased by a large orange monster. Ok, so my life has been nothing at all like this cartoon, in the literal sense.

I went to school to be an Actor. After graduation, I took an office job to make money while I trying to catch my break in my real career. Well, here I am, years later and I haven't made it big. I went into acting because it was my dream, my passion. I don't know if I ever believed that the dream would actually come true, but I had to try. I didn't want to come to the end of my life knowing that I didn't even give it a shot. And I've been hanging on to this dream like an albatross about my neck because I didn't want to be considered a quitter. Funny thing is, I don't even know if it's my dream anymore.

Bugs Bunny: [discovers the monster] Uh-oh. Think fast, rabbit.

Now don't get me wrong, if Baz Luhrmann showed up at my door and and said "Nomo - I want you to star in my next film", I would not say no. I would call the office and say, "Umm, yeahhhh, I don't think I'll be coming in today - or ever!" But my dream now is The Husband and The Boy (aka The Family), and everything else must take these factors into consideration first.

But now I still have this office job...!

Bugs Bunny: What a shame. Such an interesting monster, too.

For some time now, I've known that I can't stay in this present "career" path - that if I wasn't going to be an actor (at least not professionally), that I would have find something better. Something meaningful. But I was lulled into acceptance by the nice people, and the nice money, and the nice hours. I succumbed to the Ether of Easy Living.

And then we had The Boy, and nothing else mattered. Everything was meaningful, and interesting,and I was present. And I thought that when I went back to work, everything would be different. And everything was. Everything was different outside of work, but work was still the same. It took me six months to realize that a change was needed, and that I had to wake up be the catalyst for change if it was indeed going to happen.

Evil Scientist: Now, be a cooperative little bunny, and let me have your brain.
Bugs Bunny: Sorry, Doc, but I need what little I've got

One thing I know, and I knew it before I had The Boy - I want to work. I want to have that space in my life that is just for me. And "mommy wars" be damned -- I don't think that is such a terrible thing. So now I'm back in school part-time working towards a brighter future. Ever since I decided this, I feel like I've woken up from a bad dream. I feel like I've finally started to move towards the future that I always dreamed of: one of Husband, Children, and Fulfilling Career. Baby steps, yes. But I know firsthand how important those baby steps are.

I was worried that I would be teaching The Boy a terrible lesson, one that entails giving up your dream when it gets too hard. I was worried that I was going to set a bad example. To be honest, I still am. But I think the lesson to be learnt here is that that dreams can change. And if they do, acknowledge it . Own it. And pursue the new dream with the same determination as before.

Bugs Bunny: Mmm, not bad.

And this all started with the word "bunny"? I should not be left alone with my thoughts for long periods of time.

Popular?

So...here's the million dollar question Question of the Day: Are you "popular"? And, if you are not, is it something to which you aspire?

I, for one, know that I am not popular (see sidebar description: About Me). I've never been popular. The Husband and I were discussing this earlier today, and I've come to the conclusion that the problem lies not in the fact that I am not popular, but rather in the fact that I am "Almost-Popular". In high school and university, I had friends who were popular and I often hung out with them. More often than not, that was a result of me saying something along the lines of "Ooo, that sounds like fun, can I come too?" or "Hey, wait for me!"

Don't get me wrong, I'm not totally uncool (I say, casually hiding Season 2 of Battlestar Galactica), it's just that I've never been truly a part of the In crowd . Never an "A-list" celebrity, always capping out at B-level fame. And therein lies the heart of the trouble. I think it would have been easier if I was on the other end of the spectrum - a Napoleon Dynamite goddess of the Uncool. That would be fun. That would have driven me to untold heights of infamy. It's being stuck in Popular Purgatory that makes my social position so tenous.

I am coming to a point here. And the point is that, for some reason, I desperately want The Boy to be popular. So that he could have everything that I couldn't? Maybe. But I don't really think that's it. I just really want him to have lots of friends and fun in life. I want everyone to see the wonderful little light that I see, and I want them to find the joy that I do in just being around him. And I go totally off the deep-end, overprotective Mother Bear when they don't:

"What do you mean The Boy can't take all the crayons at the colouring station? He needs a creative outlet!"

