Supposedly there is one. A gay-by boom, I mean. But I fail to see evidence of said boom here in Edmonton.
When we arrived here, we were quite surprised that such a huge city lacked a queer parents group. So we tried to start our own through the local LGBT centre. It was an abyssmal failure. (Well, I can't say that exactly. We did meet one extra-special-fabulous-family through the group). But on the whole, not a lot of response.
I'm not sure why this is. It's not that there aren't queers with kids in Edmonton. I'm sure of it. I mean, we're like the vampires in a Stephenie Meyers book - everywhere - visible or not. (We don't actually want to suck your blood - but it does state very clearly in my copy of The Gay Agenda that we get a toaster oven for every straight we turn gay. Just putting that out there.)
So, if indeed Edmonton does have some queer families kicking around, maybe they all subscribe to the "we're just like them" attitude... which drives me right round the bend. Mainly because well, we're not. I'm not saying I don't like straight people. Hell - some of my best friends are straight!
But here's the thing - L. and I may look like Ward and June Cleaver, but it will just never be so. We are not the same as straight families. Period. Why? Because we and our kids have to deal with homophobia and heterosexism (that is, the pervasive assumption that everyone is straight), in big and little ways, throughout our daily lived experiences. It happens everywhere. All of the time. It happens when I asked about my children's father, or my husband in restaurants, grocery stores or in neighbourhood parks. It happens everytime I hear some teenage boys call each other fag or homo. Everytime I see homophobic graffiti or some asshole with an anti-gay sign at a Pride march. Every time some comedian or movie throws in a gay joke or stereotype (and if you listen carefully- this happens A LOT!). It will happen to my children at their schools, swimming lessons, soccer practices. It colours the way we see the world, the way we are allowed to live in the world, our sense of safety and our sense of our selves. Homophobia makes us different. We are different because we are made to be.
Sometimes I let my guard down, get complacent and hopeful. I start to think maybe things really have changed. Maybe, homophobia is getting better all of the time. Maybe my kids won't be ridiculed, judged. Maybe they won't have to be afraid that people will hate them just because of who their parents are. But reality always falls short of this hope. It could be as simple as a dirty look when I come out for the millionth time on the playground. Or, something bigger. A homophobic incident like the one that occured few weeks ago. Before I got pregnant with Oliver, I'd put out a call for essays and stories about queer fertility journeys on the internet, when I'd had the idea of putting together a book about the many creative ways our community chooses to build our families. The book didn't ever come to fruition, unfortunately, but that's besides the point). Then, years later, I get an email from some woman who saw the call for essays, and who feels the need to tell me that she hates queers like me so much that she hopes that I die. I'm pretty sure June Cleaver wouldn't get those kind of emails.
My point? My point is that we have become too complacent. That there is still a real and pressing need for things like queer parent/family groups. For a place that us and our children can go to and not only not have to worry about bigotry and heterosexism(because of course we can do this with all of our wonderful and lovely friends), but more than this, where we do not have to explain the differences, the difficulties, the challenges, the fears. Where we can all just take our queerness and our family-ness for granted because it is a reality that we share.
So if there indeed has been a gay-by boom in Edmonton...
"Queer Edmonton parents, come out, come out where ever you are."
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
2
I wasn't prepared for two. Let me clarify. Clearly, both of our children were very planned. "Us" people can't really do it any other way. What I mean is, I wasn't prepared for the "parent shock" of two.
Before Lucy was born, I worried that I would never be able to love another child with the fierceness and the depth that I love Oliver. I just couldn't imagine how I could possibly love another little creature in the same way. I needn't have worried on that front. When I met Lucy, my heart swelled and overflowed and grew to make room for her. It is as if she's been there with me, with us, all along. What an amazing thing.
But I was never worried that I wouldn't be able to "pull off" two. I'm not particularly naïve. I knew it would be hard, challenging, difficult. But what can prepare you for splitting yourself in half? There it is in a nutshell. The crux of my difficulties.
I thought mothering was challenging before Lucy came along. And it was. Oliver is an extremely bright, inquisitive and high energy child. Did I mention he was high energy? Kid has a LOT of energy. Oomph. Get up and go. Volume. Exhuberance. And so on and so forth. This energy is both one of the things I treasure about him, and well, my own personal cross to bear. But then Lucy came along, and I really had to reevaluate my perception of challenging.
Mostly, I feel like I never have enough time for either child; like I'm always behind on their kid-rent.
For example, Lucy is a terrible night sleeper and an even worse napper. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get her to fall asleep during the day. All of this time (and it is a lot of time) is time her brother ends up watching the television because this is the only and I mean only way to keep him quiet enough for Lucy to even consider the notion of sleep (and people have given me lots of suggestions on other ways to keep him occupied.... let me just assure you, I have tried them all and they have all ended up with him waking his sister just as she has finally, finally, finally freaking nodded off to sleep.) Some days, Oliver's needs get ignored in the hopes of Lucy sleeping. Other days, Lucy's sleep needs get ignored so Oliver can get better me time, or outings and other fun stuff).
That's just one example. I'm flummoxed. Swamped. In over my head. I'm walking a highwire and most days it's feeling pretty wobbly and teeter-y. Everything feels harder. Everything feels amplified. The joy, the frustration, the fatigue, the anger, the need for my own space, the feeling of being scattered, fragmented, split. All of it. And the work? The mess, the laundry, the snacks, diapers, the noses to be wiped - it's always looming, undone.
People often tell me I'm a great mom, which is super nice to hear. But lately, I mostly feel like a colossal disaster -- scattered, fractured, emotional, impatient, spread thin, ineffectual.
