The Lasha Chronicles

And that is known as irony

2011-09-28T15:01:00.003-04:00

It was a chaotic morning. There was fighting! Yelling! Gnashing of teeth!

The littlest scholar dawdled over the television, finally appearing upstairs to get ready.

She got her clothes on without a problem, but fought us over her teeth, taking her loaded toothbrush with her to brush in her bedroom.

How many times have we told you to brush your teeth in the bathroom?

Hair was a struggle, as usual.

You're hurting me! That! Is! Hurting! Me!

By the time we made it downstairs, she had lost her TV program for tomorrow morning.

How can I earn it back?
By showing how well you get ready tomorrow morning!

At the door, she caught sight of her new shoes. Sparkly ballet flats that another girl wore to school. We had not yet decided whether hers would go, but if so they would be indoor shoes only. We were late already; the option to wear them wasn't on the table.

You can guess where this is going.

I want to wear my new shoes!

I'm wearing my new shoes!

My! New! Shoes! Now!

The shoes were promptly placed back in the store bag to tears and hysterics. With just enough time left for my husband to walk her to school.

Fifteen minutes later, I got this text:

Omfg Will has won the award for "cooperation" this month.

Irony at its best.

Of field trips and five-year-old queen bees

2011-09-27T14:42:00.004-04:00

I volunteered to go on Will's first school field trip today. She is in a combined class of junior and senior kindergarten kids, which (for the record) is an integration I fully support. It is still nice to have a buddy your own age though, so I was disappointed when Will's main JK friend (and the only junior girl in the class) changed schools at the end of last week.

This morning I was put in charge of a group of four girls: Will, and three girls in SK. They included the twin we met in music class a couple of years ago, the girl who just got back from Disney World, and the Queen Bee.

At first the Queen Bee was only the instigator of shenanigans to just push the limit of whatever rule had been set. After being told to sit flat on their bottoms, she repeatedly half stood or kneeled and encouraged Disney to do the same. After getting off the bus, she directed the girls to hold hands in a line as we walked, or later, to link elbows. At the apple orchard, she tried to get Twin to pick up this or that rotten apple. She orchestrated seating arrangements on the train and wagon ride by announcing the girl she would be sitting beside, Twin and Disney following her lead.

She didn't actively exclude Will, none of them did, but they didn't make a point of including her either. But figuring out how to navigate these social waters is arguably the most important part of going to school - and in the process, to figure out who you are and who you want to be - so I took some deep breaths and just observed.

On the way home Will and I ended up sharing a seat with Queen Bee, across the aisle from the other girls. Will had missed out on a window seat on the way to the apple farm, and looked at me imploringly, whispering "I want the window." I told her to ask QB if she would mind switching, knowing she had sat at the window earlier in the morning.

"Can I sit at the window?"

"No."

Will looked at me and crossed her arms, her lip quivering. I decided to intervene.

"QB, didn't you have the window seat on the way here?" She nodded. "Is it okay if Will has a turn sitting there on the way back?"

"No. You get what you get."

Will started crying. I whispered to her that there was nothing we could do if QB didn't want to switch, that Will could only control her own reaction. I tried again: "I know you both want to sit at the window, so why don't we switch seats part way home, so you can both have a turn."

"No. I'm not moving."

Will kept crying. I thought some not very nice things about a five-year-old child and the child's mother, who was sitting a few rows back with her six-year-old son's class. Then the Queen Bee turned to Will: "Why are you crying?" When Will didn't answer, she turned to me. "Why is she crying?"

I gritted my teeth and kept my tone pleasant. "I think she would really like a turn sitting at the window."

"Oh. No. It's just a window."

Queen Bee had what she wanted, and she was keeping it. Until she noticed Twin and Disney giggling uncontrollably across the aisle. Without her.

She started shouting: "Disney! Twin! Hey! Disney! Twin!"

They were having to much fun to notice. That's when QB turned to me with her sweetest smile. "I want to sit with them."

I smiled back. "Oh, I'm sorry. We can't change seats when the bus is moving."

She tried again. "Please may I sit over there? I want to sit with those girls." She paused and looked at Will. "Then she can have the window."

Nice try, kid. "No. It's not safe to walk around when the bus is moving. Sorry!"

Frustrated, QB went back to shouting. "Disney! Twin! You know what? We'll play in the school yard when we get back, just the three of us! Wait until we get back! All three of us can play!"

And that's how we arrived back at the school: Will snuffling, Disney and Twin in their own world, QB desperately (and loudly) demanding to be included, and me, ready for a drink.

How will we ever make it through middle school?

Four years; Four months (okay, five months, but that doesn't have the same symmetry)

2011-09-07T15:29:00.015-04:00

She calls herself a "goose ball", this free-spirit of a girl who finds a clearing in the woods and sings Lady Gaga for her parents and sister and all the wild life that has now been scared away. She loves to sing and dance and play dress up, her room looking more and more like a tornado has hit as she puts on and then discards every combination of every outfit she owns.

