a queer family grows in redneckville

dreamy chats

2012-02-15T20:43:00.000-07:00

Bedtime.

Boy-o, half asleep, has this to share:

Mama? Did you know that in Spanish, the moon is Luna?
I love Luna. I really love her.
I mean, I don't love her like you love your mama. She's not a real person.
But she is just so bright and shiny....
Sigh....
Annnnnnddd..... asleep.

Man, I love those moments.

a little lost

2012-02-15T08:55:00.000-07:00

Kid #1 is a mess. A mess of anger, resentment, anxiety and the kinds of behaviours that go with all of these things. And it's not that I don't understand, fully, where these feelings and actions are coming from. His family is altogether changed and his entire foundation is shifting underneath of him. He has little control over this, and is trying to exert some at home. It makes all kinds of good sense. But the fact that it makes perfect sense, this out of control-ness and wild emoting, does not make it an easier to navigate. And I am lost. There is no map for this. We talk about feelings. We talk about the separation and its effects. We have elicited the assistance of a child psychologist. And still, here I am, stuck in the middle of the muck of it, and feeling helpless.

Yesterday, the bathroom was flooded, the shower was broken (and the important fixture piece thrown down the sink drain) and the shower curtain was ripped out of the wall, rod and all. How to describe my reaction? On four hours of sleep (in a long series of nights without sleep), and days on end of this kind of stuff, I hit my breaking point. In short, I lost my shit. I screamed. I yelled. I cried. Yup. Not so pretty. (Have I mentioned that there is no road map for this stuff?)

Later on in the day, after asking the same child to get in his car seat several hundred times, and attempting to put said child into his carseat, to no avail, I burst out with: "Will you just get the fuck in the car?!" Yes. Really. Classy, mom. Really classy. Throw another hundred bucks into the therapy fund, how bout...

I am so depleted right now. Just weary. I have no job. I have no daycare. No place to live. Because I need a job to secure daycare and a place to live. And when and if I do secure a job, it could take a zillion years to actually secure said daycare. I didn't even know if I would be able to go to my job interview today because I couldn't secure childcare until the 11th hour. The house is in shambles. And being the cute helpless femme (note somewhat derisive and highly caustic tone here) - I have no effing idea how to do things like fix shower curtain rods or a hot clue what to even look for in Home Depot to make the shower work again. Independent, me. Real independent. None of my money is actually, you know, mine. (Yes, yes, I'm a good feminist and all that shit. I know it's mine, too. It just doesn't feel like mine.) I got accepted into my Phd program for the fall. With funding. And I should be so bloody excited. But all I feel is tired. And full of doubt. If I can't even manage to keep my house clean, look for jobs, find daycares and housing - how can I possibly hope to manage the rigours of Phd work and kids and a household? A mystery, that.

I guess I'm feeling fresh out of resources.

And trying so hard to trust the big ol' Universe on this one.

(Some days, this feels easier than others.)

A Lauren Zuniga Poem, for all the V-day lovin' lovers out there

2012-02-13T21:46:00.000-07:00

clumsy

2012-02-12T08:18:00.003-07:00

sometimes,
i wander through mazes
of clutter, stumble over stray toys
that talk back to me & over bits
of lego that bite at the soles
of my feet, unprotected
by socks worn thin.
tumbleweeds of dust &
slinky cats wind up
around my ankles, willing me
to trip & fall.

sometimes,
i forget to look behind
me, eyes fixed & straining to adjust
to the glare of horizon stretched out
ahead, oblivious to missing
bank cards & pennies & shiny
trinkets strewn out in
my wake, a jumbled path.
fairy tale breadcrumbs & notched
trees, a faded & unreadable
roadmap of the places
I've been to &
left.

sometimes,
i lose my words to crevasses
of raw nerves, exposed &
tap-dancing around
voices on the other end
of phone lines & dinner tables.
falling prey to the pitfalls
of leaning against speech
where such trust is unwarranted.
(in)capacities of language hang still
in the air & the slippery
divide between tongue &
throat.

sometimes.

sometimes,
i'm clumsy like that.

mispronunciations

2012-02-10T08:39:00.000-07:00

So, I was chatting with someone last night about our pet peeve mispronunciations. Mine include libARY and FUStrated, and her list was topped by EXpecially. I've got others, but those are the two that make me want to crawl under the table. It makes me very, well, frustrated.

Anyhoo - it got me to thinking a bit about the way my kiddos say some words incorrectly. And about the fact that I freaking LOVE this (a hypocrite, me). For example, Girlio is fond of saying hostible instead of hospital. And Boy-o says McChemicals instead of chemicals. (Perhaps I should cut down on his Grey's Anatomy ;). There are a few others too, but those are the most frequent. I can't help it. I find it rotten-stinking cute. And so I don't really go toooooo far out of my way to correct them. (And when I try they don't really believe me anyways!).

I know I should probably be giving a little more of a concerted effort to correcting them. But honestly, I'll be kinda sad when they figure out that hospital and chemicals and other corrected pronunciations are the way to go, because, among other things, it'll mean they're getting all grown up on me. And I'm fairly confident they'll figure it out themselves prior to adulthood.

In my own defence, both my 2.5 and 5 year old can correctly pronounce library, frustrated and especially. (And use them in a stellar sentence or two.) So that's gotta count for something.

Ferron and Bitch. 'Girl on a Road' - a return to my youth...

2012-02-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

Mental Health Words We Like to Throw Around...

2012-02-08T12:25:00.000-07:00

Words like panic attack (Like, OMG, I just totally had a panic attack when Peter talked to me after class) and anxiety and depression (I'm just soooo depressed!) are words/phrases that tend to get tossed around colloquially a bit too often. How about crazy? Nuts? Insane?

For people who actually live with anxiety, panic attacks, depression and all kinds of other mental health issues, these things can get a little, you know, annoying. It leads to all kinds of misunderstanding about what really living with mental health issues is actually like. It leads to furthering the 'why can't they just pull themselves up by the bootstraps' attitudes. And it just generally makes light of something that is extremely challenging and life-altering for many, many folks. So, for the record, there's a pretty hefty difference between getting sad about something, like a death or a break-up and being depressed (you know, being unable to function for days on end for no good reason...). There's a difference between being worried and having actual problems with anxiety. Further to this, there's a large difference between being anxious about something that's reasonable to be worried about and having a full-on, big old ugly-assed panic attack.

See, I have this issue with anxiety. Everyone on here already knows this, but I like to talk about it because this shit needs to be talked about more. Lots more. Ad nauseum more. And it's been on my mind, lately, because the anxiety has been more of a struggle than usual, of late. Probably because my life is in flux. And change and uncertainty is scary at the best of times. Throw a 'wee' issue with anxiety into the mix, and things can really get interesting.

So there's been some generalized anxiety, which sometimes (thankfully not always) gets followed by panic attacks. You know, like a few. Okay. Maybe a few-ish. Ever had one?

So- in case anyone wanted to know, this is how my anxiety tends to happen, though I would surmise that this process can be different for everybody. Again, I think actually talking about the nitty-gritty of what these things look like is important, because it helps to debunk some of the ways words like anxiety and depression and such get used from day to day. Alrighty - back to me, then.

1. It usually (but not always) starts with a trigger. My triggers are mostly other-people focussed, because my anxiety is largely of the social variety. This can vary - it can be something as benign as being in a large group and feeling out of place or being unable to situate myself in group dynamics, feeling like I've said 'the wrong thing,' (which incidentally, I feel often), that someone is angry at me, annoyed with me, a funny or awkward encounter with someone, worries about friends etc. etc. etc. These triggers are of course exacerbated by other variables going on in my life: external and internal stressors, whether or not I've managed to remember to take my meds, getting enough sleep, and getting enough exercise (my four biggies).

2. Everything gets quicker. It's like Mama T on speed. My thoughts, my speech, my gestures, my pace, my heartbeat. Everything races. (And you'll just have to trust me when I say that I am not the sort of girl for whom speed is at all useful! I move so fast in non-anxious mode that speed would make me supersonic. Perhaps this is my latent superhero power ;))

3. My heart starts to pound. This is usually my cue to 'get the hell outta dodge' or seek refuge in the bathroom or a quiet place if this is a possibility. If it isn't a possibility, or I'm stuck in a social situation, I will get very, very quiet and withdrawn (all the while feeling internally like a speeding train wreck, which is a mighty odd juxtaposition). Because if the pounding gets stronger, I'm on my way to a panic attack. And if the pounding gets stronger, it will be the only thing I can think about, because I will swear it is beating right out of my chest. Sometimes, on the good days, when my heart beat quickens, when I feel like 'Mama T on speed', I can stop things before I reach the level of panic. Things like consciously acknowledging the anxiety (which is not always as easy as it sounds, in the moment) and naming the trigger, if I'm aware of it, out loud, trying to stop and ground myself (like physically planting my feet into the ground and forcing myself to stop and focus), and deep breathing. And other times, this practice is useless. I catch it too late or it just plain doesn't help.

5. Next, my breathing can get effed up: shallow, ragged, and really ineffective. It will feel difficult to get enough air and my ears will start ringing. I can get dizzy, but this doesn't always happen.

6. My eyes might start to water or I will start crying and not realize it at all until afterwards

7. I will temporarily become completely consumed by the feeling of panic. Heart beating out of my chest, Almost entirely unable to breathe.

And then somehow, in variable amounts of time passage, it will subside. I'm not really sure why, or how. The panic will settle down and leave in its place overwhelming exhaustion, frustration, and small bits of beating myself up for 'letting it get the better of me'... again. I don't always go through steps 1-7. But steps 1-3 are pretty usual for me. It happens quite a lot. You'd think I'd be a total pro at it by now, these trips to crazy-town (and yes, I can use that word to refer to myself. And no, you can't call me crazy). Oddly, given my vast amount of experience with it, it never does get any easier or less visceral. Crazy-town just plain sucks.

It's hard to explain to other people what living with this kind of stuff is like. It's hard to explain why you might seem to be acting oddly or withdrawn or a little bit nutters (yes, I can use that word to refer to myself, and no, you can't use it to refer to me). It's hard to explain why you are easier to trigger than other people, more sensitive, more prone to negatively reading social cues that may or may not actually exist. It's hard because you know deep down that you are more 'work' than other people, and you will likely often question whether or not you are worth it.

And it's hard, hard, hard shit to talk about, especially in our current culture which continues to see mental health as a luxury and not a necessity. Casually throwing around words like depression, anxiety, panic, crazy etc. etc. when one doesn't actually have a real sense of what these things mean or feel like doesn't make these difficulties easier.

But I guess, if you're out there reading this, or something else like it, and you struggle with these things too - I encourage you to blab about it. Blab, talk, announce, shout, sing your crazy to the world. The more you do it, the easier it gets. And the more voices we can add to the chorus, the louder (and less crazy) we'll be.

Be my valentine

2012-02-08T08:18:00.000-07:00

Love. The difficult word. Where everything starts, where we always return. Love. Love's lack. The possibility of love. - Jeanette Winterson

Okay - so the big V-day is coming up. And it tends to make some people very very grumpy. Usually non-partnered people, who grumble about the hallmark-y-ness and commercialization of relationships. There is/was a part of me, even when I was partnered person, who agreed with this sentiment. It is Hallmark-y. And people do all kinds of things like buy highly non-creative (and often wilty) bouquets of red roses filled with far too many ferns and baby's breath. Or even worse, bouquets of carnations filled out with far too many ferns and baby's breath. And heart-shaped boxes of crappy chocolate. And bad, bad Hallmark cards filled with annoying and poorly written rhymes about lurrrrve. (One could also make a very strong argument for Valentine's day being a celebration of normative couplings and heterosexuality as well, but I'll save that for another day).

Oddly, it is as a non-partnered person that I have come to appreciate Valentine's day more. We live in a world filled with a whole lot of capital H-hate. Intolerance. Violence. Greed. General yuckiness abounds. Every time we turn on the television or read the news, someone is hurting someone else. And we become so accustomed and inured to it that it seems, well, normal. And expected. So in this light, it occurs to me, at least of late, that a day designed to celebrate love is actually pretty fucking radical. We do very little to really celebrate our capacity to genuinely touch other people and be touched by other people, in lovely and positive ways.

It doesn't have to be a Hallmark day. Leave that to the boring and unimaginative, which you clearly are not. Whether you are partnered or alone or somewhere is the murky spots in between - why not instead use Valentine's day as a reminder to take out that heart of yours and dust it off. Open it. Share it with someone. Share it with yourself. Your kids. Your dog or cat or rabbit or iguana or guinea pig, whathaveyou. Remember how precious and rare it is, this business of loving. Write a love letter. Write it to yourself first, and then someone else, if you feel so inclined. Listen to fabulous love songs. Take yourself out for a run or a latte or whatever tickles your fancy. Wish on some stars. Imagine things differently. Help your kid write out their valentines to every single classmate, and their teacher. Buy yourself some wine and a bunch of flowers. (Though here, I might urge you to look beyond red roses and carnations with ferns and baby's breath, but that's just my massive flower snobbery coming out). Use the day to remind yourself to be kinder to yourself, and to other people. That we don't, can't and shouldn't live in a bubble by ourselves. That we have to nurture relationships; friendships, lovers, families, pets and most importantly, ourselves.