Each day is a delicate balance of negotiation and renegotiation. For instance, today I managed to clean the bathroom and do two loads of laundry. The toll for this however, is that I didn't manage to get anyone, including myself, out of pajamas and the rest of the house looks like a train hit it).
I know this will get easier. I know we will find our rhythm, hit our stride. Eventually the kids will engage each other, need a bit less of me. And I knew it would be hard. I guess I thought it would get easier faster.
For now, I try to measure my days in the small moments that feel like successes (instead of what really could be a large list of failures and undones and to-do's).
* A great hug from Oliver
* Lucy's toothless grin
* My kids learning a new skill (Oliver winked at me today, and Lucy just learned how to clap!)
*An outing without a meltdown
*A day without yelling or wanting to cry
* Listening to Oliver tell L. excitedly about his day at dinner time
* Managing to cobble together an edible dinner (by my standards, not Oliver's!)
*A sink full of dishes done out of the way
* A moment to blog about it all
* L. telling me she thinks I'm amazing
* The beauty of Lucy's babbling
* A successful nap (Lucy's not mine, although that would be nice too).
* A spontaneous "I duv you Mama"
These tiny moments are what pulls me back to that amazing feeling of the heart overflowing with love, and making room for two.
Before Lucy was born, I worried that I would never be able to love another child with the fierceness and the depth that I love Oliver. I just couldn't imagine how I could possibly love another little creature in the same way. I needn't have worried on that front. When I met Lucy, my heart swelled and overflowed and grew to make room for her. It is as if she's been there with me, with us, all along. What an amazing thing.
But I was never worried that I wouldn't be able to "pull off" two. I'm not particularly naïve. I knew it would be hard, challenging, difficult. But what can prepare you for splitting yourself in half? There it is in a nutshell. The crux of my difficulties.
I thought mothering was challenging before Lucy came along. And it was. Oliver is an extremely bright, inquisitive and high energy child. Did I mention he was high energy? Kid has a LOT of energy. Oomph. Get up and go. Volume. Exhuberance. And so on and so forth. This energy is both one of the things I treasure about him, and well, my own personal cross to bear. But then Lucy came along, and I really had to reevaluate my perception of challenging.
Mostly, I feel like I never have enough time for either child; like I'm always behind on their kid-rent.
For example, Lucy is a terrible night sleeper and an even worse napper. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get her to fall asleep during the day. All of this time (and it is a lot of time) is time her brother ends up watching the television because this is the only and I mean only way to keep him quiet enough for Lucy to even consider the notion of sleep (and people have given me lots of suggestions on other ways to keep him occupied.... let me just assure you, I have tried them all and they have all ended up with him waking his sister just as she has finally, finally, finally freaking nodded off to sleep.) Some days, Oliver's needs get ignored in the hopes of Lucy sleeping. Other days, Lucy's sleep needs get ignored so Oliver can get better me time, or outings and other fun stuff).
That's just one example. I'm flummoxed. Swamped. In over my head. I'm walking a highwire and most days it's feeling pretty wobbly and teeter-y. Everything feels harder. Everything feels amplified. The joy, the frustration, the fatigue, the anger, the need for my own space, the feeling of being scattered, fragmented, split. All of it. And the work? The mess, the laundry, the snacks, diapers, the noses to be wiped - it's always looming, undone.
People often tell me I'm a great mom, which is super nice to hear. But lately, I mostly feel like a colossal disaster -- scattered, fractured, emotional, impatient, spread thin, ineffectual.
Each day is a delicate balance of negotiation and renegotiation. For instance, today I managed to clean the bathroom and do two loads of laundry. The toll for this however, is that I didn't manage to get anyone, including myself, out of pajamas and the rest of the house looks like a train hit it).
I know this will get easier. I know we will find our rhythm, hit our stride. Eventually the kids will engage each other, need a bit less of me. And I knew it would be hard. I guess I thought it would get easier faster.
For now, I try to measure my days in the small moments that feel like successes (instead of what really could be a large list of failures and undones and to-do's).
* A great hug from Oliver
* Lucy's toothless grin
* My kids learning a new skill (Oliver winked at me today, and Lucy just learned how to clap!)
*An outing without a meltdown
*A day without yelling or wanting to cry
* Listening to Oliver tell L. excitedly about his day at dinner time
* Managing to cobble together an edible dinner (by my standards, not Oliver's!)
*A sink full of dishes done out of the way
* A moment to blog about it all
* L. telling me she thinks I'm amazing
* The beauty of Lucy's babbling
* A successful nap (Lucy's not mine, although that would be nice too).
* A spontaneous "I duv you Mama"
These tiny moments are what pulls me back to that amazing feeling of the heart overflowing with love, and making room for two.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The thing about kids...
A friend and I were out with our kids at a local - and purportedly kid friendly -attraction (ahem Muttart Conservatory), where we were glared at, told in no uncertain terms to keep our kids quiet, and instructed not to let them run by attraction staff. (Each of these things more ridiculous than the last, especially when you consider that at the front door of this attraction is a gift shop with a huge display of candy.) At first I was embarassed, and tried to shush and slow down my little guy (he is definitely a kid that veers towards the, um, enthusiastic side of things). But then I was really annoyed. I'm still really annoyed. They were just being, well, kids.