At four and a half years old, she has suddenly become a climber, perching on the edge of arm rests and bumbo seats, flinging herself off of tables and couches, willfully oblivious to our continued demands that she stay. off. the. furniture.

She is articulate, except when pretending to be a baby. Dear god when will she stop this infuriating game? (When she senses that I'm no longer bothered by it probably. So maybe never.) She could be mistaken for being developmentally disabled. Everything is a one word answer or demand, in a drawling whine of a voice. She staggers around, her arms flapping in front of her. "Bay-bee!'

She is creative and energetic and a joy to be around, unless she is tired or needs to eat. Then she is a beast who has escaped from the hell mouth. Refusing to eat. Refusing to sleep. Bereft of logic or rational thinking. Capable of throwing a screaming fit (especially if you have dared to tell her "NO") or a slow whining death (if you want her to do anything) until she is tricked into eating a granola bar or some fruit chews.

She draws the most incredible pictures and tells the most complicated stories to go with them. I am constantly in awe of her imagination and her ability to express herself.

She is generous and empathetic. She adores her sister, her cousins, her dad, me. She is excited by language and identifying words. She asks intelligent questions and wants to discuss complicated ideas.

She is our goose-ball.

This one is a delight to be around.

She wants to be in on the action, not content to be lying on the play mat, she needs to be up at the table, high in the baby hawk, part of whatever is going on.

She used to lean slowly towards what she wanted, now she has started to reach for it, with sudden, staccato flaps of her arms. She gets a hand in her mouth, the tail of a cat (if she's lucky), the dangling string from a hooded sweatshirt.

She will smile at almost anyone, especially if she's perched in my arms. She laughs hysterically and with abandon. She sleeps. Yes. She sleeps.

When I'm holding her she reaches her hand to the back of my neck: a hug, a caress. I press my lips against her temple, my voice into her ear: "I love you too."

Just another day

2011-07-12T15:28:00.002-04:00

In art class today, Will created a mask, a wand and a persona. She is now Princess of the Sneezing Flowers. This princess wears her mask, adorned with feathers, into the garden where she bends over flowers, making them sneeze. With each "ACHOO!" the flowers release the scent of strawberries. The princess then waves her wand, bringing forth the wind to carry the smell of strawberries into the castle and around the world.

Bea has spent the day smiling, shrieking at the indignity of being put in a carseat, eating, smiling, stuffing her entire fist in her mouth, attempting to propel herself out of her carseat with only the force of her mind and the weight of her head, smiling, and snoozing.

I am just breathing it all in, filled with gratitude.

What we've been doing for the past five (!) weeks

2011-05-09T14:11:00.002-04:00

Meet our youngest daughter, Bea. Here she is just after birth on April 2nd, weighing in at 9 pounds, 5 ounces.

Will holds her baby sister for the first time.

Almost five weeks old and taking in her surroundings.

So that is the new normal around here, and it really is the best of what I'd hoped for. Although we can't stop channeling Miss Hannigan: Little girls, little girls, everywhere I look I can see them . . .

Translation fail

2011-04-01T10:06:00.004-04:00

But it's still pretty funny to say it out loud.

Reproduction for Preschoolers, Part 2

2011-03-29T09:39:00.003-04:00

I was becoming a little concerned that Will didn't seem at all curious about how the baby would get out of my belly. I imagine it would be that, if nothing else, that I would wonder about if my mother was getting bigger by the day and somehow that belly was to transform into a living, breathing baby.

So I was relieved more than anything when she finally asked.

"How is that baby going to get out of there?"

"It's actually very interesting," I began.

"Will it hatch out of your belly like a giant egg?!"

That was logical. I knew Will must have come up with her own explanation.

"Um, no. Actually it will come out of my vagina. The baby's head is right here, and when it is ready, it will come down a tunnel and out. Of my vagina."

Will looked at me, her eyes wide.

"But what about your pants and underwear?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

As the weeks and now days count down to the birth, Will's concerns have remained focused.

"When it's time for that baby to come out, you need to get your pants and underwear off really fast!"

"But Mama, when the baby comes out, won't it fall on the floor?" (I explained that the midwives' job was to catch the baby so it didn't, in fact, fall.)

"When the baby wants to come out, get to the hospital, and then get your pants and underwear off right away!"

Reproduction for Preschoolers, Part 1

2011-03-29T09:24:00.002-04:00

As my belly got bigger, I started waiting. I knew the question would come sooner or later: how will that baby get out of there?

But it was as if she had it all figured out in her 3 year old brain. Will showed no interest in how the baby would leave its current environment and join us in ours. She seemed to already have a theory she was comfortable with as the weeks went by.