Use this day to remind yourself that all that hatred and violence and generally abounding yuckiness is not, in fact, a natural state. We can do better.

Much, much better.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

face-crack addicts unite!

2012-02-08T06:00:00.001-07:00

"Oh my god! Do you just sit around on Facebook all day?!"
or
"I wish I could spend my days hanging out on Facebook instead of going to work."
or
"You sure update your status a lot/post a lot on Facebook."

Yup. I spend a lot of time of Facebook, and the computer in general. I'm probably a bit on an addict and I'll be the first one to admit it. (Hello, My name is Mama T and I'm a face-crack-head). HOWEVER, and this is a big however, I kinda hate the undertones of the above statements. Beyond the "I'm-cooler-than-you-and-have-much-better-things-to-do-with-my-time" insinuation, there is also (particularly in the second statement, which I tend to get most often) intrinsic assumptions about what life as a stay-at-home mama looks like.

Just as an example of my days: Today's work day started at 5:15 a.m. And - aside from lazing around on ye olde crackbook, I have also: made breakfast, cleaned up from breakfast, washed, dried, folded and put away four loads of laundry, cleaned and tidied the kitchen and living room (twice, because some little buggers promptly messed them up again straight away), changed several diapers, interrupted and mediated several screaming matches and a few fisticuffs, got dinner for tonight (my night away and L's night with the kids) prepped and simmering on the stove, bathed the children, made them lunch, packed Boy-o's bag and snack for school, helped him with his home reading assignment, read several books to the kids and got the boy off to the school bus. Before 11:30 a.m. You know, just another lazy face crack day. (There may or may not have been some bonbons involved, naturally).

Moreover, I sort of see Facebook as my way of having interaction with the world. I've said it once, I've said it a million-zillion times: being a stay-at-home mama is holy-hella isolating. I don't come into contact with many (or on most days, any) adults in my daily on-the-job life. Think about how many conversations around the water cooler most work-outside-the-home people have had by, say, 11:30 a.m.; how many co-workers they've run into and casually asked how they are, or shared a juicy tidbit of gossip, or had a wee bitch session about their boss. That's an impossibility for me. No one asks me how I am in a day, or shares gossip, or a bitch about their boss. I don't get to ask other people how they are in a day, or share gossip, or bitch about my bosses (those cute little tyrants!) .... except on Facebook. You see what I'm getting at here?

I do update my status a lot. And post a lot. It's my way, I think, of being out in the world when I can't actually, you know, be out in the world. And the people that tend to comment a lot on my statuses and posts are my other stay-at-home mama friends - trying to be out there in the world, too.

So yeah. I'm a Facebook addict and I'm o.k. It makes me feel less invisible and less disconnected. And for the record, though I shouldn't need to say it, even once, I work bloody effing hard. My work days average in at well over twelve hours most of the time, and often run into the overnights. (And as an aside, YES - I chose my job. Why do people say things like that to parents when they talk about parenting being hard? Did they not also choose the job they bitch about? Don't most people choose their jobs?).

Anyhoo - please don't insinuate that you work harder than me because you spend less time online. It makes this stay-at-home mama all riled up.

And if that happens, you know what comes next...

I might have to post about it on Facebook ;)

The Muppets - Mama (Bohemian Rhapsody ) - Otherwise known as what my day sounds like! (Without the last few seconds, natch!)

2012-02-07T09:57:00.000-07:00

sage babes

2012-02-07T08:05:00.000-07:00

This morning, Boy-o wrote me a ticket. You know, like a speeding ticket or a parking ticket. Except this ticket was because "You and mommy don't live in the same house anymore." Gulp. Yeah - I guess I've earned a ticket for that one.

Anyhow - this began a conversation that we have a lot. In fact, I'm surprised that both kids don't know it off by heart. About how grown-ups sometimes realize that they can't live together anymore, and it doesn't mean that they don't love each other and it certainly doesn't mean they don't love you. About how we will always be a family, no matter where different members of our family lives, and that sometimes families change and grow. And we chat about this for quite some time. Which is followed by a pause, where I look at them intently, trying to figure out if they've reached the saturation point.

After a moment or two passes, Boy-o looks at Girlio and says: "We carry our families' hearts with us wherever we go." And Girlio replies, without missing a beat: "Yeah, because they're our peeps!" (Which, is a funny thing to hear from your two year old, no matter what the context!)

Sage little wonders, these babes of mine.

Bless her heart

2012-02-06T17:19:00.002-07:00

So - I should've done the grocery shopping this weekend when I was kidless. And for all kinds of reasons, I didn't. I got caught up in weekendness and fun and cleaning up the wreck of our house. Anyhoo - the long and the short of it is the larder was bare and I had to venture out to replenish supplies. With BOTH kids in tow. Not overly heinous when you only have to pick up a few things. But when you have to do a down-and-dirty-I-ran-outta-everything-shopping-trip with two kids.... you have to be prepared to come out of said trip a temporary shell of your former self. Today was no exception. By the time I make it to the the checkout line, I'm frazzled, covered in Yop, and just plain done in. The children are wild wild hellions and look, I'm sure, to others as though they have been raised by amateurs (though, aren't all kids raised by amateurs, really?!). And I may as well have been speaking to them in Hungarian for all the good my words did. I feel tears pricking and stinging the back of my eyes and I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to regroup and ignore the fact that both children are perilously perched on the shopping cart, trying to kill each other, and very, very loud. (Oh, how I just loooooove being stared at in Superstore!)

And then, older woman in line touches my arm and starts to speak to me. I brace myself for something that will make me feel super shitty for being frazzled and at the end of my rope, like: "oh enjoy this, they're only this age for such a short time," or "they're such blessings" or, "they're just being kids!" because this is the normal route such conversations take. And while of course, each of these things are true, they only serve to make me feel like a big creepy jerk for feeling near tears and slightly homicidal.

But instead, she smiles knowingly and says, "I'm so glad mine are older now. It really gets so much easier when they're older. Hang in there."

And then I do cry a little bit.

But mostly out of the overwhelming and immense feeling of gratitude I feel towards this lovely and kind (and honest!) stranger.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

OPEN LETTER TO PRIME MINISTER HARPER RE: THE UNIVERSAL CHILD CARE BENEFIT | childcarecanada.org

2012-02-06T10:52:00.000-07:00

OPEN LETTER TO PRIME MINISTER HARPER RE: THE UNIVERSAL CHILD CARE BENEFIT | childcarecanada.org

gratitude

2012-02-05T15:05:00.000-07:00

Life after separation is proving a strange beast, as it turns out. Surreal and kind of lonely and full of slippery footing. Of course, this is as it should be, one surmises, when trying to figure out what the world looks like after 13 years of marriage (which was immediately preceded by another long-term relationship). So - alone-ness is very, very new. And challenging. And there is so much grief over failing at marriage, feeling like I've failed someone that of course I will always love in many ways, and at the realization that those many ways of love are not enough. There is intense guilt over the impact of my choices on my children, who are also struggling, and my own battle to remain focussed on them while attempting to sort my shit out. And let's be frank: flux and uncertainty are hard. Really fucking hard.

But - I also think - despite this being a time of great flux and uncertainty - this time has also been one of gifts and possibility. So this blog is about gratitude; something I am perhaps guilty of not acknowledging enough.

So here goes my list of gratitudes:

1. I've been trying really hard to make new friends, which I find hugely difficult. And many of these people are proving to be most lovely additions to my life.
2. Discovering new ways of being with old friends, who seem to love me still.
3. Paying attention to reconnecting with friends from other provinces, who've been all kinds of lovely and supportive. Rediscovering the art of the phone date.
4. Spending time with on-line friends, many of whom I've never met in person, who have rallied around me in ways that I find so bloody amazing and wonderful. Pooh pooh internet connections all you want, but these folks are solid and loving and really helping to sustain me,
5. Concentrating on trying to let go of some of my own (possibly slightly unreasonable) expectations of myself.
6. Finding moments of reflection.
7. Re-evaluating what my life could look like, and reacquainting with the idea of possibility instead of feeling mired by impossibility.
8. Book club. So awesome. Reading and having an excuse to 'have to' read feels decadent. Meeting with swell people to talk about the books once a month - super fabulous.
9. Thrift shopping. Holy fuck I love finding pretty bargains. Makes me stupid happy.
10. Finding new musical crushes with which to dance alone in my living room. FUN!
11. Re-committing to myself, and figuring out how to reconcile who I feel like I've become with who I'd like to be. This one is big. Super-hella-freaking big.
12. My therapist. Seriously folks - this woman is fantastic.
13. Rediscovering my inner flirt.
14. Making an effort to be more playful and less serious.
15. Trusting that the universe - and my own instincts - will get me/us through this transition.
16. Finding hidden wells of inner resilience that I had no idea existed.
17. Becoming more assertive.
18. Nightly piles of purring warm cat cuddles.
19. Morning piles of giggling kid cuddles.
20. Wishing stars. And glimmers of hope.

Many, many things to be grateful for already. And with any luck - many more to uncover.

2012-02-03T08:28:00.002-07:00

A friend posted a link on FB this morning to an interview by Sinclair Sexsmith with Jack Halberstam for Lambda Literary, talking about, among other things, Jack's most recent book The Queer Art of Failure (Duke U Press, 2011), which I am, of course, dying to get my grubby little paws on, as they say. The book looks amazing, and the interview was pretty good too, touching on queers and academia, pop culture and other fun stuff. But my particular favourite part of the interview was Halberstam touching on issues of parenting, posted below...

I’m looking forward to reading that. I didn’t realize you were a parent! Is this new?

Four years. I got involved with someone who had two kids, so that’s how it works. When I met her, they were quite little kids. They’re now 6 and 8. So they’re now a more user-friendly age, you can actually interact with them. [Laughs] We have a very queer setup, my partner’s ex is also in the picture, so they have a relation to their dad and to his partner. And that’s what it means to be a family, you have a lot of pieces, and sometimes we all hang out and sometimes we don’t. People are there for you in different ways, and one person doesn’t do everything for you, there are many people. I think that’s a good model, personally. I’m a big recommender of divorce for that reason, because with divorces come more parents.

To this I say, "huh. interesting..."

.....

There’s a study going around about how lesbian parents produce a child abuse rate of 0%.

Wait and see— there’ll be a whole generation of lesbian-raised kids who will tell you otherwise in ten years. That’s the experience of being a kid, you experience the world in a profoundly undemocratic way, your opinion is not always solicited, things happen to you that are not of your choosing, and parents are generally tyrannical because they have to be, in all kinds of situations, simply to get through the day. And that means a lot of what we call parenting in families are vectors for the transmission of forms of power that are tyrannizing. So inevitably there are people who down the road are going to feel hard-done by it. And they will eventually find a way to link lesbians to certain forms of abuse, but the real problem is not lesbians, the real problem is parenting itself, and that we live in a society that gives parents very few options. This is particularly true of poor people, people raising kids without adequate resources, there’s no safety net in this country, and there are really no good ways for people who are making under a reasonable amount of money a year to get a break. That’s the setup that creates bad parenting, it’s not whether you’re gay straight or trans.

Now, can I just go on the record as saying, I hate this study and how it gets parroted by every LGBT group on the planet? First of all, the premise is shite. Of course there is not 0% abuse on lesbian headed families. I know this for a fact. I've seen some. That's life. I'm sure some of my behaviour has been at times abusive. Because I'm pretty fucking fallible, and we are all at times abusive. And there is nothing (and I do mean nothing) that will push you to the furthest recesses of your limits than kids. But because I have more resources and support than some lesbian headed households, my borderline behaviour is just that, borderline. You know, at times iffy. Those with less supports... well, you figure it out. (By this, I don't just mean income either folks - I'm talking all kinds of resources here, both internal and external). So - premise of study, and findings of study. Phoeey. At least that's what I have to say about it. ;)

And secondly, the way 'we' use the study is a problem. The "see, we're as good of, or better parents than you so we should have parental rights too" bit is both misguided and misleading. That isn't the reason we should have parental rights (or any rights) for that matter. It capitulates to the framework that one way of being is inherently better than another, and seeks to claim a place in that more normal or better way of being. It's like saying fat people shouldn't be ridiculed because they've 'tried all the diets in the world and they just don't work'. In other words, 'I know I'm defective, but I've tried so very hard not to be, so you should love me for trying to be like you.' (Another close to home example for me). You see what I'm getting at?

Anyhow - super interesting article about super interesting book. You should read 'em both:)

Shit People Say to Femmes

2012-02-03T07:35:00.000-07:00

This made me bust a gut laughing...

2012-02-01T08:11:00.000-07:00

Trans folk and air travel discrimination

2012-01-31T07:49:00.000-07:00

Ahhh - the Harper-bots are at it again! This time, they've decided that if one's visible gender presentation does not match the sex assigned on one's passport, people should be denied access to their flights. For serious. Check out Jezebel's take on the situation - they've pretty much nailed it. As they rightly assert: "it's not as simple as just getting the sex designation changed on your passport, in order to do that the government requires proof that you've either had sex reassignment surgery or will have it within one year. So basically any transgender person who doesn't fall neatly into that very narrow category is screwed because they can't get a proper ID."