But here's the thing about kids. We don't actually like them. Now before you jump all over me, I don't mean I don't like them. I like 'em fine (most of the time!). I mean, our larger culture doesn't like them. Hear me out on this one. Sure, we're baby crazy. We watch faithfully for celebrity baby bump alerts and wonder which of our friends will get pregnant next. We delight in baby showers, baby names, baby things, and engage in all kinds of baby over-consumption. We read diligently read scads of baby books, but how many people do you know who actually do the same reading about child development?
We really don't value children. We see evidence of this on a larger scale, for example, our most developed nations have appallingly high rates of child poverty and we think nothing of the fact that those we task with taking care of our children make ridiculously low wages. On a smaller scale, we are vexed by children's endless energy; annoyed by their volume and exhuberance; inconvenienced over their predisposition to avoid things we think they should do, like sleep and eat vegetables; and we are most certainly ill-equipped to handle the hugeness and wildness of their constantly changing emotional development. (For instance, I recently learned that our dopamine levels - that's the happy chemical - are the lowest at the ages of 2 and 14. Really, this says SO much about the wildness and unpredictability of emotions that come out of our two year olds - and 14 year olds, obviously!)
We glare at parents whose children melt down in public. We shoot dirty looks at parents whose kids talk to loud, move to fast, or otherwise break social codes of civility. Why can't those darn kids behave, we wonder? Why can't they talk instead of shout, walk instead of run, sit still once in awhile, listen the first time, pay attention. Why do they stubbornly dig in their heels in defiance? Why do they tantrum?
But what we really mean is, why can't they be more like us? More, well, adult. We like to think we have an appreciation for childhood. But have you ever heard someone say, "Oh don't be so childish" to a child? I have. It says a lot, I think.
Children are imperfect, messy, impulsive, loud, whimsical, exhaustingly-always-on-the-go, accidents-waiting-to-happen. They say it like they see it and feel their feelings unabashedly and with gusto. They need room to move, freedom to explore, and space for their voices to be heard (however loud those voices may sometimes be). It's as often exhausting and frustrating as it is cute. But they only get to be kids once. Why are we all in such a hurry to train it out of them?
The fact that my friend and I were glared at and reprimanded at a public place designed to be an educational facility for folks like kids speaks to the lack of spaces in the world that kids can be themselves. If children were valued... if we actually liked children... we'd let them be kids from time to time.
But here's the thing about kids. We don't actually like them. Now before you jump all over me, I don't mean I don't like them. I like 'em fine (most of the time!). I mean, our larger culture doesn't like them. Hear me out on this one. Sure, we're baby crazy. We watch faithfully for celebrity baby bump alerts and wonder which of our friends will get pregnant next. We delight in baby showers, baby names, baby things, and engage in all kinds of baby over-consumption. We read diligently read scads of baby books, but how many people do you know who actually do the same reading about child development?
We really don't value children. We see evidence of this on a larger scale, for example, our most developed nations have appallingly high rates of child poverty and we think nothing of the fact that those we task with taking care of our children make ridiculously low wages. On a smaller scale, we are vexed by children's endless energy; annoyed by their volume and exhuberance; inconvenienced over their predisposition to avoid things we think they should do, like sleep and eat vegetables; and we are most certainly ill-equipped to handle the hugeness and wildness of their constantly changing emotional development. (For instance, I recently learned that our dopamine levels - that's the happy chemical - are the lowest at the ages of 2 and 14. Really, this says SO much about the wildness and unpredictability of emotions that come out of our two year olds - and 14 year olds, obviously!)
We glare at parents whose children melt down in public. We shoot dirty looks at parents whose kids talk to loud, move to fast, or otherwise break social codes of civility. Why can't those darn kids behave, we wonder? Why can't they talk instead of shout, walk instead of run, sit still once in awhile, listen the first time, pay attention. Why do they stubbornly dig in their heels in defiance? Why do they tantrum?
But what we really mean is, why can't they be more like us? More, well, adult. We like to think we have an appreciation for childhood. But have you ever heard someone say, "Oh don't be so childish" to a child? I have. It says a lot, I think.
Children are imperfect, messy, impulsive, loud, whimsical, exhaustingly-always-on-the-go, accidents-waiting-to-happen. They say it like they see it and feel their feelings unabashedly and with gusto. They need room to move, freedom to explore, and space for their voices to be heard (however loud those voices may sometimes be). It's as often exhausting and frustrating as it is cute. But they only get to be kids once. Why are we all in such a hurry to train it out of them?
The fact that my friend and I were glared at and reprimanded at a public place designed to be an educational facility for folks like kids speaks to the lack of spaces in the world that kids can be themselves. If children were valued... if we actually liked children... we'd let them be kids from time to time.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Oliver-isms
Outta the mouth of my babe - I love this age!
Running up from downstairs, naked except for underwear and a toy tool belt -"But Mama, I can't SEE with my pants on!"
****************************************************
Dancing through the kitchen - "Mama, don't I feel beautiful today?!"
****************************************************
Oliver: "I would like some of that mama" (pointing to my diet coke). Me: "You don't want this buddy, it's full of caffeine, it'll make you short." Oliver: "I'm short already mama!" Yeesh. I gave the kid a sip.
******************************************************
As if we needed further proof that advertising works, while watching the World Juniors, a Pepsi Max ad came on. The ad showed men doing various silly things like getting electrocuted and falling out of trees and such. And then the punch line was something to the effect of guys will do just about anything except drink diet drinks. Until Pepsi Max. And Oliver, who I thought wasn't paying attention, starts jumping around the room, yelling "I love Pepsi Max! I love Pepsi Max! Pepsi Max is a guy's milk" . A guy's milk, indeed.