"What do you mean The Boy can't crush the (as yet unpaid for) raspberries and throw them on the store floor? He's expressing his rejection of the stifling rules society places on us!"

"What do you mean The Boy isn't the cutest baby in the whole world? Have you seen every baby??

Okay, so I don't really talk to people like I'm the Tender Sweet Young Thing from Free to be You and Me. But you can bet I'm thinking it. Crazy. Yep. That's me. A while ago, a friend of mine and I were lunching with babies at a local joint, and the waiter spent the whole time gushing over my friend's baby, and said nothing at all about The Boy other than a vague comment that he must be a "handful", or something similar. I was livid. Not that my friend's baby isn't cute - he's adorable - but to go gaga over one baby and not the other? Do you want a tip, my friend?? Needless to say, I was not my usually generous self.

So back to my point. Why, exactly, am I fighting so hard for The Boy's popularity, and is it even worth fighting for? It's one of my plethora of Theories that often people who are part of the popular crowd in high school don't reach astronomical heights in later life - most likely precisely because they had such a good time in high school. Nothing is motivating them to move beyond that fame. Just look at Bill Gates. The brains, the loners, the "freaks" - they've all got something to prove. Instant motivation. Like all Theories, there are many exceptions to the rule, but the exceptions merely provide proof the rule. And adversity builds character. To me, it's people like Charlie, who won the Golden Ticket fair and square that are infinitely more interesting than the people who bought it.

So why do I fight? Well, it's a lonely road when you're not popular, and I guess I want to spare The Boy some of what I've experienced in the world of "Almost-Popular". I want him to revel in the easy acceptance of his peers. I want to protect him from any hurt, no matter how small. I know that I can't . I know it's unreasonable. And, in the case of popularity, even unecessary. But I have to try, right?

The Sun Always Shines on TV

I can't deny it any longer. I've been hiding in the shadows for so long hoping that nobody would find out. Shame overwhelms me when I least expect it and cripples me under its weight. I feel like I simply can't function normally anymore unless I let it out. I. LOVE. AMERICA'S. NEXT. TOP. MODEL.

Yes, I do. Me. An educated, sensible (mostly), 33+year old mother and wife. I wait for it. I plan around it. The Husband and I order pizza, crack open a bottle of vino and sit back to judge.

I feel better now, thank you.

How can you not love a show where under-educated, over-confident young ladies (and I use the term loosely), fight with feline ferocity (read: cattily) to win a completely empty title? Because really, the show is all about Tyra. In fact, this year, they have given up even trying to pretend that the show is about anything else. They've gone so far as to decorate the house that the participants are staying in exclusively with pictures of Tyra.

Fortunately for her, she's amusing. For every sob story that the prospectives models have, Tyra has a story of equal or greater pathos. It's fascinating. It's reality TV at it's best. For those who watch this show, you know whereof I speak. For those who don't -- what are you waiting for? Sit back, grab some junk food, and garner the pearls of wisdom that ANTM has to offer -- with a little adjustment , you'll find that they apply to everyday life:

• All good models should be able to walk.
• It's not alright to be anorexic, but it's not alright to be fat either
• If you aren't willing to cut your hair, you're a suck.
• If you aren't willing to pose naked, you should throw in the towel.
• Real competition is about winning, not making friends.
• If you disagree with Tyra, you won't make it as a model.
• If you can copy Tyra's moves, you will make as a model.

Now, with content like that, how could you possibly argue that this isn't Great TV? It's the one show that actually makes me feel glad that I'm not incredibly beautiful or super skinny. I revel in it. I wallow in it. I'm happier than a pig in -- well, you know. Let's face it, I have enough reality in, well, real life, that I don't need to see it on my TV. Throw in a truly original snarky comment by some 18 year old bubblehead, and you've made my week.