Wanna add your name to the chorus telling the Con's this is ridiculous and discriminatory? Head here and sign on the dotted line.

Shower-time

2012-01-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

Here is one example on the list of things you do NOT want to hear when you've ducked in the shower while the kids play:

CRASH! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! CRASH!

"Ummmmmmmmmmmm. I reallllly love you, MAMA!"

Mmmmmmmhmmmmmm.

Fat-shaming

2012-01-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

Hey ya'll - here's a great read on fat-shaming, inspired by the awful Georgia campaign using fat kids in anti-obesity ads from over at xojane. http://www.xojane.com/issues/whats-wrong-fat-shaming I found it to be a perfect early Monday morning read... maybe you will too :)

Points of Contention

2012-01-26T21:27:00.001-07:00

Points of contention.
High Points. low points. Points of endless crying. Aching points. And points where no point is readily available. I don't give a rat's ass points. Stunning points of clarity. (points of none.) 'Fuck You!' and I-want-to-throw plates-at-the-wall points. (points of rage). i'm minuscule and alone in this world points. Points Surrounded. points loved. Small bony limbs in a haphazard tangle around me points. Ugly Hard Points. Thousands upon thousands of pin-pricking points of desire. Points alternately slippery and sure-footed. perfectwordsrollingoffmytonguepoints. Points of silence, stuttering, stiltedness. Points of terror. Wild heart banging right out of my chest points. Mouth Wide and Singing at the Top of my Lungs Points. The points where each of your fingertips gently touched my face. Longing points, heartsore. Points of Losing It All. Me*me*me points and points that threaten to swallow me whole. Dancing in spite of it all points. Remembering points.
Points of departure.

2012-01-26T21:25:00.001-07:00

This blog post from over at deadspin is so funny I almost peed my pants. I'm not kidding. Funny as hell. And so very very true! Which gets me to thinking we should go over there and read all of the other great posts, too :)

http://deadspin.com/5877906/parents-dont-put-any-goddamn-candy-in-the-goodie-bag

Definition of Love – As Told by Children

2012-01-22T17:22:00.000-07:00

Definition of Love – As Told by Children

Kids are so awesome. And wildly big-hearted.

Roe v Wade

2012-01-22T13:05:00.000-07:00

Today marks the 39th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Check out this link for Planned Parenthood to see women talk about what this has meant for their lives. And remind yourself that we have to stand vigilant about our rights to reproductive health care, as our governments continually allow their erosion (and in some places, their erasure).

https://secure.ppaction.org/site/SPageNavigator/pp_ppol_ws_since_roe.html?pgwrap=n&utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=post&utm_campaign=39anniversary

Repost: Oh, the Yo-Yo of it All..

2012-01-21T11:17:00.003-07:00

If somebody would've told me beforehand - I never would have believed them. The yo-yo is sometimes too intense to actually be, well, believable. I'd have thought they were being melodramatic or exaggerating. I'd have thought they didn't appreciate, you know, the miracle of parenthood and blah blah blah, etc. etc.
So, what the heck am I talking about? I'm talking about the ups & downs and highs & lows of parenting. I'm talking about how bloody quick that high can become a low, and vice versa.   (It's entirely possible that I've blogged about this before. If so, clearly I'm still amazed by it).

(As a sidenote here: I will be the first to admit that my kids tend towards the, um, intense. They come by it honestly. Like their Mama, they do not believe in doing anything, or any mood, half-assed. Moderate just isn't our way. So I get that other folks may think I'm wingeing when I talk about my kids' moods or tantrums or reactions or activity levels and the like. But you'll just have to trust me when I say, my tots are an intense little lot.)

Anyhoo - back to the ups and down business. There are days when the mood pendulum is so great that I can cry happy, sad and frustrated tears all in one day (or one outing, for that matter!). Who would believe that before becoming a parent?

There is nothing that can prepare you for the rush of sheer bliss that comes from spontaneous hugs, declarations of affection, or impromptu kitchen dance parties with a coupla smalls? There is also nothing that can prepare you (and I mean nothing!) for the intensity of helplessness and anger when you are dealing with an intense hour long (and that's not even close to our household record either peeps) in which you get slapped, kicked and have to dodge miscellaneous projectiles, in which the raging tantrum-ee is so worked up, he gouges a huge welt in their own stomach, while you are attempting (and usually failing) to maintain a zen-like calm.   But then, as quickly as it roared in, the tantrum stops. And you are overcome with an overwhelming need to comfort and shelter this child that seconds ago was as big as a hurricane, and now seems so vulnerable and tiny. Or how 'bout the extreme frustration from dealing with a toddler so steadfastly against the concept of sleep that she will poke her own eyeballs in an attempt to avoid getting those zzzz's.    And  unexpectedly, the toddler collapses in a heap of sleep. And you are overcome with relief, and an enormous flooding of gooey love for this gorgeous, sweetly sleeping babe in front of you.

The yo-yo is nuts.  Sheer nuttery. Especially when you add to the yo-yo your own feelings of ineptitude, the nagging suspician that you could've, should've handled it (whatever it is) better, that you are really not cut out for this business. And top that with the moments that just go right, those fleeting moments when you get to think: 'Wow, we're doing an awesome job with these amazing kids."   Yo. Yo.

There is this fantastic old movie about parenting, called (wait for it!):Parenthood. It's an 80's flick with Steve Martin and Mary Steenburgen and if you haven't seen it, you are totally missing out.   (Really. Rent it or Netflix it or something). Anyhow - there's this scene where a wise little grandma is trying to explain to her grandson (Martin) that parenthood is like a rollercoaster...

Grandma: You know, when I was nineteen, Grandpa took me on a roller coaster.

Gil: (not really paying attention) Oh?

Grandma: Up, down, up, down. Oh, what a ride!

Gil: (totally sarcastic) What a great story.

Grandma: I always wanted to go again. You know, it was just so interesting to me that a ride could make me so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, and so thrilled all together! Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.

Grandma is right of course. It's a roller coaster. One minute your heart is breaking and the next second it's swelling with all kinds of warm fuzzies. It's an awesome, wonderful, terrifying, angry-making, holy-crap-I'm-tired-and-scared-and-I-don't-know-if-I-can-do-this, exciting, sickening, exhilarating, roller coaster.

Or, you know, a yo-yo.

Either way, what a ride.

Anxious, squared

2012-01-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

When you have struggled with mental health issues, the contemplation of having kids can become a bit more loaded. At least, it did for me. Would my kids be prone to anxiety? Depression? What about the fact that I have a family history of schizophrenia? Would I saddle my kids with this? What if pregnancy was a highly anxious time? Would it impact them in utero? And then there's the whole, you know, living with me part. What were the risks? Was it fair?

Eventually of course, the drive for kidlets won out. And I'm so, so very glad it did. Because they are bloody amazing, incredibly beautiful little souls. I can't remember what life was like before them, and I don't really want to.

But - I did spawn a child with anxiety issues. I don't know if it's genes. Or habits picked up from living with an anxious mama. Or both. It probably doesn't matter. The fact remains that one of my littles struggles with anxiousness, and in times of great flux or crisis, (like, say, now) these struggles become really pronounced.

So here I sit, wading through all kinds of guilt. It's my fault the family is going through all this change. It's me that has anxiety, which though I try very, very hard to manage, gets modelled in their daily lives. It's me with the crap genes. etc. etc. etc. blah. blah. blah.

Ultimately, though, the guilt serves no purpose (you know, other than possibly fulfilling a perverse need for self-flagellation). It's not helpful. To either of us. And possibly not fair to me. Because I do the best I can, with what I've got, and that's probably all any parent can do.

So then, what to do? How do we move forward, and cope with the issues at hand? Finding a kid friendly therapist is high on the list. And I'm beginning the search for kid lit on coping with fears and anxieties (suggestions greatly appreciated, if you know of any!). Trying to model and find tools for coping with the anxiety. Finding resources. Working with teachers and bus drivers and other parents to deal with presenting issues. Accepting that this is a time of flux, and the flux (and hopefully some of the anxieties) is a temporary state. Being more gentle with him. And with myself. Moving past guilt and into action.

Still. Knowing that my child has anxiety feels exponentially worse than dealing with my own.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

People For Good TV Spot "Pregnant"

2012-01-18T20:09:00.000-07:00

Kids just say the darnedest things....

2012-01-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

So, I was having a workout yesterday, neglecting the children whilst they watched television. You know how it is. Anyhow - the following exchange occurred between Girlio and I:

I'm doing crunches on my yoga mat across the room from Girlio. And then, suddenly, at the top of my next crunch, there she is, a half inch away from my face. (As an aside here, it's bloody amazing how kids can be super stealthy when they want to!).

Me (in total surprise): Woah! Where'd you come from, kiddo?

Girlio (in total earnestness and with her trademark aplomb): From your VAGINA, mama!

Ba-dump-ching!

Dr. Boyce: Jay-Z Will No Longer Use The Word ‘B*tch’ Who Cares?

2012-01-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

Dr. Boyce: Jay-Z Will No Longer Use The Word ‘B*tch’ Who Cares?

So, it would seem that having a daughter has caused Jay-Z to decide that he's not going to use "bitches" in his music anymore. You know, like he's got 99 problems, but bitches ain't one of 'em? This makes me think a whole lotta things. Not nice things. For starters, is it ok to say his wife's a bitch, but not his kid? I could go on, and on, and on - ad nauseum. But the link by Dr. Boyce, above, does a really damn good job of it. He's right on the money.

Guerrilla Girls: Montreal poster about centuries of hate speech

2012-01-16T08:19:00.000-07:00

Guerrilla Girls: Montreal poster about centuries of hate speech

This poster by the totally awesome-fabulous-all-kinds-of-rioting-wonderful Guerrilla Girls was postured in Montreal, commemorating and in response to, the Montreal Massacre. It's spot-on.

From Parenting Fails - Inside a Toddler's Brain

2012-01-15T12:19:00.000-07:00

see more Parenting Fails

HILARIOUS! And also not.

I love those moments

2012-01-14T15:21:00.001-07:00

I do love those moments of bravado. Where I feel filled with energy and gusto and passion. And feel like I've fixed myself. You know, just like that. Presto. Bam. I'm-all-of-the-sudden-all-kinds-of-awesome-and-if-you-don't-like-it-whatever. So then I write an-I'm-all-kinds-of-awesome-and-I'd-you-don't-like-it-whatever-mantra kinda post.

And then five minutes later, I lose the bravado. And commence the second and third and fourth guessing of my life thus far.

Still. It was a good, good moment.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Wills and the Won'ts: A Mantra of sorts

2012-01-14T11:38:00.000-07:00

I will move forward, in my own way, on my own time.
I won't let fear make my decisions.
I will trust my intuition; which never, ever fails me.
I won't run away even if I'm certain I'll be left or hurt or otherwise squashed.
I will wear my heart on my sleeve, right where it's always been and right where it belongs.
I won't be ashamed.
I will honour the Golden Retriever in me.
I won't try to be that cool girl I've never been.
I will be intense, intense, intense. And if it's too hot, I'll tell you to get your hands outta the fire.
I won't change myself in anyone else's image.
I will dance my ass off in my kitchen, whether the neighbours can see me or not.
I won't try to curb my feelings, my heart, my desires.
I will be goofy and silly and funny and freakish. Because I am goofy and silly and funny and freakish.
I won't apologize anymore. (Unless I've actually been an asshole). Because I won't be sorry for being...
I will be brazen. And bold. And all kinds of bad-assed.
I won't silence myself.
I will let myself be hopeful.
I won't drown myself out in second-guessing. Or third-guessing. Or fourth.

I will try.

Lauren Zuniga- Everything is going to be amazing...

2012-01-12T06:00:00.001-07:00

Fotoshop by Adobé - (it's all over FB, but just had to post :)

2012-01-11T19:53:00.000-07:00

Repost: Oh, he's SUCH a boy!

2012-01-11T06:00:00.002-07:00

I hate, hate, hate the gendering of children. It really wraps my knickers all in a knot. Knot. Knickers. I hate that we limit kids with bizarre expectations of what boys and girls are supposed to like, supposed to be, supposed to do, supposed to feel. I hate that people become very uncomfortable when people guess the sex of their baby wrong (because really, a beautiful baby is a beautiful baby is a beautiful baby!) I hate that girls aren't supposed to be handsome and boys aren't supposed to be pretty. (And I defy anyone who sees my Boy-o to tell me he ain't pretty**).

I hate that you can't shop on-line for kids clothes or toys without first checking off whether you are looking for girls or for boys. I hate that they market the same freaking toys like bikes or pushy cars or kids shopping carts in pink and blue for further gender segregation. I hate that pink and blue is considered gender segregation.

I hate that all of my son's life, people have taken his exuberance and infinite energy and speed as proof of his "boyness," though I take some solace in the fact that Girlio is fast showing signs of following right in his footsteps. I hate that boys are still told not to cry, and even when parents aren't overtly that ignorant, boys are still encouraged to "shake it off" in ways that girls are not. Anyhoo.