*******************************************************
So Lucy is having a bit of a crying jag over dinner, and while Laura and I are trying to calm her, Oliver is also trying very insistently to tell us something. "Mama! Mama! LUCY DOESN'T LIKE HER PANTS! She's crying because she DOESN'T LIKE HER PANTS!!" Laura and I, after taking a pause for laughing, thought "what the hell?" and took off her pants. She stopped crying immediately. Apparently they were not good pants.
*********************************************************************
Laura tells Oliver, as he is finishing dinner that it is almost time for his bath...to which he answers ever so forlornly, and punctuated by a rather large sigh, "yes, bath and then bed. This is my life."
************************************************************
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and HAIRDOS!"
************************************************************
So - we were having a conversation about jobs with Oliver....
And Ollie very proudly says...
"Mommy's a prosecutor!"
When asked what Mama did... Ollie thought for quite awhile, and then he says....
"Mama's the judge!"
What a kid :-)
Running up from downstairs, naked except for underwear and a toy tool belt -"But Mama, I can't SEE with my pants on!"
****************************************************
Dancing through the kitchen - "Mama, don't I feel beautiful today?!"
****************************************************
Oliver: "I would like some of that mama" (pointing to my diet coke). Me: "You don't want this buddy, it's full of caffeine, it'll make you short." Oliver: "I'm short already mama!" Yeesh. I gave the kid a sip.
******************************************************
As if we needed further proof that advertising works, while watching the World Juniors, a Pepsi Max ad came on. The ad showed men doing various silly things like getting electrocuted and falling out of trees and such. And then the punch line was something to the effect of guys will do just about anything except drink diet drinks. Until Pepsi Max. And Oliver, who I thought wasn't paying attention, starts jumping around the room, yelling "I love Pepsi Max! I love Pepsi Max! Pepsi Max is a guy's milk" . A guy's milk, indeed.
*******************************************************
So Lucy is having a bit of a crying jag over dinner, and while Laura and I are trying to calm her, Oliver is also trying very insistently to tell us something. "Mama! Mama! LUCY DOESN'T LIKE HER PANTS! She's crying because she DOESN'T LIKE HER PANTS!!" Laura and I, after taking a pause for laughing, thought "what the hell?" and took off her pants. She stopped crying immediately. Apparently they were not good pants.
*********************************************************************
Laura tells Oliver, as he is finishing dinner that it is almost time for his bath...to which he answers ever so forlornly, and punctuated by a rather large sigh, "yes, bath and then bed. This is my life."
************************************************************
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and HAIRDOS!"
************************************************************
So - we were having a conversation about jobs with Oliver....
And Ollie very proudly says...
"Mommy's a prosecutor!"
When asked what Mama did... Ollie thought for quite awhile, and then he says....
"Mama's the judge!"
What a kid :-)
Thursday, January 28, 2010
the thankful revolution...
Since, as I have already disclosed previously, I am a glass half empty kinda girl, I will take up the challenge issued by a fellow blogger, and commence with Thankful Thursdays.
Things I am particularly thankful for today...
1. My boy-o in his footed pajamas being particularly cute and snoogly this morning.
2. Lucy deciding that she will take a 1/2 nap, instead of her usual 15 minutes!
3. Good coffee.
4. Being able to have 5 minutes to blog.
5. L. will be cooking tonight. That is, we will be eating out.
6. Sparkly diamond snow.
7. Friends who have reminded me that I am loved.
8. PAJAMA DAY!
Things I am particularly thankful for today...
1. My boy-o in his footed pajamas being particularly cute and snoogly this morning.
2. Lucy deciding that she will take a 1/2 nap, instead of her usual 15 minutes!
3. Good coffee.
4. Being able to have 5 minutes to blog.
5. L. will be cooking tonight. That is, we will be eating out.
6. Sparkly diamond snow.
7. Friends who have reminded me that I am loved.
8. PAJAMA DAY!
Monday, January 25, 2010
A germy affair
Last Friday, while at drop-in gymnastics, Oliver and I had stopped at the water fountain to get a much-needed drink of water. (I am aware that any germ haters in the audience are starting to get a little squirmy here). After Oliver was done his drink, I found myself starting into the face of a (really cute) silent little urchin (we'll call him Timmy), who seemed to be indicating that he needed me to hold the fountain button for him. So I asked Timmy (the little imp) if this was indeed the case. Timmy nodded so dramatically that I thought he must be dying of thirst. I started to hold the button down.
Just as little Timmy was bowing his head to drink, I hear from behind me a loud and (I'm not even exaggerating here) prologued:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
I turn to see a mother-figure running towards us, practically mowing down little children in her way, a look of total and abject horror on her face. I, of course stopped what I was doing, afraid that the kid had some deathly allergy to water or something. Breathing heavily, the mother looked at little Timmy sternly: "we DON'T like water fountains," she said, before leading the little tyke a few feet away. She then pulled out a bottle of Purell and wiped little Timmy's water fountain-y hands off and gave him a sippy cup to quench his thirst. But not before looking at me like I was the most stupid and disgusting person ever to walk the planet.
The subject of germs seems to split parents into two factions. The ones who care (note here: the ones who care, generally seem to REALLY care), and the ones who are more, well, meh. You can probably already which camp I fall into. Meh.
I feel that I should point out here, that I know that there are germs in water fountains. Lots of 'em. Yes, I'm sure you could even get Hepatitis A, or something equally unfun. But you could also get Hepatitis A from eating in a restaurant. I like eating in restaurants. And every now and again, I like to drink from a water fountain. And so does Oliver.