Words He Doesn't Say

At 20mths and change, The Boy has finally reached what I think is the most exciting time in Babyland so far -- Speech. His comprehension has always been excellent. I had no doubt that he understood everything we were saying, and he followed simple directions perfectly. He was 'jargoning' like crazy, but with no intelligible words.

The Boy has always had what I once read described as a "Watcher" temperament (no reference to Buffy here), in that you get the feeling that he is perfectly capable of doing something, but that he chooses not to do it until he is able to do it perfectly. Case in point: he would walk for blocks while holding your hand, not even using you for balance, but was unwilling to walk on his own. Then one day we leave him with Nana for two hours, and he's walking like he's done it for months.

He's technically been speaking for some time now, if you count the basics: Mama, Dada, Nana, hi, bye, yes, no. Around about a month ago, though, his vocabulary exploded. It was like someone flipped a switch and decided "Thou shalt speak". Everyday, new words come out, ones that I had no idea he even knew. Some days, we'll get as many as five new words, and I gotta say, I think that's pretty impressive. I mean, it's not like I'm sitting there with flash cards or something (see post below). So what I've been thinking about a lot lately is, is the order of the words important? Do the words used in the early days of speech reflect the type of parenting you bring to the table? And if so, what do The Boy's words say about us? Let's review:

1. Mama, Dada, Nana, Hi, Bye-Bye, Yup. ...Okay, so we pretty much rammed the first two down The Boy's throat because we were having a contest to see who was the Beloved Parent (Technically, I think "Dada" won out as literal first word. Damn). Nana, my mother, was bandied about a great deal in our house because we were just so stinking glad when she came over because she gave us a baby break. The rest were reinforced ad nauseum because we thought they were cute. I started saying "yes" instead of "yup" shortly thereafter to try to set a good example.
2. No. Technically, the word was "Noooooooooo". (Hear the lowing of cattle? So do I.) Startling, but inevitable, as The Boy learned the power of refusal. This word was/is used chiefly in answer to the question "Do you want Mummy to sing you a song?"
3. Choo-Choo, Car, Bus, Truck. I would like to go on record with these being The Boy's actual first words. Clearly, he loves them dearly. And since I didn't write down his first word in the Baby Book (where did I put that again..?), that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
4. Ham. What can I say? The Boy likes his food. Why ham made so much of an impression remains a mystery.
5. Nose, Eye, Toe, Shoe, Hat. Useful in any situation, and completely understandable.
6. Water, Milk, More, Mine. Brought to us by "Big Boy Daycare". The first three are very helpful at dinner time, where we've been stalling in a sort of Brechtian failure to communicate. The last one, is a bit more problematic.
7. Pee-pee. Mummy, apparently, drinks far too much water and can't keep it in.
8. Cat, Doggie, Fishie, Monkey, Neigh, Baa, Hoot, Moo, Aminal (note spelling), Daddy, Ba-Ba. After 20 mths of struggling to introduce the animal world, this is as far as we've gotten. Why a Dog is a "Doggie", and a Cat isn't a "Cattie", I'll never know. And nothing we do will convince him that a "Neigh" is actually called a "Horse", or that a rooster, is not normally called a "Daddy" (I was trying to explain that a rooster is a "daddy chicken". Too much information, I guess).
9. Park. No explanation necessary if you've been anywhere near a toddler in the summer.
10. Apple, Banana, Cheese, Cracker, Cookie, Hamburger. See food above.
11. Up, Down. Finally! After months of "Use your words, Mummy doesn't like screeching."
12. Daddy, Mummy. Rather amazing that he has made the leap from Dada to Daddy, until you realize that ALL women are "mummy", and ALL men are "daddy". This one almost broke my heart.
13. Money, Sun, Star, House, Elmo, Elbow, Shovel, Boat, Digging, Raining, Dirt, Running, Outside. A seemingly random array of words that gives you a fairly picturesque view of life at Casa Nomotherearth.
14. "Hi Daddy", "Hi Ma-ma-mummy", "Hi Cat", "All done". And... we're back to pressuring the poor kid to learn in order to see who wins the popularity contest. (And it's Daddy again! Rats. Foiled again.)