Knot. In. My. Knickers. Big one. Huge.

It breaks my heart to think that my rainbow, sparkles, flowers loving boy, who cries freely when sad or hurt, who loves a good cuddle more than anything will be coaxed or shamed away from these things because they are not "boy-ish" enough.

It breaks my heart equally to think that my baby girl, who is already now showing signs of being a rough and tumble, take-no-prisoners, world-here-I-come kinda kid; who already loves playing with trains and trucks and making "brmmm brrmmm brmmmm" sounds, will be directed and encouraged to love dolls and play house, and flowers and sparkles more than she loves sports and trucks and trains and active play.

But what I hate even more than thinking about these inevitabilities, is the fact that we don't even consider WHY this streamlining still happens.   And here's my take (which will probably piss some peeps off, but there ya go). We as a culture are uncomfortable with sensitive, non-sporty boys who like the colour pink because we as a culture are still hugely homophobic. There. I said it.

I know loads of cool parents who have no real problem with folks being gay who would die a thousand inner deaths watching their son wear pink, or drive in a toy Barbie car, or let them pick out a rainbow sparkle shirt from the store. Call it what it is folks.  Homophobia. Boys who like pink, who cry easily, who like "girl" things, who are sensitive, who don't like sports and would rather go to dance class, etc. etc. are sissies. And we are scared of our boy being sissies because sissy = unmasculine = faggy. Period. There is no amount of spluttering or excuses that will change this icky reality. We really need to get our shit together, because frankly, I expect more from our generation. A whole lot more. C'mon people.

And while we have slightly more cultural tolerance for girls who step outside of acceptable gendered play and appearance boundaries,  like say girls who play sports traditionally played only by boys or who aren't comfortable with pink and frou frou, this is only acceptable for a brief period of time and to a certain degree. We have a name for it - the tomboy phase. The expectation is that eventually, all girls will embrace their 'girliness,' develop the dream of becoming a princess and marrying 'the one'. You know, Prince Charming.   And when girls don't embrace girliness, flouff and frou frou evenutally, we get mighty uncomfortable. And yes, you guessed it. It's homophobia my friends. No long hair? No dresses? No make-up.  Not all into giggling and weddings and boys?  That's dyke-y my friends, and we don't like it.

My quarrel here is not with girliness, or dreaming of being a princess, because as a femme-tastic queer grrrl, I'm here to tell ya, oh- I AM a princess.   I wish everyday could be a dress-up, put on the bling, going to a fabulous tea-party kind of day (though believe you-me... it ain't). My problem is that the princess-ification of girl culture is more heterosexualization, that is, about landing Prince Charming and being taught to value the self for how it can attract others (yep, good old P.C. again) rather than the love of pretty sparkly things because those pretty sparkly things make you smile on the inside (and oh they DO make me smile on the inside :-)

Many people argue that gendered behaviour is innate, and there may be some (and I do emphasize SOME) truth to this. Boy-o was drawn to typical boy things more than I ever thought he would be from an early age. BUT - I believe very very strongly that the reason he is also drawn to things like rainbows, pink, flowers, sparkles, dancing, singing, snuggling and cooking in his wonderful second hand toy kitchen etc. is because he hasn't yet been told that these things aren't "for" boys.   A great example of this happened this past weekend. We were at a picnic Pride event last weekend where there was a free tattoo booth for kiddos. Boy-o picked out a beautiful hibiscus flower, in shades of pink and orange with plenty 'o sparkles. He was so proud, showing it off to everyone and making movements with his arm to emphasize it, the way a newly engaged woman might self-consciously emphasize her bling hand. (It was a really nice tat - I got in line for one but then felt guilty about the kid waiting behind me - sigh).

My point here - and I do have one - is that given a choice, Boy-o chose a pink sparkly flower tattoo over lizards and turtles and frogs and all kinds of other options that might have been interpreted as more gender neutral (which is a term I find silly, but whatever).   Boys are steered to "boy" things. They are discouraged from pinkness and sparkliness and feelings-ness and all the other things that girls are steered towards.   Girls are steered away from brrrm-brrrm Tonka trucks, from loudness and general ballsy-ness and towards all of the aforementioned "girly" things and ways of being. This bit is clearly cultural, not innate.

Wanna know what I hate the absolute most? The fact that I am plagued by the fear that people will accuse me of trying to "turn" my kids gay if I let my son wear pink sparkliness or tiaras or dresses, or if I encourage my daughter towards trucks and overalls and discourage Barbie and Disney princess world. And at the risk of sounding like a broken record - yes, you guessed it, it's another example of ___________ (Fill in the blank).   I'll even give you a hint.

It starts with an "h".

** but sorry, I just can't bring myself to post face pics of my kiddies on here because I think it's an invasion of what little privacy my big mouth affords them :-)

I've Come a LONG way, baby!

2012-01-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

So I was re-reading some old blog posts last night. And I came upon this one, written almost exactly a year ago. Holy crap. I really have come a long way... :)

out of sorts

I get in trouble from time to time for 'being too hard on myself,' particularly in regards to my mom-cred. It's true - I'm hard on myself. It's a thing. I'm aware. BUT - it's difficult not to be hard on yourself when everyone else seems to have it together. I don't really know who I mean by 'everyone else.' I'm also fairly certain everyone else doesn't, in fact, have it all together. But it seems of late, as though each of my days is filled with moments where I seem to crumble under the most benign of tasks, (say, like getting my kdis ready to go out the door after Boy-o's class) when everyone else seems to be doing just fine and getting on their merry way. All merrily like. And I'm tears struggling to get my progeny to stay in one place long enough to get in their damn snow-pants. And since my children are practically perfect in every way, the problem is clearly mine. Moreover, I am supposed to be a veteran-y sort of mom now. I've been momming for over four years now. I should be able to verify the whereabouts of my children and snowpants them blindfolded with one arm tied behind my back. I should be able to handle wrangling that extra child to school in the morning, no problemo (we take one of Boy-o's classmates to school in the mornings). But I am not merry. There is no merry-making. I want to kill the extra child in the morning. And then I want to kill mine. And when the other parents are merrily dropping their children off, looking well-rested and well-groomed, I am enduring the pitious looks of strangers because I am looking frazzled, harried, on the brink of crying, and trying very very very hard not to lose my shit in front of god and the world.

So what gives? Am I too hard on myself, or do I just really actually suck at this? Seems like a fine line these days.

Repost: Why we don't keep secrets around our house...

2012-01-09T07:15:00.001-07:00

We don't use the word secret with our kids, and I blanche when others try to use it with them (Please don't use this word with my kids, folks!)

Why? Child sexual abuse (heretofore refered to as CSA for expediency). And before you dismiss me as being paranoid, I'll tell ya, I'm not at all paranoid about this. What I am is realistic. Read the statistics and then do the math (and while you're at it, you might as well add on a gazillion % for all the unreported assaults on children). The basics are this: 1 in 3 girls and 1 in 6 boys will experience an unwanted sexual act prior to the age of 18. See more detailed stats below:  http://www.littlewarriors.ca/about_sexual_abuse/statistics.html#CANprevalence

We're all on-board for teaching our kids about stranger danger.   We all live in fear of the horrific stranger abduction and abuse of our children (the ice-cream man, the dude at the park, etc.). I don't want to diminish these fears. These occurences are real and terrible for all involved. But these occurences are not how the VAST majority of sexual assaults occur on children.

The sad, sick, vomit-inducing truth is that most children are sexually assaulted by someone they know and trust. Yes. Family members, parents, step-parents, grandparents, family friends are responsible for 95% of CSA's. I'm not shitting you here. Ninety-five %. People that we, their parents love and trust. It's a terrible thought, and one we all don't want to think about. So naturally, we'll all take a minute to comfort ourselves by saying, "Oh, not my boyfriend/girlfriend, not my wife/husband, not my father, not my uncle, not my best friend Jenny. All the people I know are safe and wonderful and so great with my kids."   I would probably have a heart-attack from shock if my kids ever told me that someone they knew, someone I knew, hurt them in this way. But being shocked is entirely different than being unprepared.   And I will not let my love of the people in my life blind me from the reality that most child-assaults happen from those who love us, and whom we love.   I volunteer on a sexual assault crisis line and have talked to many a distraught parent, who believed just like we do, that their children were safe with the people they love. It happens to kids from all walks of life - not just 'those' people (whomever 'those' people are in your mind), so banish this thought, too.

And why the hating on the word secret? Because child sexual abuse depends upon secrecy. "It'll be our little secret."; "We won't tell anyone about this." "We can never tell because they won't understand." These are all part and parcel of how abusers maintain their patterns of abuse. Children keep their secret - out of fear that they won't be believed, out of loyalty to and love for their abusers, out of feelings of guilt and shame, out of fear due to threats.

So what to do? Well, for starters - talk about it. With your family, with other parents, on your facebook, on your twitter, on your blogs, whatever. Even though it feels yucky and crappy and vomitous - when we talk about it, when we admit to ourselves that these things happen, when we stop treating the subject as taboo - we can be proactive and we can take steps to protect our kids.

1. Make sure your kids have the language that lets them talk about their body parts. Kids need to be able to articulate it to you if something is wrong. Remind them that no one, not even a teacher or close relative, has the right to touch them in a way that makes them feel uncomfortable.

2. Try not to use the word secret.

3. Let your littles know that people who love them will not ask them to keep secrets.

4. Differentiate between secrets and surprises - (Secret = never supposed to tell. Surprise = mommy's birthday present that she'll open next week. Big difference there.)

5. Tell your kids often that you will always believe them (and then practice what you preach). And let them know that if they don't feel comfortable telling you something has happened (and kids often tell someone other than their parents about CSA), make sure they know that if the first adult they tell doesn't believe them or won't help, to keep telling, for as long as it takes.

6. Make sure they know that no one has the right to ask them to keep a secret from their parents, and that NO older person should ever ask them to keep a special secret, especially one that makes them feel uneasy, yucky or weird.

7. When they are old enough, be honest and direct with them about sexual abuse and let them know that you will always believe them, no matter who they are disclosing about.
8. Probably one of the very, very most important things you can do is to let your kids have bodily integrity. By this I mean - don't force them to hug you if they don't want to. Don't make them hug or kiss family members if they don't want to. Say "would you like to give Auntie Betty a hug goodbye?" instead of "Time to give Auntie Betty a hug goodbye." Let them make decisions about what feels good or right for their little selves. They'll let you know if it feels right at any given moment or not. And don't allow people to guilt your kids into physical affection either: (as in, "Oh, I'll be so sad if I can't have a hug goodbye." We don't want our kids to learn to give physical affection (however innocuous) in order to make someone else happy. Yuck-o-rama.

9. Last but not least - teach your kids the proper names for their body parts.

Yes. Penis. Testicles. Bum. Vulva. Vagina. You know the names I'm talking about. Because if your kid is trying to tell their teacher that they don't like it when so and so touches their yo-yo, the teacher isn't likely going to make the connection. Information, and correct information, is the biggest step you can take to ensure that your kids are as safe as they possibly can be, and will be heard if they are unsafe.

*feel free to add any steps you've taken with your kids in the comments*

As parents, we can't always stop bad things from happening to our kids. What we can do, is arm them with the best possible information and skills to help them avoid bad things, and let them know that if bad stuff does happen, they can tell us anything, we will believe them, and we will stop it. Period.

For more info on warning signs, where to get help, etc. etc.

Sexual Assault Centre of Edmonton
http://www.sace.ab.ca/

Little Warriors
http://www.littlewarriors.ca/index.html

Serious public service announcement over now. Feel free to go on about your day.

Me, all kids book-like

2012-01-09T06:00:00.006-07:00

If I could amalgamate kids book characters to describe myself, I think I would be a cross between:

1. Stella (by fantastic Quebecois author Marie-Louise Gay)
2. Fancy Nancy (as if this even needs mentioning ;)
3. The Boy from Oliver Jeffers' Lost and Found, How to Catch a Star and The Way Back Home
4. Okay - and if I'm being really, really honest... mayyyyybeeee a little Scaredy Squirrel, too.

How 'bout you?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

self-carin'

2012-01-08T15:06:00.000-07:00

Today was good. Like good, good. I felt... dare I say it? A little happy. A little brave. A little I'm-the-shit. A little, "I'm-not-taking-anyone-elses'-shit-on-or-letting-anyone-speak-for-me-and-I've-got-highways-for-stretch-marks-to-see-where-I've-grown." Yup. That kinda good.

I've been trying really, especially hard to pay attention to taking care of myself lately. To consider myself as important as everyone else in my world. Those who know me even a little can intuit that this isn't the easiest of tasks for me. Firstly, because it's part of the burden of parenting to make a choice to put your needs aside for your kiddos. Secondly, because I'm a people-pleaser. It ain't good and I'm not saying it is. But it's a big part of my internalized shit to put other people's needs ahead of mine. So the instinct towards self-care hasn't been the most natural one for me.

But I've had some pretty eye-opening moments in the past little while. About who others perceive me to be versus who I actually am, and who I want to become. And first and foremost, I've decided that I want to become important. To me.