While we are on the topic of germs, I also feel compelled to admit that I (and consequently my children) are lackadaisical hand washers. Yes, I'm trying to teach them to wash their hands after they pee, etc. But if we're out and about, you won't catch me wiping their hands with a bottle of Purell or diaper wipes.
I, for one, would rather my kids ingest a little park dirt (even dog poo tinged park dirt) than have them ingest say: Ethyl Alcohol, Isopropyl Alcohol, Carbomer, Tocopheryl Acetate, Glycerin, Propylene Glycol, Isopropyl Myrisate, which are the main ingredients in Purell. Or Propylene Glycol, Methylparaben, Propyl Paraben, Disodium Cocamphodiacetate, Polysorbate 20, and last but not least 2-Bromo-2-nitropropane-1,3-diol, which are commonly found ingredients found in baby wipes.
Call me crazy, but I'm feeding my kids dirt and pond scum and yes, even dog poop, before I'm feeding them 2-Bromo-2-nitropropane-1,3-diol. Because substances with names that have numbers and hyphens and are virtually unpronounceable do not belong in children. Hell, now that I've taken the time to write all of those ingredients down, I'm quite certain they don't even belong on my kid's asses. I'll take my chances with the dirt and grime and grossness from nature (and, I will admit somewhat sheepishly, from my house), thank you very much.
To tell you the truth, though, even if there were an all natural hand, perfectly edible sanitizer, I'd still probably let my kids eat the dirt. For one, I'd forget. I'm awfully absent minded about those sorts of things. And for another. I just don't care that much. And there it is, my dirty little secret (that hopefully won't find me friend divorced!). My kids get dirty. They probably eat dirt. They live in a usually dirty house that hasn't (and won't) see any antibacterial lotions or washes of wipes or sprays). I hose 'em down occasionally (along with the house). And you know what? They're pretty healthy little buggers. Almost never sick. So it seems to be working alright.
L's grandpa used to say "you gotta eat a pound of dirt before you die." Now that's a philosophy I can get behind.
Just as little Timmy was bowing his head to drink, I hear from behind me a loud and (I'm not even exaggerating here) prologued:
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
I turn to see a mother-figure running towards us, practically mowing down little children in her way, a look of total and abject horror on her face. I, of course stopped what I was doing, afraid that the kid had some deathly allergy to water or something. Breathing heavily, the mother looked at little Timmy sternly: "we DON'T like water fountains," she said, before leading the little tyke a few feet away. She then pulled out a bottle of Purell and wiped little Timmy's water fountain-y hands off and gave him a sippy cup to quench his thirst. But not before looking at me like I was the most stupid and disgusting person ever to walk the planet.
The subject of germs seems to split parents into two factions. The ones who care (note here: the ones who care, generally seem to REALLY care), and the ones who are more, well, meh. You can probably already which camp I fall into. Meh.
I feel that I should point out here, that I know that there are germs in water fountains. Lots of 'em. Yes, I'm sure you could even get Hepatitis A, or something equally unfun. But you could also get Hepatitis A from eating in a restaurant. I like eating in restaurants. And every now and again, I like to drink from a water fountain. And so does Oliver.
While we are on the topic of germs, I also feel compelled to admit that I (and consequently my children) are lackadaisical hand washers. Yes, I'm trying to teach them to wash their hands after they pee, etc. But if we're out and about, you won't catch me wiping their hands with a bottle of Purell or diaper wipes.
I, for one, would rather my kids ingest a little park dirt (even dog poo tinged park dirt) than have them ingest say: Ethyl Alcohol, Isopropyl Alcohol, Carbomer, Tocopheryl Acetate, Glycerin, Propylene Glycol, Isopropyl Myrisate, which are the main ingredients in Purell. Or Propylene Glycol, Methylparaben, Propyl Paraben, Disodium Cocamphodiacetate, Polysorbate 20, and last but not least 2-Bromo-2-nitropropane-1,3-diol, which are commonly found ingredients found in baby wipes.
Call me crazy, but I'm feeding my kids dirt and pond scum and yes, even dog poop, before I'm feeding them 2-Bromo-2-nitropropane-1,3-diol. Because substances with names that have numbers and hyphens and are virtually unpronounceable do not belong in children. Hell, now that I've taken the time to write all of those ingredients down, I'm quite certain they don't even belong on my kid's asses. I'll take my chances with the dirt and grime and grossness from nature (and, I will admit somewhat sheepishly, from my house), thank you very much.
To tell you the truth, though, even if there were an all natural hand, perfectly edible sanitizer, I'd still probably let my kids eat the dirt. For one, I'd forget. I'm awfully absent minded about those sorts of things. And for another. I just don't care that much. And there it is, my dirty little secret (that hopefully won't find me friend divorced!). My kids get dirty. They probably eat dirt. They live in a usually dirty house that hasn't (and won't) see any antibacterial lotions or washes of wipes or sprays). I hose 'em down occasionally (along with the house). And you know what? They're pretty healthy little buggers. Almost never sick. So it seems to be working alright.
L's grandpa used to say "you gotta eat a pound of dirt before you die." Now that's a philosophy I can get behind.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
road rage
Today in the car,I was dealing with the needs of my wee toddler monster in the back seat. Who was letting me know that he. had. NEEDS. While dealing with these NEEDS, I wasn't able to catch the yellow light to make a left hand turn into a busy intersection. No biggie. It's not like I blew through a stop sign or anything equally heinous and irresponsible. I, and everyone behind me, will catch the flashing arrow whence it comes around.