You may have noticed the words that are missing from this list. Everyday words that we take for granted like: please, thank you, love, kiss, hug. I'm hoping that this doesn't mean that we're Bad Parents who never exemplify love or good manners in front of our child. I'm hoping that things like "monkey" and "money" don't end up being as important in later life as they are at the moment. Right now, I'm just so happy that we've moved away from grunting and pointing that I'll take what I can get.

All done.

The Play's the Thing

I've been thinking a lot about Her Bad Mother's call to action, and I've decided to jump on the bandwagon. Hope it doesn't tip over. I've spent the last few days reading about other blogger's causes, and I hesitated to put my two cents in because I was humbled by what I read. I'm not very "cause-y" really, and I often find myself avoiding people with megaphones and pamphlets. I'd like to get more involved in things, but I don't think it makes me a bad person if I don't. A cause doesn't always have to help the world, though. Sometimes it can just help you to think about things differently. If it's important to you and is something that you're passionate about, it's enough.

Early on in my maternity leave, I came across an interesting book in my local Book City: "Einstein Never Used Flash Cards". The title caught my attention, and although I walked away without buying it, I couldn't stop thinking about it. So the next week I went back and bought. And it changed my life. At least, it changed my way of thinking about life and raising children.

For those who don't know about it, the book challenges the idea that you need to use flash cards, buy fancy Leapfrog-ish toys, or sign your kids up for millions of classes in order to create the world's next genius. They acknowledge the immense pressure on parents these days to make sure that their kids aren't "missing out" or being "left behind", if they aren't enrolled in every class that their youthful peers are taking. They proffer that memorizing, while useful, doesn't mean that the child has actually learnt something or is smarter. For instance, being able to recite the alphabet is impressive and entertaining, but if the child doesn't know what letters are or what they are used for, they haven't really learnt anything other than how to memorize something by rote.

The focus of the book is that children need to play more and memorize less. It is in playing that children truly learn. Through play, children develop a love of learning and become happy, successful adults. This idea has become my passion, not because I can change the world, but because I can change the life of one person - my son . And maybe if I can get the word out to enough people, I can help enrich other lives as well. What you can do is simple and laid out in the book:

**Join in the play - be a part of their world. They think it's more fun when a parent joins in and it gives them validation of their ideas.

**Don't buy expensive toys - invest in "toys" that foster creativity. An empty box can be a castle. And some of the best toys that you can buy for your child are things that people overlook as being too old fashioned: stacking blocks, playdough, crayons and paper, old clothes for costumes.

**Let the child lead the play, don't try to direct how you think the game should go.

**Encourage imagination by letting boredom happen. Some of the best creativity comes from a child who was bored, and didn't have a parent or an overloaded "play schedule" to save them from it. Some structure is good for kids, but control is not.

So that's my little cause. It's not Aids, or World Hunger, but it means a lot to me. And it may just mean the world to one little Boy I know...

Let the games begin!

On a Clear Day you can see Forever

The Husband got back today from his Boy's (uhh...Men's) Football weekend in St Louis. I'm ashamed to admit that for months, I've been sort of dreading this weekend because I knew that for four days, I would be solely responsible for The Boy. All me, all the time. No breaks. No rests. I love The Boy madly, but I felt like a teenaged girl going on a first date. What would we do? What if we ran out of things to talk about? Would we get to the end of the weekend and discover that we don't like each other as much as we thought we did?? I seriously lost sleep over this...

I've been back at work for a while now, and I have to say that it's a whole different experience than staying at home. (Duhhh, really?). When you're at home, you sort of get into a rhythm. For us, there may not have been a lot of spontaneity in our days, but we knew what to expect of each other, and we were cool with it. Most of the time. Now that The Boy is in daycare, he has an even more solid routine, and although I miss him like crazy during the day, I also appreciate the "break". And I think that The Boy is really happy to have a whole bunch of new friends that he sees on a regular basis. In fact, when The Husband and I took a couple of vacation days the other week, The Boy seemed rather perturbed that he was not going to "Big Boy Daycare".