Coming back from being home in Winnipeg, being nurtured and taken care of and being loved up a whole lot wasn't going to be easy, even though I have amazing peeps here in Edmonton, too. Because, let's be frank, real life after vacation is never easy. So I decided that this weekend would be about me. Entirely. I got my hair done on Friday. I got a massage yesterday, and hung out with some friends for a bit.

And today - my good, good day - I got some shit together. I sent out job applications. I cleaned my space. I had the most delicious run followed by an exquisitely (and possibly obscenely) long shower. I wrote some. I read some. And now, I wait impatiently to see my littles again. Feeling rejuvenated and ready to nurture others again.

Self-care. Who knew?

a must must read for all parents. moms in particular.

2012-01-08T12:22:00.000-07:00

I am posting this awesome, amazing, hella-right-on-oh-my-fuck-yes post by the brilliance that is Momastery. I am posting it, despite my intense jealousy at her hella-right-on-oh-my-fuck-yes blog, which has over 2500 followers, advertisers, and additionally, over the fact that she clearly, clearly has time to, like, edit and shit. I'm not bitter. I'm all kinds of cool like that. ;)

So go read, and then shout hallelujah!

life in the anxiety lane...

2012-01-08T00:24:00.001-07:00

Oh man. I've spent the last few (okay several, who are we kidding!) years of my life fairly sequestered int the land of child raising and keeping the home fires burning. And all through that time, I quite literally craved more social engagement and contact with the big world outside of my very small one.

And now that I've begun to spend a bit more time in that outside world, old but very familiar feelings of anxiety start to crop up. People, they are scary fucking creatures. And though I love meeting and spending time with new people, the social anxiety rears its ugly head.

Communication is a tricky beast at the best of times. Words get interpreted, understood, misunderstood. Language is incredibly powerful. Maybe it's my love of language, and my recognition of its importance that makes me so nervous about using it. Somehow, I always feel like the language the falls from my lips is wrong. Too awkward or too eager or too something or another. And often too easily twisted into meanings not intended.

Oddly, writing here in the safety of my home, alone - the words fall from my hands and I don't feel encumbered or nervous about how they will be received by others. But in the context of in person gatherings, I always leave with a torrent of replaying conversations in my head. Sometimes it feels more agonizing than others.

I love meeting new people, connecting with people, getting out into the world. It feels so luxurious in so many ways.

However - I gotta say... social anxiety blows.

Airtravel and littles.

2012-01-06T08:11:00.001-07:00

Travelling with smalls is stressful in general. Traveling with smalls when you are outnumbered really, really blows. I can feel
My shoulders rise up to somewhere around my neck just thinking about entering the airport in anticipation of the frustration I know full well is about to occur. This includes (in no particular order):
1. one goes this way, one goes the other way syndrome, which makes me repeatedly have to decide which child to round up first (a calculated on the spot decision based on age, crowd levels and who's going the fastest) and leave my carry on baggage unattended as on lookers glance reproachfully. 2. One goes slow, one goes fast, and neither of them pay attention to where we're actually headed. 3. Refusal to put favourite stuffs through the x-ray machine, because stuffs are afraid of the dark. 4. Sudden child deafness syndrome, whereby neither are able to gear my voice at all. 5. Having to pee urgently while in line up to get on the plane or during take-off and landing. 6. The fascination with tray tables, making other passengers angry and rightfully so. 7. The need to express excessively loud displeasure when I attempt to deter the tray table fascination, which will only occur if neighbors on the plane directly next to us are fast asleep. 8. Throw down knock 'em out tantrums for any available reason. 9. M.A.P.'s. (this stands for massive airplane poops), which require squeezing both kids into an itty bitty space and, well, dealing with the M.A.P. 10. All of their favourite, carefully packed carry-on amusements are suddenly boring. Which inevitably will lead to me getting plastered in stickers instead of the damn sticker book. 11. 'Helpful'strangers who feel the need to let me know that 'Awww - they're just tired' whenever I reach the end if my patience tether, making me feel simultaneously like a bad and homicidal mother. 12. Attempting to keep their drinks and your own from spilling, particularly in light of # 6. 13. Glares from passengers around any number of normal kid related activities (making noise, making a mess, trying to make friends with other passengers, etc etc etc.) 14. Navigating airports that are not in any way child friendly. 15. Attempting to get children to wait in line-ups to check in, at security, get on the plane etc. is neither fun nor pretty.

Yep - anticipation of the fun fun fun of single parent air travel - makes a girl's shoulders a little tense just thinking of all the magical possibilities!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

being home

2012-01-04T08:14:00.000-07:00

Travelling home is always a combination of tricky and wonderful. This trip perhaps particularly so. Tricky of course, because there are so many people I want to see and connect with. Painful because I no matter how long the vacation is, I can never find enough time to fit everything and everyone in. Which sucks. A lot.

Wonderful because my moms are amazing with my littles, and spend loads of time, playing on the floor with them, finding creative activities like pottery (Grammie is a potter) and art stuff, going swimming and to the park, and all kinds of nurturing and loving them up (Nannie is a play therapist). The kids have it made, and I get a break from the constant of being needed, which I find exhausting sometimes. A win all around.

Also wonderful because I get to soak in old haunts, and as I do so re-visit the person I used to be in those old haunts. Because I get to see old friends, who remember me before I lost my zing and tell me they see that life seeping back in. Who remind me that I am clever and funny and a hottie-Mchot-hot; worth far more than I give myself credit for. That I am loveable and dateable and a snappy dresser and foxy to boot. Who listen to the events of my recent past entirely without judgement and then congratulate me for my bravery. Because they are those kind of people. The kind of friends you can see twice a year and hop right back in where you left off. The kind of friends who don't try to pressure me to move back home because they know that I can't. True loves.

Tricky because I have to leave them all soon - my lovely friends, my moms, my sister. Because as always when I have to leave, I will be momentarily but breathtakingly heartbroken, because here I am free and easy and confident and so very loved.

So today I remind myself of my true love friends in Edmonton and how much I miss them. I remind myself that I am brave enough to take on this new life, whatever it will be; that I am just as clever and funny and foxy in my 'new' home. That the kids and I will be just fine. And even more so now, perhaps, with the remnants of groundedness and warm fuzzies and positive reinforcement I've gathered from being home.

Femme follies

2012-01-02T12:34:00.001-07:00

Things I remembered to pack to go to Winnipeg in December:

Dresses
Fishnets/lace tights
Several pairs of shoes
A few pairs of cute jeans with itty bitty sweaters
Make-up
My green coat (snappy but not so warm)

Things I did not pack to go to Winnipeg in December:
a scarf
mittens
Hat
Sensible jacket
Wooly socks

Sooooo. Here I am in Winnipeg. In December. Looking pretty darn cute. Holy He'll - I'm cold.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Martin Sexton Hallelujah

2012-01-02T12:14:00.000-07:00

It occurs that maybe, just maybe, "bring it" wasn't the right thing to say to 2012. At any rate, here's a song for the day. . . in case you need one, too. Martin Sexton's falsetto is an ass-kicking falsetto. Gets me every time.

unresolved

2011-12-31T13:51:00.000-07:00

Well here I am, writing my last blog of the year. It has in part flown, in part crawled by. It might be safe to say that in flying and crawling forms, this year has kicked my ass. Drop-kicked, wrestled, body-slammed me to the ground, in fact. And yet, here I sit at the end of it, intact, on my feet, and feeling pretty hopeful about what this new year will bring.

I don't believe in making resolutions. It seems like these are things meant to constrain rather than to enhance our lives in general. So I think this year, I will blow on the proverbial dandelion, and begin the year sending out wishes into the great unknown of this new year.

So - be it unresolved that I:

1. wish to learn how to be kinder and gentler with myself.
2. wish for the strength to listen to my convictions.
3. wish for strength and clarity to help my kiddos deal with all the changes taking place.
4. wish to make more time to spend with friends and loved ones.
5. wish to remember how important it is to slow myself down.
6. wish to be more careful with my heart, while maintaining an openness to love and friendship.
7. wish to worry less about pleasing others, and about what others think of me.
8. wish to be brave enough to take risks, even when they are shit-scary.
9. wish for more time to think and to write and to be creative.
10. wish to maintain a steady commitment to my own health and happiness.

***And I wish health, hope, happiness and love to us all in the coming year.***

And to 2012 - I say: Bring It! (I'm ready for you.)

The forest for the trees

2011-12-29T22:01:00.001-07:00

Hindsight, they say, is 20/20. Today I ponder foresight. Our family is currently undergoing some pretty massive changes, which though hard on all of us, weigh particularly on the smalls. Boy-o especially.

And tonight, after a particularly challenging evening of parenting, and struggling to maintain an even-keeled-steady-eye-to-a-kinder-gentler-distant-future, I am left wrestling with the course my own life trajectory takes the kidlets on.

Guilt in this particular wrestling match is inevitable. But if I force myself to move beyond getting stuck in that knee-jerk, a too familiar place of ' bad mother,' I'm also left with the question: 'what do my kids stand to gain from this process? And though escaping that stuck in guilt position is tough (and boy, let me tell you, I've had loads if external, um, support for that particular position of late), I do find myself occasionally catching some glimmers of positive long-term teachables too.

I live by my heart. Always have. Always will. (You can love that about me or hate that about me - it just... is). It leads me (oftentimes) places my rational self tells me are too risky. Its 1000 times braver than my brain. And it has yet to fail me. Its not that I don't get hurt - I do, Frequently, even. Embarrased. Downright squished sometimes. But rarely have I really regretted a decision that I've made based on feeling and intuition (my two favourite epistemologies). Even the ones that resulted in painful consequences. Because to me, those leaps of faith, that stubborn belief in taking risks based on heart-knowing, are the really important stuff of being alive. (Yup - I'm one of those leapers ;).

I guess what I hope the most is that maybe some of this will rub off on the kiddos. I hope they will grow up with the faith that their instincts and their hearts will take them where they need to go.

And maybe, just maybe, at some point in the future, this big, uncomfortable, scary, wild mess of life changes will be part of the catalyst for just that very thing.

Maybe. Though no one ever really says foresight is 20/20...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Airport woes

2011-12-28T07:33:00.001-07:00

We're at the airport, Boy-o, Girlio and I. It's 7:16 a.m. And we've been here since 5:40, just under the wire for catching our 6:30 am flight. Apparently, this flight was not meant to be. The airport is a madhouse. People are sitting on top of people. Lineups are out the doors. And there is nowhere near enough staff checking people in. We finally make it to the kiosk (a three tantrum line, thanks to Girlio being up since 4 am), I am informed that we will make our flight but our luggage will not. (Who needs carseats anyways?). Through the course of the transaction, we are then told we won't make the flight either, because though we are already checked it, the line at security is simply too long for us to make it. She then books us on a 7 flight and gives us those tickets. Two minutes later, she tells us we won't make that one, either. We are now booked for the 8:30 am flight, with an extra connection. I have to pay them extra money for this luxury. We get the bags checked, schlep the carseats and find our way to security. Which has a special family line. With zero line-up. We get through security in under five minutes. We woulda made the first flight, with time to spare. Mmmmmhmmmmmm.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Mom & Pop Culture: Lessons Learned From Free to Be... You and Me | Bitch Media

2011-12-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

For those of you who, like me, grew up Free to Be. :)

Mom & Pop Culture: Lessons Learned From Free to Be... You and Me | Bitch Media

Penis Mom Repost from the Huff Post...

2011-12-26T15:50:00.002-07:00

Okay - this woman is cool. Seriously. I wish I was the penis mom.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-mangiacotti/the-penis-mom_b_1163693.html

Taking it on, one school at a time...

2011-12-25T21:26:00.000-07:00

Merry Christmas everyone.

I hope that no matter where, and in what circumstances, this day found you, that you were able to find some love and little magic too.

mama T

horoscoping

2011-12-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder what the hell your horoscope is talking about? I frequently do. But lately, they have been BANG on. Weirdly so, even.

Todays' for instance, reads:

Things may be happening all around you today. You could feel like a spectator watching a foreign theatre production. Don't sit this one out in the audience. In fact, your energy is needed on center stage. Balance out the crazy drama with a bit of your solid, powerful rationality.

Now, it's only 9 a.m., and I can already see that much of this is right on the money, as they say. ( And except for the part about my solid rationality, which I should point out, I am not known for. So bang-ish on, I guess!)

So - drama combined with my tendency toward emotionality it is, then.

Okay world - bring on the foreign theatre (and if you wouldn't mind - make it entertaining!)

a non-MILF read, as promised ;)

2011-12-22T07:22:00.000-07:00

Check out this huff post story about a young trans kid who is causing big waves in the Girl Guides, just because she wants to be a part of a troop...

Got MILF?

2011-12-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

I am posting an interesting article here, that Tristan Taormino wrote for the Village Voice in 2007 about the MILF phenomenon. Taormino takes an interesting tack with the piece, asking why 'daddy' is a popularly assumed sexual role, and yet 'mommy' is not. (Nope, not talking about incest role-play here, as is explained in the article.) Anyhow - for those at all interested in my thesis-fodder about the rise of MILF-dom, give the piece a read :) For those not at all interested in said fodder, I'm posting another unrelated article right after this!

p.s. MILF porn names are hilarious! "I Scored a Soccer Mom 2!" Love. It.