Apparently a biggie. A biggie, biggie, biggie to the old dude in the truck behind me. I caught sight of him in my rearview mirror accidentally, as I was, yet again, checking in with the kid with NEEDS. And there he was, gesturing wildly (not unlike a flight attendant on speed), practically jumping up and down in his senior citizen seat, making it clear that I should be turning, now, during that brief second where, despite my now having a very red light (insomuch as a light can be very red), that the other lanes of traffic aren't yet moving.
I wave back. Oooops. Yup. Gotcha. Shoulda turned when the light was yellow. But the guy keeps going. The entirety of the red light. Bouncing up and down. Flailing so hard he looked like an octopus. I'm not entirely sure what he wanted me to do, there during the red light, but he is clearly wanting me to do SOMETHING. He reminds me a bit of a toddler monster with NEEDS. His truck was practically vibrating and in my bemusement, I started to worry that he might give himself a heart attack, so worked up was he.
Here's the thing old dude, and all the other bad-assed drivers out there like you. Sorry you're in a hurry. Sorry I missed the light. Sorry I'm a little distracted and absent minded sometimes. The people in my car have NEEDS. I wasn't driving unsafely - I just missed the yellow. It happens to the best of us, at least, I think it does.
I'm sure you'll be able to make up your time driving, well, like you're behaving. But I've got this cargo in the backseat, you see, that is more precious than your stupid time, your stupid truck, and your stupid temper.
So in my best clipped mom voice, I'm telling you to Simmer. Down. Back. There.
Alrighty?
Apparently a biggie. A biggie, biggie, biggie to the old dude in the truck behind me. I caught sight of him in my rearview mirror accidentally, as I was, yet again, checking in with the kid with NEEDS. And there he was, gesturing wildly (not unlike a flight attendant on speed), practically jumping up and down in his senior citizen seat, making it clear that I should be turning, now, during that brief second where, despite my now having a very red light (insomuch as a light can be very red), that the other lanes of traffic aren't yet moving.
I wave back. Oooops. Yup. Gotcha. Shoulda turned when the light was yellow. But the guy keeps going. The entirety of the red light. Bouncing up and down. Flailing so hard he looked like an octopus. I'm not entirely sure what he wanted me to do, there during the red light, but he is clearly wanting me to do SOMETHING. He reminds me a bit of a toddler monster with NEEDS. His truck was practically vibrating and in my bemusement, I started to worry that he might give himself a heart attack, so worked up was he.
Here's the thing old dude, and all the other bad-assed drivers out there like you. Sorry you're in a hurry. Sorry I missed the light. Sorry I'm a little distracted and absent minded sometimes. The people in my car have NEEDS. I wasn't driving unsafely - I just missed the yellow. It happens to the best of us, at least, I think it does.
I'm sure you'll be able to make up your time driving, well, like you're behaving. But I've got this cargo in the backseat, you see, that is more precious than your stupid time, your stupid truck, and your stupid temper.
So in my best clipped mom voice, I'm telling you to Simmer. Down. Back. There.
Alrighty?
Friday, January 22, 2010
boys don't cry...
Oh lady at drop-in gymnastics. I judge you. I judge you. I judge you.
I heard you snapping "Don't. don't." before I turned around to see your little boy, 18 months-ish, struggling to hold in some serious sniffles. And then you had to open your mouth again. "Don't you cry. Don't you cry!". All the parental hairs on the back of my neck were standing at full attention now, as I watched this little kid really trying hard to hold in his eruption of tears. That ain't right. We can do all sorts of things as parents, and have all sorts of expectations, but we don't have the right to tell our children how to feel (or in this case, how not to feel). I hold myself back from throttling you, and begin moving myself and Oliver away, before I am unable to fight the urge to tell you that you are signing your kid up for additional years of therapy down the road, among other things. Poor little dude.
And then, just when I think that you couldn't be more of an arse, you say it. The thing most of us sane folks think died out a generation ago, but clearly didn't. "Boys don't cry," you say, with a whole lotta snark, to your little dude, whose chest is still heaving trying to hold in his tears. "Don't you cry. DON'T cry! Be a big boy." I want to grab your son, wrap him up in my arms and tell him to let it all out. Tell him that he will feel so much better after a good long cry and a snuggle. We all do. Those of us who are allowed, I guess.
Unable to help myself... I glare at you. And then move to the other side of the gym, before words (and possibly blows) are exchanged.
Lady - I am steaming mad at you on behalf of your son, and mine, and generations of men before them who have been told it's not okay to have feelings.
The world is already full enough with men, with their fingers on the buttons of bombs and other lovely forms of world (or on smaller scales, community and household) anhilation, who don't know how to feel because of those kind of crappy messages - please, don't add another one.
I heard you snapping "Don't. don't." before I turned around to see your little boy, 18 months-ish, struggling to hold in some serious sniffles. And then you had to open your mouth again. "Don't you cry. Don't you cry!". All the parental hairs on the back of my neck were standing at full attention now, as I watched this little kid really trying hard to hold in his eruption of tears. That ain't right. We can do all sorts of things as parents, and have all sorts of expectations, but we don't have the right to tell our children how to feel (or in this case, how not to feel). I hold myself back from throttling you, and begin moving myself and Oliver away, before I am unable to fight the urge to tell you that you are signing your kid up for additional years of therapy down the road, among other things. Poor little dude.
And then, just when I think that you couldn't be more of an arse, you say it. The thing most of us sane folks think died out a generation ago, but clearly didn't. "Boys don't cry," you say, with a whole lotta snark, to your little dude, whose chest is still heaving trying to hold in his tears. "Don't you cry. DON'T cry! Be a big boy." I want to grab your son, wrap him up in my arms and tell him to let it all out. Tell him that he will feel so much better after a good long cry and a snuggle. We all do. Those of us who are allowed, I guess.