As it turns out, I worried for nothing. We eased into rhythm that, although different from our Maternity Leave vibe, was nonetheless comfortable and, shockingly, almost effortless. It helped that The Boy was a textbook "Angel Baby" for the whole weekend.

The give and take between us was remarkable, really -- I tried to plan things that would interest him (usually involving a truck or a sandbox), and he agreeably acquiesced to my interests (a run with the Jogging Stroller, and a coffee at Starbucks).

The conversation flowed easily, although was limited in topics: "Ohhhhhh, dat!" (Translation: That looks interesting, please tell me what that is, Mummy); "E-i-yo!" (Translation: Please sing me a song involving farm animals, right now); and "Goggie!........Hiya!" (Translation: Look, there's a dog. Why won't he talk to me and why is he running away?).

And do we still like each other after spending every waking moment in each other's presence. Well, I can't speak for The Boy, but I can speak for myself, and the answer is Yes! Yes! A thousand times, Yes! I'm blessed with a son who is a far better person at 20 months than I will ever be. I only hope that by hanging out with him, I'll become a better version of myself.

Isn't that why we have kids in the first place?

Highway to Hell

The other day, I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad dream.

I was walking with another Mum friend of mine on the sidewalk of a city street. The street that we were walking on was very steep. For some reason, I was was pushing two strollers -- mine, with The Boy in it, and hers with her baby in it. My Mum friend was walking about a half block ahead of us, talking on the phone.

Suddenly, the hand that was pushing her stroller slipped. The stroller, and baby, went racing down the hill and out into traffic. My friend looked up from her phone call, but was too late. At that very moment, a car came racing up the street and hit the stroller. The baby flew out of the stroller with the impact and hit the pavement. She was still alive, but a third of her head, including her eye, became one big purple goose egg. She seemed fine but we were worried about permanent damage, so she was rushed to the hospital. I woke up with a start

Of course, I felt terrible. Horrible. No good. Very bad. (I still do, in fact.) I know that it wasn't real, but it seemed very real at the time. I also know that it was an accident, and not caused by neglect on my part. But the worst part of it was, that in the dream, there was a moment when I had a choice. I could have saved her baby, and I didn't. The choice was, I could let go of my stroller, and run after hers. But then my stroller, and The Boy would go careening down the hill into traffic. I chose to hang on tight to my stroller, to save The Boy.

It's natural, of course, to want to protect your child above all others. I shouldn't feel bad for saving him. I don't see what other choice I could have made, but I keep racking my brain for options. I'd like to think that I'm a reliable, trustworthy friend. Someone with whom you wouldn't think twice about leaving your child. I am a very sensible person, and rather good under pressure, but I guess I'm lousy in an emergency.

Since the dream, I've been seeing accidents everywhere, kind of like I have post-traumatic stress disorder or something. I was afraid to take the stroller down an escalator, in case we tumbled head first. I was afraid to take to the 401 to see my in-laws this weekend, in case I crashed the car while The Boy was in it. Do you see where this is heading?

I guess I need to learn to trust myself, before I can ask others to trust me. Any suggestions as to how?

There's no business like Shoe business

Today, Stride Rite announced that it had acquired the rights to Robeez for a purchase price of CDN$30.5 million dollars. Not one to follow the news much (other than celebrity baby gossip, that is), I was amazed at how much I was affected by this news.

You won't find many people anymore who don't know that this fabulous product was dreamed up by a Canadian mom-preneur, Sandra Wilson, when she was laid off from her airline job. Her story is inspirational to anyone who dreams of making it big, and especially hits home with mothers out there who dream of finding the perfect way of achieving the elusive work-life balance. When I read about her selling it to Stride Rite, I was almost in tears. (What the--??? This wasn't a re-run of Party of Five, after all). Crazy Mums are supposed to get emotional over long-distance telephone commercials, not mergers and acquisitions. Who am I, anyways??