Shit girls say - response

2011-12-21T08:53:00.000-07:00

Okay - so I've just posted a couple of youtube vids that have gone viral - called Shit Girls Say. They and simultaneously funny and really not funny at all. Here's an excellent response written at She Was Disarming. Well said, I think.

Shit Girls Say - Episode 2

2011-12-21T08:49:00.001-07:00

Shit Girls Say - Episode 1

2011-12-21T08:49:00.000-07:00

pivotal pop-culture MILF references

2011-12-21T06:00:00.001-07:00

The movie American Pie is credited with being the first place the term MILF popped up:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0PSf5ECiJQ

What makes a milf?

2011-12-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

Okay. So lately, I've been thinking of the whole business of MILF-dom. Yes, it's kinda research related - but more personally, I've been thinking about the project of making babies (or more properly having made babies) impacts upon how we are seen (and more often not seen) as sexual beings in the world. For those who don't know - MILF stands for Mother I'd Like to Fuck, see further definitions below from Wiki and Urban Dictionary. (I find the Urban Dictionary definition especially, well, special). MILF is kind of a funny cultural label precisely because moms are supposed to be so not sexy. (What? Walking around in an oversized housecoat covered in baby barf isn't super-hawt?!). But this juxtaposed with a the rather large and continually growing MILF genre of porn makes things a little hazier. Moms aren't sexy. However, fucking 'moms'* is taboo, and thus somehow hot. It's all very interesting. So for the next little while, I'm going to be posting MILF stuff, just for a change of pace :)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MILF_pornography

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=milf

* I would like to use the term 'moms' loosely in the porn context, bc though some of them are likely moms, many others are just 'older' - which is to say, not pretending to be a teen - women who work in the adult entertainment industry.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Choose Love Project

2011-12-19T13:31:00.000-07:00

I love when I (or friends) stumble upon great little homespun projects that take on lives of their own and grow into something even bigger. The Choose Love Project is one great example.

The project was spearheaded by Lori Race and Rachel Cole, with the intent to inspire women to believe that feeling better about our bodies, and treating our bodies with the love and respect they deserve, is a choice. This many seem obvious on the surface: Um, yeah, sure, of course it's a choice! But let's face it. It's a choice we women, ladies, girls and grrrls fail to make for ourselves. Race and Cole's project features letters from women to their younger selves, which are immensely captivating and infinitely (and often painfully) relatable.

Go see for yourself. And maybe get inspired to write your own younger self a well-deserved love letter.

On those days

2011-12-19T08:54:00.002-07:00

On those days when you feel engulfed, sitting in your house, that damn house that you can't keep clean or even orderly; thinking about failures of one kind or another, of marriages, of breakages, of shaky moments of self-control, those stupid words that tumble from your mouth (too often), of those things that fall out of your slippery, clumsy hands and shatter...

On those days, it might be important to watch the painted messy faces of your children, pajamaed and happy and healthy in that same mess of your home and your life.

On those days it might be important to notice that they do not notice those messes, because they are small and forgiving and full of love.

On those days, you might do well to remind yourself of those people who love you, flawed. Of those who may love you yet. Those who will thankfully refuse to fall prey to the impulse to treat you as though you are broken, because of course you are not (and have never been).

On those days, some moments of self-kindness might be useful, too.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Friday Night Fever

2011-12-17T07:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, one of the super sucky realities of parenting arose. Single parenting, which I'm going to be doing half-time from here on in (Yes - this is my way of saying I am separated now. Yes, this is what I've been so cryptic about of late. No, I probably won't be talking about it other than this for awhile.), in particular.

I have, all week, been looking forward to sharing a special early Christmas celebration with my tots, my BFF and her family. We haven't seen lots of each other lately, and I miss her loads. You know how life gets.

And then, a mere hour before we are supposed to arrive at my friend's house, my Girlio starts acting weird. Weird, weird. Asking to go to bed kinda weird. Can anyone guess the problem??? If you guessed FEVER, you get a resounding ding-ding-ding-ding! Yup. Sick. Groaning, whimpering, crying, all-of-the-sudden-no-I-don't-want-a-party-I-want-to-go-to-bed kinda sick. And when one of my kids asks to go to bed, you know it's bad. I did not raise me some sleepers.

So - no party. No BFF. No Friday night fun for me. And because my BFF and I have chosen to leave town for the holidays on opposite schedules, we won't see each other for a whole other month. (Insert enormous pouty face here.)

It's selfish, I know, to bemoan one's lack of fun when one has a sick kid. But there it is. I am selfishly bemoaning my lack of Friday night fun. Because I'm no super mom.

And because I am profoundly, profoundly human.

Repost from this time last year: Hatin' on Santa

2011-12-16T06:00:00.001-07:00

A whole lotta parents with young kids seem to be hatin' on Santa these days. There are various veins of thought around this, 1. teaching kids about Santa is a lie and lying is always bad/truth is always good, etc., 2. Teaching kids about Santa encourages rampant commercialism and doesn't reflect the 'true meaning' of Christmas, or 3. the Santa story conflicts with the Little Baby Jesus story (henceforth referred to as LBJ for brevity).

I have some opinions about the aforementioned business of being down on old Santa.

Kids will, all too soon, be confronted with all kinds of shitty, shitty 'truthes' this world has to offer them.   Far too soon, in my not-so-humble opinion. I'm not in any rush to invite that shit in.   Moreover, I don't actually agree that lying is always wrong.  The ins and out of truthing and lying is mostly about grey area and very little about black and white, so to speak.   Which brings me around to the fact that I don't actually see encouraging a belief in Santa as lying, at least not in a bad lying sorta way.

I believe that Santa is about far more than presents. Santa, his reindeer and elven pals, his work, his journey, his belief in the intrinsic goodness of children, is about believing in magic, suspending disbelief, choosing possibility over impossibility. (This may get me into hot water here) but I believe that our old Santa story isn't really all that different than our cultural LBJ stories (though I'm not even remotely Christian, a girl can still appreciate the good bits an LBJ story has to offer now and again).   Both Santa stories and LBJ stories can be used to encourage the good in people, kindness, and love for one another. Both Santa stories and LBJ stories encourage the belief in magic, and in possibility.   Both can be used to instill wonder and excitement about life.   And for me, that wonder and excitement about life is every bit the 'true' meaning of Christmas.

(As an aside here, both Santa and LBJ stories can be used in sucky ways too. I can't get behind using Santa to control kids' behaviour - in much the same way I can't get behind using LBJ for controlling people's behaviour. We don't and won't ever tell our kids that Santa only comes to children "that are good." For starters, I believe, (and so should Santa, dammit!) that all children are good. And I think using the magic of Santa to punish kids is kinda sucky. To each their own, I suppose, but you're not going to catch me threatening that "Santa won't come" if the kids don't do x, y or z.)

I also don't think that Santa has to be about rampant commercialism. Boy-o wrote a letter to Santa this year, and there was no long list of "I WANTS". He asked for dress-up clothes for himself, and for Girlio, so they could play together.   I hope that in part, this is because we're trying very hard to create a family culture that runs contrary to that kind of me-me-me-ness.  This is something we make every effort to continue emphasizing throughout our kids' lives.

So all you Santa-haters - say what you will. And do what you will. I support you in that. But I'm going to choose MAGIC. I'm going to help my kids believe in that magic. I'm going to feel as excited and as giddy and as giggly as they do, heading downstairs on Christmas morning (even thoughlike most mornings around my house, it's likely going to come far too early), finding the note from Santa, and the dress-up clothes they asked so sweetly for and likely a few surprises they didn't ask for.

And if I'm really lucky, I'll get to tap back into that amazing (and too short) time in my life, when I too wholeheartedly believed in magic. That time was nothing short of a gift.

Another useless bits of me list

2011-12-15T06:42:00.000-07:00

1. I love, love, love lists. All kinds of lists. I'm totally list-y. I could make lists about the reasons I love making lists. For real.
2. I apparently like to talk about myself. A fair bit, and wonder sometimes if this makes me a narcissist.
3. I have an addiction to dress and shoe porn. No. Not porn which kink-ily involves dresses and shoes. Window shopping for shoes and dresses online. Someday, I'll have an income and upgrade to an actual dress and shoe shopping addiction. For now, just porn. (After a particularly stressful day, I like to look at pretty things and imagine them on me, thus pretty-fying me. Narcissism??)
4. I wish someone would pay me to write. Like, write all of the time. Get better at writing. (Any wealthy benefactors out there? I've been told I'm reasonably cute...)
5. I've been buying myself flowers lately. It makes me quite happy.
6. I like to make up words. You already know this about me, probably, if you've been reading along from time to time.
7. I don't actually think I'm very funny, but people laugh at stuff I say all of the time. This could have multiple meanings, I fear.
8. I want to feed my doctor many, many cookies. She is far too thin. She thinks I am far too fat. She would like to take away my cookies, one surmises.
9. I'm fiercely loyal. You should want to get on my good side, if only for that reason.
10. I miss the ocean. Atlantic-side, not Pacific side.
11. I can't stand being late. I'm not too overly fond of other people being late, either.
12. My new self-appointed life-task is living in the moment more. I find this really fucking hard.
13. I spend a phenomenal amount of time agonizing about things that come out of my mouth. Sometimes, my brain and mouth have difficulty connecting. I think, sometimes too, that I should just become pen-pals with people. Writing = better than speaking.
14. I have been surprised by my own bravery lately.
15. My new favourite singer is Chris Pureka. Soulful, super-hot, butchy girl with guitar. (Nuff said!?)

An unabashed love-letter to Boy-o, at 5

2011-12-14T08:24:00.002-07:00

My dearest Boy-o,

Another whole year has passed since I last wrote to you. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how you are five already. Five! I remember so well your dramatic entrance into this world (as if it could have been any other way!), our slow drive home from the hospital on that unbelievably warm Halifax December day, sun streaming into the windows onto your tiny, gorgeous face.

I remember, too, the startling sensation slowly washing over the entirety of me; you, this tiny little person, changed everything. You rocked my world and shifted my foundation and made me yours. Made me better. Stronger. Braver. More capable. Cracked my heart open and stretched it with your tiny, sure hands to fit right around you.

(It grows to fit around you still).

Each day, your growing and learning and open-heartedness amazes me, as does your unflagging energy. Your full-bodied kitchen dance moves, deep belly laughs, and total inability to tell a joke without starting with the punchline or busting a gut laughing in the middle never fails to invoke small moments of bliss.

Your capacity to love, full-out, hands open, no-holds-barred, and without reservation is beautiful and inspiring to witness. Your energy is alternatively fiery passion and quiet contemplation, without a lick of middle ground. (I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where you got this from... No peanut gallery comments here.). You are fierceness personified, my love, and though our intensities sometimes clash (and clash well!), I wouldn't have it any other way.

I have been, and continue to be, stunned and moved by the grace and bravery (and, I think, forgiveness,) with which you have handled the difficult life changes thrown your way in the past little while, cementing my belief that began at your birth, that you are a wise-beyond-your-years-old-soul.

To tell you that I love you would be such an inadequate way to describe what I feel. So know this: When I tell you I love you, what I mean is that I do not remember what life looked like before you were in it. I did not know such intenseness of love and such fierce protectiveness, or such fear of loss was possible before you came into my world. When I tell you that I love you, what I mean is that even after the hardest, most exhausting of parenting days, those days when we drive each other absolutely nuts, when I look at your sweetly sleeping face, I am overcome with such a visceral sense of how ridiculously lucky I am to be a part of your life; how you carry the very best parts of me; how really, we are growing up together. When I tell you that I love you, what I mean is that this love thing I have for you sustains me and breaks me and rebuilds me and soothes me, all at once. What I mean is that I am wildly, intensely, irrevocably yours.

I am so very grateful to know you, and to have your love and trust, Boy-o.

Happy fifth birthday, little love.

Yours always,

Mama

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

standardized testing. it sucks.

2011-12-13T09:48:00.001-07:00

About a month ago, I was commandeered by our local news media station to talk about what I thought about standardized testing in schools. Because it was off-the-cuff - they pounced on me outside of Boy-o's school, post-drop-off, with a sleeping Girlio on my shoulder - I was, erm, less than eloquent. I pretty much stammered my way through a windier choppier version of: 'they suck.'

Now, there are all kinds of good, good reasons why this is so. Children learn different things, at different paces, in different ways. Children respond differently to the pressures of testing and examinations. Standardized examinations leave no room for the kinds of life-based contextualized learning that matters the most. And because the 'success' rates (and in the U.S., the funding!) of schools are in large part measured by standardized testing scores, there is immense pressure on administrators and teachers to spend scads of time preparing students to do the kinds of rote memorization that standardized testing requires. Which means far less time spent on developing a broader, more balanced way of looking at particular students' abilities to excel and achieve scholastically. So, yeah - like I said before: 'They suck.' I'd like to see them done away with. Permanently.

Recently, an excellent piece was written in the Washington Post about a school administrator that took, and did abysmally on their own standardized test.

'Nuff said.

Beautiful story about a family with a trans child...