Unable to help myself... I glare at you. And then move to the other side of the gym, before words (and possibly blows) are exchanged.
Lady - I am steaming mad at you on behalf of your son, and mine, and generations of men before them who have been told it's not okay to have feelings.
The world is already full enough with men, with their fingers on the buttons of bombs and other lovely forms of world (or on smaller scales, community and household) anhilation, who don't know how to feel because of those kind of crappy messages - please, don't add another one.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
kidlit part II
Another fun, favourite read post (largely because I am too braindead to write anything else at the moment!). These are the books we have on the go right now (mostly for the 3 + set!)
1. Charlie Cook's Favourite Book by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler. An excellent book about the love of books. Lots of adventure and fun. A new favourite. (by the writers of the Gruffalo, which though also an engaging read, I have question the writers' decision to make EVERY character in the book male. Charlie Cook is much more balanced this way.)
2. Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox. A gorgeous book about a boy who helps an old woman get her memories back. So so sweet.
3. Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes by Mem Fox. A beautifully illustrated story, with lots of baby fun for the younger set.
4. And the Good Brown Earth by Kathy Henderson. A lovely book about a young boy and his grandma sharing a love of gardening and the earth. Gorgeous illustrations, great theme. Oliver loves it (and so do I!)
5. The Baby Dragon Tamer by Jan Fearley. A sweet read (with gorgeous pictures) about a dragon who comes tries to conquer a baby with fierceness only to end up tamed.
6. Do Unto Otters: A Book About Manners by Laurie Keller. This is a fun, cartoon-y and super silly read that still manages to convey great messages about manners and general kindness.
7. The Hiccupotomus by Aaron Zenz - a colourful rhyming book about a hippo with hiccups. Pure silliness and lots of fun.
8. How to Catch a Star by Oliver Jeffers. Another great one by Oliver Jeffers about a boy who catches his very own star. Beautiful illustrations and a simple story.
9. Hush Little Baby by Syliva Long (great for small babes and bigger kids alike). A new rendition of the favourite lullaby that takes the consumerism out of the picture. Instead of "Mama's gonna buy you _______", instead Long's Mama comforts her baby bunny with lightening bugs, teddy bears, a banjo, the evening sky and the harvest moon.
10. Scaredy Squirrel by Mélanie Watt. A fun little read about how fear (and complacency) holds us back from living a full life. Very loveable and kid-relatable squirrely character.
11. Your Favorite Seuss: A Baker's Dozen by the One and Only Dr. Seuss - This a wonderful collection of Seuss, lots of good ones like The Sneetches, Yertle the Turtle and the Lorax. Also includes sketches and Seuss memorabilia, as well as some short essays by folks who've been touched by Seuss' work. A definite bookshelf must for Seuss lovers (especially those who love his more politically tinged work).
In writing this list, I have become quite aware that almost all of the protagonists in these books are male. While I would like to hope that this is more because L. and I overcompensate for the lack of maleness in Oliver's world, than that there is a dearth of rockin' girl characters in books, I suspect may just be a little of both. At any rate, my kidlit part I was a little bit more gender balanced.
1. Charlie Cook's Favourite Book by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler. An excellent book about the love of books. Lots of adventure and fun. A new favourite. (by the writers of the Gruffalo, which though also an engaging read, I have question the writers' decision to make EVERY character in the book male. Charlie Cook is much more balanced this way.)
2. Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox. A gorgeous book about a boy who helps an old woman get her memories back. So so sweet.
3. Ten Little Fingers and Ten Little Toes by Mem Fox. A beautifully illustrated story, with lots of baby fun for the younger set.
4. And the Good Brown Earth by Kathy Henderson. A lovely book about a young boy and his grandma sharing a love of gardening and the earth. Gorgeous illustrations, great theme. Oliver loves it (and so do I!)
5. The Baby Dragon Tamer by Jan Fearley. A sweet read (with gorgeous pictures) about a dragon who comes tries to conquer a baby with fierceness only to end up tamed.
6. Do Unto Otters: A Book About Manners by Laurie Keller. This is a fun, cartoon-y and super silly read that still manages to convey great messages about manners and general kindness.
7. The Hiccupotomus by Aaron Zenz - a colourful rhyming book about a hippo with hiccups. Pure silliness and lots of fun.
8. How to Catch a Star by Oliver Jeffers. Another great one by Oliver Jeffers about a boy who catches his very own star. Beautiful illustrations and a simple story.
9. Hush Little Baby by Syliva Long (great for small babes and bigger kids alike). A new rendition of the favourite lullaby that takes the consumerism out of the picture. Instead of "Mama's gonna buy you _______", instead Long's Mama comforts her baby bunny with lightening bugs, teddy bears, a banjo, the evening sky and the harvest moon.
10. Scaredy Squirrel by Mélanie Watt. A fun little read about how fear (and complacency) holds us back from living a full life. Very loveable and kid-relatable squirrely character.
11. Your Favorite Seuss: A Baker's Dozen by the One and Only Dr. Seuss - This a wonderful collection of Seuss, lots of good ones like The Sneetches, Yertle the Turtle and the Lorax. Also includes sketches and Seuss memorabilia, as well as some short essays by folks who've been touched by Seuss' work. A definite bookshelf must for Seuss lovers (especially those who love his more politically tinged work).