I love Robeez. I had already purchased several pair when The Boy was still a pea in the pod. Let's face it, they're cute! But beyond that, I wanted to support the brand because:

1. They were invented by a Mom.
2. They are Canadian.
3. They are recommended by pediatricians.
4. Their company is family-friendly.
5. They are wicked cute!

I know that Sandra Wilson must have had her reasons for selling the company, and that the good must have outweighed the bad, or she wouldn't have made the move. But all I can think if is the 400 employees will now be left in limbo for the next six months while the parent company "reviews its operations". I've worked at a company that was acquired by the a US corporation, and usually what happens is that the Canadian employees get systematically laid off. Asta la vista, baby! Thanks for nothing. And I'm annoyed that everytime Canada comes up with a good idea, the US finds a way to "acquire it". It's gotten to such a point that Canadians seem to think it's necessary to go to the States to become legitimate. I'm used to this happening in the acting world, and was truly saddened to see it happening to the business world as well. (I know that this is nothing new, but like I said, I don't really follow business all that much).

I suppose I should be happy for Sandra Wilson. After all, she just made a whackload of cash. But all I feel right now is disappointed and disillusioned. I hope it all works out in the end.

Well, that's about as political and rant-y as I get. I guess I will never become the Prime Minister, huh? Sigh. I could always go to the States and become President...

Hey You

For most people, the year begins in January. They make their resolutions on New Year's Eve. They vow to be a better worker, better wife, better person. Not me. For me, the year begins the first week of September. There's something about the coolness in the air, the new shoes and the kids going back to school that makes me...jealous almost. Yes, there it is. Out in the open. I'm a nerd. Every year in September, I want to go back to school. Desperately. My heart races. My legs twitch. And I feel the intense need to do...something. Anything.

In July and August, I am content to laze away the days without doing anything truly constructive. I read trashy fantasy novels. I think up far too many reasons to cut my runs short or avoid them altogether. I avoid movies with "meaning" like the plague, and don't even suggest one with sub-titles. It's too hot. I'm too tired. It hurts to think. But come September, I want to conquer the world. September is my wake-up call. I watch the kids going to school and wonder what interesting thing they are going to learn today. How are they going to see the world differently? I sigh longingly, then continue on to my job where I do the pretty much the same thing every day.

This year, I have decided that I am going to take matters into my own hands and do something constructive rather than simply accept. My Dad is a minister and I grew up with a copy of the Serenity Prayer sitting in the window of my parents' guest bathroom for as long as I can remember. I think the words transcend religion and therefore have stuck with me all my life -- "grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Courage to change the things I can. And the wisdom to know the difference." I am hoping that if it write these "resolutions" down for all to see, I will be less likely to try to back out at a later date. Less likely to give up when things get hard. These are the things I think that I can change (not in any particular order):

1. I will go back to school and complete the courses necessary to convert my diploma into a full degree.
2. I will volunteer with a recognized organization, and gain experience working with children in a teaching capacity (one of my passions and a possible future career)
3. I will continue to look for a career that marries my need for (emotional, artistic, positive) fulfillment with my family's need for financial support.
4. I will be nicer to The Husband. (Love, if you're reading this - yes, I really am going to work at this!)
5. I will appreciate every moment with The Boy for what it is - the opportunity to share in and affect the beginning of a beautiful shining life.

So now there's nothing left but to get on with it. If you want to help, then keep reminding me of my goals. Together we stand, Divided we fall.

Happy New Year!

Bite the Hand

I am always humbled, and a little bit jealous, when I read a post like Penelope and Bumblebee's about breastfeeding. The way that she talks about that "very beautiful, very emotional" part of her relationship with her baby almost makes me wish that I was still breastfeeding. Almost.