2011-12-13T07:29:00.000-07:00

If you are feeling in need of a feel good read, head over here and read the journey of a Boston family and their journey with gender. I'm not gonna lie. It made me good cry.

http://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2011/12/11/led-child-who-simply-knew/SsH1U9Pn9JKArTiumZdxaL/story.html

Sissy Boys

2011-12-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

Christie Blatchford, a National Post columnist with ideas that might accurately be described as belonging to, well, yesteryear, has hit another home run with her most recent piece, decrying the horrors of waning masculinity. Among other egregious crimes to manhood: Gasp! Men hug! It's all just too much! There aren't a shortage of people challenging Blactchford's viewpoint, so I won't bore you with regurgitating all of their arguments. I will, however, post one really wonderful response to Blatchford by blogger Jeff Perera. It's a fantastic look at the difficulties of living under the pretty limiting confines of our cultural construction(s) of masculinity.

And it's really, really good. Sorta makes a girl feel more hopeful about the world, and all that nice stuff...

A week in music, Post #7 - my top 5 list of non-insufferable Christmas tunes

2011-12-11T06:00:00.000-07:00

I have a dirty little secret. Well, okay, I probably have several. But the one I'm actually going to tell you about is that I'm not so much a fan of the Christmas-ness. Yes. It's true. I'm a bit of a scrooge. Don't get me wrong. I love the family time. I love the kids' excitement. The tree decorating is fun - because - I do enjoy making things pretty. BUT - for the most part, I find the forced niceness and energy of Christmas to be a bit of a drag. And the music. The music. It's terrible. I'm sorry, but most Christmas music makes me want to gouge out my ears. So - here's my scrooge-y top five reasonably good Christmas playlist :) Happy listening...

Meiko - Maybe Next Year. A hot Christmas song. For real.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwdBFVF0jf4&feature=related

Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson - Winter Song. Sweet Christmas melancholic lovelorn-ness. Right up my alley.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7B9PrfNkAM&feature=related

KT Tunstall - Sleigh Ride. Okay - more traditional than I can usually stomach. But it's a kinda cool take on it, and it's my little people's favourite Christmas kitchen dance song. We play it a LOT. So it's gotta make the cut.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HlRy0WwYgyk&feature=related

Lenka - All My Bells Are Ringing. Cute. Swingy. Poppy. Kinda fun.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCajbryflIE&feature=related

(These four are all from The Hotel Cafe Presents: Winter Songs)

Meaghan Smith - It Snowed! The ultimate snow-day song. (Not that we get any here in Edmonton).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eg8MBpX9Nh0&feature=related

A week in Music, post # 6.2 (Missing the East) Hey Rosetta! - Red Song

2011-12-10T06:00:00.001-07:00

A week in music, post # 6.1 (Missing the East) - Jenn Grant - Getcha Good

2011-12-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

A week in music, post # 5 Florence + The Machine - Cosmic Love

2011-12-09T06:00:00.000-07:00

Get your kleenex out. FOR REAL! Jennifer Carr: on supporting her trans child

2011-12-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

The Naked Truth?

2011-12-08T06:02:00.000-07:00

So, I was, as I am apt to do now and again, perusing the Offbeat Mama site the other day. And I stumbled upon a wee blurb asking parents about how they deal with nudity around their kids. And it made me think about how our family's queerness adds another layer to the whole to bare or not to bare issue.

Now, let's be clear from the outset. I'm lean more towards being a 'to bare' kind of mama. Not a nudist (naturist?) by any stretch of the imagination, but a more utilitarian sort of disrober. I walk naked to the shower or to the basement to find clean laundry when the need arises. I shower with the kids from time to time because that way I get to shower without worrying about the mayhem taking place outside of shower land. In short, I don't drop trou as soon as I get home from the outside world, but it's not big whoop for the kidlets to see me in the buff. It's led to some interesting discussions, arising from the odd nipple grab or similar occurrences - but these things I think are largely positive, because we can hammer home the issue that 1. everyone gets to say what happens to their own bodies, and 2. nudity does not equal a free-for-all. I also think that setting a body-shame free example is the best possible way to encourage those values in our small-fry. Moreover, nudity can sometimes allow for happier tots. For example, I find that on those really awful tired days, hopping in the bath with small fry eager to play 'hair-dresser' and letting them shampoo, condition, dump water over my head and back comb to their hearts content can allow for up to 45 minutes of shut eye. I kid you not. I did it this very morning, after yet another crap night of 4-ish hours of sleep. (And I actually nodded off, while having said 'quality time'. Can't do that with your clothes on ;). And post-bath, Boy-o has been playing in the buff for a good two hours. Happily. And Girlio's favourite daily tradition is streaking through the house post-evening bath shouting 'STREAKER'!!! Beyond cute. Much happiness. And, I think it goes without saying that I have and will continue to teach them that skinny dipping is the best way to swim in a lake... :)

Now, of course, we aren't beyond setting nudity boundaries. Boundaries are good. Important, even. No nudity in public (generally speaking), no nudity if it makes folks feel weird, the kids can't just through off the shackles of clothing in the local grocery store. But overall - I don't care if the kids are naked, or if, in the right contexts, they see me naked. Bodies are good. Bodies aren't shameful, blah blah and all that jazz.
That's just how we roll. (You know, right now, when the kids are 2 and 4). Of course there are times and will continue to be times when the kids will develop their own issues around nudity and their absolute right to privacy (a concept we've also tried very hard to instill), and times when we parentals draw lines around our own privacy. All important things.

But, of course, not everyone feels this way. Lots of people see bodies (all bodies) as sexual, private, etc. To each their own, I guess. But I think our families queerness adds a whole other dimension to the issue of parental (and probably kid) nudity. Many folks would argue that it's damaging for kids to see parental nudity, and I would surmise that many more still would argue that it's problematic that our Boy-o sees only female nudity (other than his own, naturally), and that this will screw up his growing sense of himself as male, his sexuality, etc. etc. Now - I think this is a load of poppycock, but it's certainly an ideas that's floating around out there.

And then there's the whole nakedness = sex and queers = oversexed. In this context, my tots seeing my naked body becomes less about being comfortable in my own skin and more about having, well, perverse skin. Think this is a an attitude of bygone eras? Not so! I have friends who, as recently as two years ago, were forced to write an extra addendum to their adoption application about their policy on parental nudity. Straight couples are not required to write this addendum. Queer couples are. Barf-O-rama.

Anyhow. I guess that's my take on nudity in the household. Like the folks at Offbeat Mama, I am curious to know how other people deal with this sort of thing around their households...

week in music, day # 4 - Ane Brun "Song No. 6 (Featuring Ron Sexsmith)"

2011-12-08T06:00:00.002-07:00

Weathering the highs and lows

2011-12-07T13:11:00.001-07:00

Early Morning Lows:
Being told by Boy-o that I am the meanest person ever. That he hates me, will never love me, live with me, or talk to me on the telephone. Ever. Again.

Later Morning Highs: Dancing wildly to Christmas tunes. Watching the smalls rock my high heels 'to the ball'. Baking and eating ginger cookies. Shadow dancing in sunbeams on the wall. Decorating our front yard 'magic tree' with glittery ornaments in the freezing cold wind. Watching the magic tree glitter and shine in the sun and wind as we eat lunch. Hasty 'I love you's as Boy-o runs off to the bus for school.

Not a bad recovery, really. And yet somehow - it's those early morning lows that manage to stay in your head, lurking and feeding all that self-doubt...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A week in Music, post #3 Ingrid Michaelson Covering Radiohead's Creep

2011-12-07T06:00:00.003-07:00

Dec 6, 1989 - Remembering

2011-12-06T06:00:00.003-07:00

Today is December 6th. Twenty-two years ago today, an armed man walked into Ecole Polytechnique in Montreal, calmly and systematically separated women from men, and then proceeded to gun down 14 women and wound many others, articulating consistently his hatred of women, and of feminists in particular.

This day is and will forever remain permanently imprinted upon my memory.

I remember where I was that day, where I was sitting, how the material of the couch felt scratchy and rough underneath my hands.

I remember watching the news coverage and being just rooted to the spot, unable to move and aware of every breathe.

I remember the tenor of my newly divorced father's voice muttering behind me that "those feminists are going to have a field-day with this." I remember not knowing exactly what those words meant, but knowing somehow that those words were angry at women, too.

I can remember my mother calling from her new house in the city to see if I was okay. I can remember saying yes, because I didn't know what else to say.

I can remember the cold shock that engulfed my 14 year old self - reeling in the face of the reality that girls could be hated, could be shot, could be killed in their schools . . . for being girls.

I can also remember the subsequent media coverage, with experts left, right and centre explaining away the horrible, terrifying actions of Marc Lepine as the work of a 'crazy person,' and as an 'isolated incident,' as if those terms could make it okay to pretend that Lepine's actions were not intrinsically linked to the larger entrenched problem of violence against women in our country, and in our culture.

The events of December 6, 1989 are still heartbreakingly and bone-chillingly relevant. They are still connected to the larger, deep rooted problem of violence against women in general. They are connected to every person who says 'it's none of my business' when they hear a domestic assault taking place; connected to the need to have a sexual assault campaign in this city letting men know that women who are extremely inebriated or passed out cold aren't able to consent to sex; connected to the rotten, crap assed reality that women are still blamed for their own abuse and assaults (shouldn't have been drinking, shouldn't have been out at night, shouldn't have been wearing those sexy sweatpants, shouldn't stay with him and on and on and on and on ad nauseum.)

The Montreal Massacre was neither random nor isolated. The continued violence against women in our country, in our provinces, in our cities, in our homes is not random, nor isolated. They are, each and every one of them, linked to our larger cultural acquiescence to, and acceptance of, misogyny.

I know that when my own Girlio is 14, I will remember still.

I hope against hope that I might be able to tell her, then, how much has changed since that awful day in 1989.

A week in music, post #2 - Brandi Carlile - The Story

2011-12-06T05:55:00.000-07:00

A week in music, post #1 Chris Pureka - We Are Haunted (Nicole Reynolds cover)

2011-12-05T10:15:00.000-07:00

Parenting fashion rules

2011-12-02T11:24:00.001-07:00

Rule # 1. When you are wearing an exceptionally cute outfit (as I am am or rather, was, today) - milk, barf or snot (or some combination therein) will end up all over it.

Rule # 2. When you look like shit, 5 truckloads of hot firefighters will show up at your door.

What's a girl to do?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Repost: Making Myself Into a Mother (from Dec, 2009)

2011-11-30T06:00:00.002-07:00

To say that there is nothing than can prepare you for the shock of becoming a parent is putting it mildly.  What a shock it is. You can read all of the books you want, make charts and diagrams for this, that and the other thing, you can research everything from birth to potty training until the cows come home.   But I've discovered that, for me at least, parenting is not so much in these details, in the preparedness or in the doing, but rather it is a crash-course in the feeling.   You can know that skydiving is a scary endeavour, but you can't know what that scary feels like until your ass is plummeting through the sky.

Becoming a parent is like cutting off your limbs and trying to grow them again, in a weird way that makes them only half yours. Or razing a house to the ground and rebuilding with new materials, like Extreme Makeover Home Edition, only the end result is much less grandiose. It is simultaneously elating and depressing; joy and wonder at the new beings we've had a hand in creating, and sadness, even resentment at the seepage of our own selves, the hazing and blurring of our identity as individuals.

As a bit of an aside, I think it's crazy that we treat post-partum depression like it's an anomaly, something purely hormonal, something that people can/should just "get over". I think that in the face of the magnitude of changes to our physical and emotional selves and the incredible disruption to our lives, experiencing various forms and severities of depression and/or anxieties post partum, though undoubtably unpleasant, makes a whole world of sense.   But I digress.

My life, previously attuned to my own well-being and best interests, is no longer my own.   My time, previously devoted to my own projects and needs, has become someone elses.  I struggle to scrape together moments of solitude, write snippets and thoughts and memories of self on scraps of construction paper and kitchen chalkboards, beside grocery and to-do lists. The mundane necessity of keeping chaos at bay, dishes clean, babies fed, toddlers and pre-schoolers amused, soothed and loved is an endless, and often unforgiving, pursuit- one that more often than not, I seem to fail at.

I teeter between anxiety and pride about my small charges, who are at once so fragile and so unflinchingly fearless. There are so many things to protect my children from in any given day, not the least of which is myself -- my own baggage, childhood and knee jerk emotional reflexes. These reflexes too, have to be swallowed, thought about, revisited, smoothed over.

I have had my absolute best, and proudest moments as a mama.  I have also been taken to my rock bottom lowest as a mama. The pendulum seems to swing back and forth between these highs and lows so often. Motherhood has made me turn myself inside out and pull out my stuffing. I'm restuffing bit by bit, and learning so much about myself in the process. What a crazy, amazing, horrible, dark, scary, wonderful, exciting ride. I have never felt so responsible, so fierce, so protective, so loving, so angry, so helpless, so grateful, so raw. And we musn't forget so tired.