In writing this list, I have become quite aware that almost all of the protagonists in these books are male. While I would like to hope that this is more because L. and I overcompensate for the lack of maleness in Oliver's world, than that there is a dearth of rockin' girl characters in books, I suspect may just be a little of both. At any rate, my kidlit part I was a little bit more gender balanced.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
Sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I cannot overstate this fact. Parents, most of them, will totally back me up on this.
We are currently well into week 3 of Lucy's sleep striking. She wakes between 6 and 12 times a night. This is NOT an exaggeration. Though 12 is her current record, I'm not putting it past her to break it; like her brother, she doesn't believe in doing anything half-assed.
To say that I am tired doesn't do the feeling justice. I am an empty shell of a human being, walking around in a mama-suit. My eyes are bloodshot and the bags underneath them would be considered oversized luggage by most airlines. I have forgotten my most basic coping skills, and my good parenting skills flew out the window weeks ago. I shouldn't be allowed to operate a motor vehicle or have the care and control of children, and yet.... occupational hazards, both.
More than this, sleeplessness messes with your head, and your heart. I have, in my weaker moments, begged L. to take Lucy to work with her in the mornings and give her away to someone, anyone who wants her. I was only half-kidding. I have felt extreme (and completely unwarranted) anger at L. for going off to work and leaving me alone, awake, with the children. I have wanted to yell at and shake my baby during those long dark nights. Though I have not done either of those things, she has had a number of f-bombs dropped in her general direction.
These are not revelations I'm proud of. But I guess this is what sleep deprivation does to a person. It makes them forget who they really are, and positive emotions like love, patience, endurance, forgiveness, protectiveness become very distant memories.
I've read the sleep books looking for solutions. Let her cry it out, they say. And I actually might, though this is contrary to my personal belief system, if I did not have a child sleeping in the next bedroom who is such a light sleeper he could be woken by a twig snapping three blocks over. She is not napping well enough, they say. Perhaps you are not providing a good enough daytime sleep environment, they say. Do the writers of these books own toddlers or pre-schoolers? I'm doing the best I can. Out the window they go.
This too shall pass. If I had a dollar for everytime someone said that to me in the past three weeks, I'd be starting a big fat RRSP. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. This really isn't helpful. I know it's meant to be supportive and all perspective-y. The first couple-a times I heard it, it even helped a little. Now, three weeks into sleep hell, with my body slowly succumbing to the inevitable sickness that comes from prolongued lack of sleep, hearing those four words just makes me want to pop people between the eyes. (I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the support . . . but there it is.)
Maybe, just maybe, when Lucy and Oliver have gone off to college (or flight school) and I'm madly suffering from empty-nest syndrome, I'll look back and think "Gee, I sure miss being tortured for weeks on end." Don't get me wrong - in my more lucid moments, I know just exactly how lucky I am to have two marvellous, healthy, and bright-eyed children.
But in the right here and now, in the midst of this seemingly unending baby bootcamp session, it's a little difficult to grab onto that perspective.
We are currently well into week 3 of Lucy's sleep striking. She wakes between 6 and 12 times a night. This is NOT an exaggeration. Though 12 is her current record, I'm not putting it past her to break it; like her brother, she doesn't believe in doing anything half-assed.
To say that I am tired doesn't do the feeling justice. I am an empty shell of a human being, walking around in a mama-suit. My eyes are bloodshot and the bags underneath them would be considered oversized luggage by most airlines. I have forgotten my most basic coping skills, and my good parenting skills flew out the window weeks ago. I shouldn't be allowed to operate a motor vehicle or have the care and control of children, and yet.... occupational hazards, both.
More than this, sleeplessness messes with your head, and your heart. I have, in my weaker moments, begged L. to take Lucy to work with her in the mornings and give her away to someone, anyone who wants her. I was only half-kidding. I have felt extreme (and completely unwarranted) anger at L. for going off to work and leaving me alone, awake, with the children. I have wanted to yell at and shake my baby during those long dark nights. Though I have not done either of those things, she has had a number of f-bombs dropped in her general direction.
These are not revelations I'm proud of. But I guess this is what sleep deprivation does to a person. It makes them forget who they really are, and positive emotions like love, patience, endurance, forgiveness, protectiveness become very distant memories.
I've read the sleep books looking for solutions. Let her cry it out, they say. And I actually might, though this is contrary to my personal belief system, if I did not have a child sleeping in the next bedroom who is such a light sleeper he could be woken by a twig snapping three blocks over. She is not napping well enough, they say. Perhaps you are not providing a good enough daytime sleep environment, they say. Do the writers of these books own toddlers or pre-schoolers? I'm doing the best I can. Out the window they go.
This too shall pass. If I had a dollar for everytime someone said that to me in the past three weeks, I'd be starting a big fat RRSP. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. This really isn't helpful. I know it's meant to be supportive and all perspective-y. The first couple-a times I heard it, it even helped a little. Now, three weeks into sleep hell, with my body slowly succumbing to the inevitable sickness that comes from prolongued lack of sleep, hearing those four words just makes me want to pop people between the eyes. (I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the support . . . but there it is.)
Maybe, just maybe, when Lucy and Oliver have gone off to college (or flight school) and I'm madly suffering from empty-nest syndrome, I'll look back and think "Gee, I sure miss being tortured for weeks on end." Don't get me wrong - in my more lucid moments, I know just exactly how lucky I am to have two marvellous, healthy, and bright-eyed children.
But in the right here and now, in the midst of this seemingly unending baby bootcamp session, it's a little difficult to grab onto that perspective.
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