Like Penelope, I too always knew that I would breastfeed. I had done a lot of reading and was thoroughly convinced that it was the best thing for The Boy. With my magical 20-20 hindsight, I think that I always knew there were going to be problems. Although my breasts did grow along with my belly, they never reached the epic growth that friends of mine experienced. I also knew that it was going to be no walk in the park. That's what every one said. Some babies latch on easily from the get-go, but I do believe that those babies are in the minority.

When the Boy came out and the nurse positioned him at my chest in the recovery room, he sucked eagerly and I felt a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. It felt so natural. And for a person who is not necessarily the most at ease in her body, that was a real achievement. After that, it all kind of went downhill.

The Boy would have slept through his whole first night, but I dutifully woke him every 3 hours and put him to the breast. He didn't seem all that eager to eat, but I figured he got enough because he went back to sleep. (I, on the other hand, didn't sleep at all that night, I just watched him.) I didn't feel that I had got the latch right so I asked for help from the nurses repeatedly and attended the free classes at the hospital. Sure enough, he wasn't gaining weight, and soon became jaundiced. Normal stuff, really, but we had to stay an extra day before we were realeased.

We spent the next month or so going back and forth to the lactation consultants at the hospital at least twice a week. Strangely enough, I started to look forward to those visits, because at least it meant that I got out of the house and talked to real people. They had us on a strict schedule of feeding every three hours whether The Boy wanted to or not, because he wasn't waking for his feedings. We also had to fill out a chart of each time we fed him, for how long and whether or not he filled his diapers. I was also pumping after each feed to stimulate milk production, and I was to record that as well. For a while there, we were even supplementing the breastfeeding with formula through a tube.

So every three hours, here's how the process would go:
Wake up. Get a glass of water and get everything organized. Wake the Boy up. Undress the boy to wake him up, and for skin-to-skin contact. Use cold washcloths to wake the Boy further if other methods didn't work. Breastfeed one side for 30 minutes. Change The Boy's diaper to wake him up again. Breastfeed the other side for 30 minutes. The Husband would bring the formula and the tube feeding apparatus and help me to position it (it took three hands to do it, and silly me, I only have two..). The Husband would take The Boy and put him to bed. I would pump for another twenty minutes. All told this process took an hour an a half. Then I would go to bed. It would take me a half hour to fall asleep, and the alarm would wake me up an hour later to do this all over again.

I breastfed through cracked and bleeding nipples, purple nipples from treatment for thrush, but luckily no mastitis. And eventually, things got easier. I pumped once a day instead of every time. I started taking Fenugreek, Blessed Thistle and Domperidone (30 pills a day, all told) to increase milk production. We stopped the tube feeding. We even visted Dr Jack Newman, who pointed out that The Boy had a slight "tongue-tie" problem that may have been interfering with his ability to suck (or latch - I was tired, and I honestly can't remember the whole conversation). He took care of it right there, and the breastfeeding did improve after that.

He still took about an hour to feed, and although he did get faster (more efficient?) as the months went by, our quickest feed was about a half hour. I did have to plan my day around the feedings, because I always had to make sure that if I was out and about, that I was somewhere where people didn't mind us hanging out for an hour (thank you, Starbucks!). On the plus side, I did get a lot of reading done when I was at home. The Boy was never one to look lovingly in my eyes while feeding, he just closed his eyes and quietly sucked away. So I read. For a while there I was reading about eight hours a day. It relaxed me, and made me more content to sit there while he took what he needed.

I do think that we bonded during these hours, just maybe in a different way than others experience it. I don't regret a minute of it, and would do it all over again if I had to (although, I would hope it would be easier the second time around). But more than that, The Boy taught me some pretty serious Life Lessons. As a thinking person, they were lessons that I intellectually already knew, but had never put to the test:

1. Although things may not turn out the way that you thought they would, it doesn't mean that they turned out badly.
2. The people that help you in your time of need are the people that mean the most to you.
3. If you want to do something badly enough, you will find a way to make it happen. Even if it seems impossible.

That was just something that I needed to get off my chest.