I've just started reading this really lovely anthology on mothering, edited by Eden Steinberg. In her introduction, Steinberg writes:

"I realized that if I was going to survive this thing, I was going to have to grow and change. . . I also saw that I was ultimately going to have to let go of my very self-concept, my idea of motherhood, and my expectations of my child. All of it had to go. . . . I thought that as a mother I would carefully mold and shape my children. If I did my job right, my children would turn out to be well-adjusted, loving, thoughtful and interesting people. As it turns out, motherhood is molding and shaping me. At the end of all this, I am the one who could end up well-adjusted, loving, thoughtful and interesting." (xv, 2007).

I couldn't have said it better if I tried.

Repost: Being a transparent

2011-11-29T21:37:00.003-07:00

Hey all - check out this thoughtful parenting piece on being the parent of a trans child from the Huffington Post. Good read :)

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gretchen-peters/being-transparent_b_1100823.html?ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false

Body talk

2011-11-29T10:22:00.001-07:00

Hiya peeps. My sincerest apologies for being so absent of late. I am going through some pretty turbulent times. But I'm still here. And aim to be back with more thoughtfulness and more regularity.

But - today I want to talk a bit about how to create food and body hatin' behaviours in girls with great body politics who really love food. I know, right? Should be more challenging than it is, really.

I know I've talked about this before. But lately, in the midst of my life turbulence, my body has gotten smaller. Like, by a lot. And everyone and their dog, kitty, doctor, and sales clerk is shooting me the proverbial high- five. (Here- I would like to point out that my totally awesome rad friends do not fall into the aforementioned shrinkage celebrants - they, because they are cool, fall into the 'what-the-fuck-are-you-ok'? category, which between you, me and the lamppost is the only appropriate response to sudden-ish 60 lb weight loss).

At any rate - the high-fiving is fucking with my head. Really. (And if it's fucking with MY head, me a former fuck-you-world, defiant fat-chick - I shudder, really shudder - to think how much it impacts people without the same body politics as me.).

I consistently try to respond to people's 'compliments' with retorts about the divorce/depression/life upheaval diet. But you know what? It doesn't matter. People don't care they say things like:'Well - whatever you're doing, girl, it's working for you! Keep it up!'. I say, 'it's a side effect of the anti-depressants!' And they say 'Sweet! Where can I get some??'

Seriously. No, seriously. That is some crazy-assed shit. I tell you I've lost a huge amount of weight because I'm about to jump off a cliff, and you say, 'you GO, girl?'

Alrighty then.

And so I find myself - a former fat girl - attempting to retain some of her former world defiance and really, quite intensely struggling with it. I find myself longing a bit for the days when I was, objectively, a fat chick, because I liked my body and treated it with so much more compassion then. Because the attention I got back then didn't feel like such a mirage.

I know it feels like second nature to tell people they look great when they get smaller. We're trained well in this area.

I'm asking you to think about that impulse a bit more carefully. It really, really isn't helpful. It isn't useful. It isn't kind. Not even a little bit.

End of rant-age, and back to your regularly unscheduled programming.

T

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

2011-11-24T22:23:00.001-07:00

At Boy-o's school (it's a lovely, arty place), they frequently hang projects by students in the hall. This particular week, they have these cool self portraits, along with a question about the world each child came up with. Some of my favourite questions included:

I wonder how birds lay eggs?

I wonder how storms make fire? (boy-o, my natural disaster obsessed child!)

I wonder why my tummy hurts? (lol!)

I wonder why bones break?

And, my personal favourite (sorry Boy-o):

I wonder how people survive this life?

(Damn! That is some existential shit, little person.)

Pretty cool project :)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Why You Shouldn't Donate to the Salvation Army Bell Ringers

2011-11-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

Why You Shouldn't Donate to the Salvation Army Bell Ringers

Re-post on Adoption Awareness Month

2011-11-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

Check out this great post on adoption (*and racism) from Alissa over at Offbeat Mama today. It's a gooder.

Things I know and things I wonder

2011-11-22T13:10:00.000-07:00

Things I know:
1. Kids are happier and reasonably well-adjusted when their parents are happier and reasonably well-adjusted.
2. Kids adapt fairly well to change, particularly when they are younger.
3. Kids are resilient, tough little creatures.

Things I Wonder:
1. How the hell do our kids survive us?

My crush on Lauren Zuniga continues, part II

2011-11-20T12:40:00.000-07:00

I posted this one around this time last year. I hate, hate, hate that it still needs saying this time this year. I hate, hate, hate that it needs saying even louder.

My crush on Lauren Zuniga continues - "Submissive"

2011-11-20T12:34:00.000-07:00

Joan - Rae Spoon. For Transgender Day of Remembrance

2011-11-20T12:02:00.000-07:00

Sociological Images: Defining Fat

2011-11-17T16:44:00.002-07:00

Kind of a neat post by the folks over at Sociological Images about two projects illustrating how fat gets defined. Me likey.

happy thoughts

2011-11-17T10:02:00.000-07:00

fresh sparkly diamond snow. wishing stars. dandelion blowing.
pretty shoes.
friends. old ones. new ones.
sunshine.
kid laughter.
girlio 'crushing my head'.
rare moments of hopefulness. time for a really long run.
writing.
full-body-snuggles.
wine guerilla. art. randomly kind strangers.
forgiveness. reminders that you are not alone.
dancing my pants off. songs that really get you.
a good cry.

what I need today - how 'bout you?

2011-11-17T09:41:00.000-07:00

Another kid lit fave

2011-11-15T15:18:00.001-07:00

Ok. I know I'm on a kid lit roll. You're probably getting sick of it. My apologies. I'm tired and don't have a lot in my head these days. Ok. That's actually not true. My head is freaking crammed. It's amazing shit doesn't start to bleed out my ears. But, I don't have a lot in my head that I can write about. And so, with this excuse, I give you another fab piece of kid lit. About shoes. Yes. Shoes. As you can tell, this is my kind of book.

It's called A Flock of Shoes, and it's really quite beautifully written by Canadian poet/author Sarah Tsiang and illustrated by Qin Leng (Annick Press, 2010). The tale follows Abby and her lovely sandals (which are pink and brown with lime green trim) through all of the warm-weather fun together. When the weather gets colder, Abby doesn't want to part with her beloved sandals, but finds she must. All winter, Abby wonders about her sandals. Luckily they send postcards from far-away warm places to keep her posted on their activities and assuring her of their love: “Thought about your heels today. We miss you to the bottom of our soles.” But Abby eventually warms up to, and then grows quite fond of her winter boots (which are white and blue with purple trim all around the edges, and awfully good for running and stomping in the snow). When spring rolls around, Abby doesn't want to let her beloved boots go, either (I can so relate to this and, like Abby, will probably be wearing totally non-sensible footwear when I go out tonight in the middle of our first snow). It's a lovely story, full of footwear fantasy, and beautiful illustrations, and it reads just as well for the two year old set as it does for the five year olds. Both Boy-o and Girlio are shoe lovers, and they love this book a lot.

But - not as much as me. :)

Manic Monday Musing

2011-11-14T20:48:00.000-07:00

Wondering today, if other people really ever feel like they know what they're doing. I mean, they look like they know what they're doing. But do they feel like it?

Surely I can't be the only one who always feels like a total screw-up.

food and grief blog project

2011-11-13T22:13:00.000-07:00

One of the readers here, thenextbeyond, has a really cool blog project up on the site Food Funeral: Stories about Love, Loss and Stuffing Your Face, about the (inter)relationships between food and grief. The site is just getting up and running, but the format largely depending on guest posters, offers photos of dear and departed loved ones, followed by memories of and relationships to each other and to food. It is lovely, wonderful, sad, and definitely, definitely food for the soul.

After relating her intense memories of her deceased father and their familial food rituals, thenextbeyond writes:

My dad’s death was sudden, sad and drug-related. Since it happened, I’ve been looking for ways to keep him close, do him justice, and to heal. The next step on that journey is to sit down every year and eat some ice cream. I’ve also decided to create a place for all of us to collect our stories — about food and remembering. So, tell me. Who died? How much did you love them? And what did they like to eat more than anything in the whole world?

They are just getting the ball rolling and seeking submissions - so folks, if you've lost someone you loved, and you have a story to tell about the relationship between food and loss - this is the place.

Colour me happy

2011-11-11T06:00:00.001-07:00

Ok. Christmas is coming. (Yes, I know. Gasp, shudder, snow, brrrrr, and all of that).

Anyhow, most of us have kids, nieces, nephews, neighbour urchins, and so forth and whathaveyou and et cetera to buy a prezzie or two for. And oftentimes, the smalls are hard to shop for. Because smalls these days have a lot of shit. Emphasis on shit.

So in case you’re feeling stumped about what to get for the youngs in your life, and wanted some ideas, be stumped no longer! Here’s my shameless change-the-world kiddo present linkage blog. (Yes. This is actually part of the homosexual agenda. No, I will not get a toaster oven if you choose to purchase from one of these links. I have to actually convert you for that. FYI - I kinda need a new toaster oven. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Digressing.)

Normally I am all kinds of anti-colouring books. The business of colouring inside of pre-fab imagination killing lines rubs me the wrong way. HOWEVER... these are the coolest, most feminist, queer positive, gender bending colouring books ever by artist Jacinta Bunnell. There are currently three available, 1. Sometimes a Spoon Runs Away With Another Spoon, Girls Are Not Chicks, and Boys Will be Girls Will be Boys. You should totally gift the smalls with these. I bought them for my kids, and my nieces (Really a perfect present from the crazy lesbo aunties. Spot on). But don't take my word for it... Check ‘em out for yourself and see what you think. Available at http://pmpress,org and www.girlsarenotchicks.com

2. If you’re wanting to outfit the kids in some feminist-inspired clothes, look no further than pigtail pals. With tees, dresses, school gear and more, you’ll find awesome slogans like: “Pretty’s got nothing to do with it,” (which Girlio will be sportin’ come January) and “Colours are for Everyone” (which I’ll be purchasing for Boy-o, in pink, natch). Great colours, good politics. http://pigtailpals.com

3. II'm always flogging kid lit, but I found a new one about appreciating differences called “Spork” by Kyo Maclear and Isabelle Aresenault. Available at kidscanpress.com. It's a gooder.

4. The Child Health Website store. www.thechildhealthsite.com. This site combines gifting for kids with gifting kids around the world. Not only do they sell fairtrade merchandise (for people of all ages), a small portion of everything bought from the site goes to kids’ health initiatives worldwide. They have neat stuff like wooden kaleidoscopes, handknit kids gear, puzzles and nightlights. If you have older kids to shop for, they also have a great ‘gifts that give more’ section, where you can give charitably in someones’ name and receive a certificate. Maybe your tots might appreciate being the gifter of dolls to other kids in refugee camps, or building a well in Afghanistan, or helping to pay for speech therapy for a child in need with autism.

5. And my last good idea (hopeful not, like, ever. Just for now.). Kids love, love, love, love receiving shit in the mail. Not actual shit. Letters and such. Kid friendly magazine subscriptions that surprise them every one or two months? So exciting! Here's a few that span ages...

1. Chirp - for the littler littles (3-6)
2. Chickadee - for the bigger littles (6-9)
3. Owl - (9-13)
- found at http://owlkids.com
4. For tween girls - New Moon Girls
-written by girls and for girls ages 8-13 - AND ad free
- found at http://newmoon.com

I"m sure there's lot of other great, non-plastic-y toysrus options out there. Anyone else have suggestions???

How to Tell if Your Child Has Difficulty with Transitions

2011-11-10T11:51:00.003-07:00

Leaving the House

You are getting ready to leave, going through the same routine as usual.

Child is squirrely. (Those who have children who also get squirrely will recognize this as a word).

Babysitter arrives, same time as usual.

Child is happy to see her, as usual. But still squirrely.

You put on your coat, grab your bag and your laptop.

“Mama! Mama! Are you leaving? Mama! I love you!”

“I love you too, sweetie. I’ll be back right before lunch, just like always.”

“Right before lunch?”

“You bet.”

“Okay. I’ll see you at lunch-time.”

After a hug and a kiss, you head for the door.

As your hand touches the knob, you hear:

“Mama! Mama! Wait! Mama! I need a kissing hand.” *

You pause, bend down and repeat the kissing hand sequence.

“Okay Mama. Bye Mama.”

“Bye Honey. I’ll see you at lunch-time.”

You once again reach for the doorknob. This time you make it half-way out of the door.

“Mama! MAMA! I’m blowing kisses! Mama! I’m blowing kisses!”

You turn around and blow several kisses through the window.

You then turn around and make it as far as the garage door.

“MAMA! WAIT! MAMA COME BACK! I need to give you a HUG!”

And you turn back to the house for another goodbye hug.

You tell your child that you love them. Madly. And repeat once again that you’ll be home at lunch-time. You make it to the garage and open the garage door. You pause ever-so-slightly to see if you will be recalled. Hearing nothing, you step across the threshold.

“MAMA! Mama! I LOVE YOU MAMA! SEE YOU SOON MAMA!”

You thrust a waving hand out of the door so they can see it and make a run for the car.

* This is a term borrowed from the children’s book called “The Kissing Hand,” by Audrey Penn. It’s a bit corny. But it works well for kids that have separation issues. Also highly useful in this regard is “The Invisible String,” by Patrice Karst.