She did need clarification on one little thing.

"How did that baby get in there?"

Her question took me by surprise as we were waking up one morning. Before I could answer, she got distracted by something and I took refuge in the Internet. ("explaining pregnancy to a preschooler" "preschooler asking how baby got in there" "reproduction for precocious 3 year olds" "HELP!!")

Will is quite nosey by nature, so I was convinced that a discussion of the "egg and seed" (which I had to practice saying with a straight face) was not going to be enough. But by god, I was ready, and of course, she waited for weeks before asking me again.

"Mama, how did that baby get in there?"

"It's actually very interesting," I began. "You see, the mommy has an egg, and the Daddy has a seed. And when the Daddy gives the seed to the mommy . . ."

Will's eyes lit up. "Then the baby grows and grows!"

"That's right!" I waited for her to ask where the egg and seed were kept, or how exactly the Daddy made the transfer.

She had other things to think about. "I wonder if the baby liked being a seed!"

"I have no idea."

Now with more crazy

2011-01-24T09:40:00.008-05:00

I was going to blame the entire contents of this post on my daughter. I was going to describe the adolescent moodiness that is 3 1/2 (almost 4): my daughter, sweet and creative and thoughtful in one moment, stubborn and willful and cah-razy the next.

But you know, it's not all about the crazy of being three. It's that crazy coming up against the last trimester of pregnancy insanity. When those two collide? Watch out.

True events that have happened in the last few weeks:

The Bookstore Bathroom Battle
Will and I are about to leave Chapters after a lovely morning when she tells me she has to use the bathroom. We go to the bathroom. She refuses to go. We start to leave the store. She says she has to pee. We go back to the bathroom. She refuses to go. We start to leave. She sits on the floor. This scenario repeats several times until I am ready to lost my shit. I drag her back to the bathroom (not my proudest moment) and tell her we are not leaving until she pees. We are both hysterical. As Will stands in the stall singing I start weeping and text my husband that I may need to be rescued from the book store bathroom.

A few minutes later? Will pees and we go home, with my daughter narrating the whole incident as we go, a funny moment that has passed. It takes me hours to recuperate.

The battle over quiet time
Lunch is over and Will is watching an episode of "Kai-Lan" before quiet time, a time that sometimes still becomes nap time, but either way must take place alone in one's room. (Um, yeah. That part is not going so well.)

The "Kai-Lan" episode ends and the DVR shuts off, but the television has been left on a children's channel. I hear the opening of "Angelina Ballerina," which is a favourite and only 15 minutes long, and I ask Will if she wants to watch the episode before going upstairs. She agrees and we review the expectations: "What will happen as soon as Angelina is over?" Will makes little snoring sounds. "Yes. You need to go right upstairs to snooze or have some quiet time."

The show ends. I ask Will whether she wants to turn off the TV or have me do it. She screams at me. I turn the TV off. She turns it back on. I turn it off and tell her she will not be watching any more TV today. She screetches, "Yes! I! Will!" and turns it back on. I turn off the cable and tell her I cannot carry her upstairs because of my belly, but I will be waiting for her in her room.

I am a little bit surprised that she does drag herself slowly up the stairs. I suggest that she pees before quiet time, but don't insist since she probably won't sleep anyway. She gathers a few books and we sit on her bed to talk about what has happened. I ask her why she won't get to watch any more TV. She knows and tells me. We talk about being rude. I ask her whether she thinks she will get to watch a second TV show anytime soon. She doesn't think so. I leave her with her books and go downstairs.

It's quiet for so long that I wonder if Will has actually fallen asleep. Then I hear her voice.

"Mama! I need to tell you something. I peed."

There is a terrible silence before I ask, "Where?"

Sitting on her bed, reading, my angry almost 4 year old just peed. Just sat there and peed.

That child is lucky I can hold it together, even when losing my shit. She tries to tell me that "sometimes things happen" but I look right in her eyes and say, "This wasn't an accident, was it?" She shakes her head. "You peed because you were angry?" She nods. I put up the gate and make it downstairs before I burst into tears.

It took hours before I could discuss this incident with my daughter. Hours. But we were finally able to brainstorm some more appropriate things to do when we are angry. Scream into a pillow. Do an angry dance. Draw an angry picture.

A few days later Will stormed up to her room and returned with this:

Will told us these people were angry, so they were shouting into pillows. Then they left the angry in the pillows and were happy again.

An afternoon of crazy wasn't wasted after all.

A little story about consent

2010-12-06T14:53:00.005-05:00

I may have mentioned before that I am unimpressed with Will's preschool teacher. She is preoccupied with the business of teaching - the planning and the rules - and doesn't seem to "like" the kids, or even take the time to get to know them. Most of the kids attend for two mornings a week, and yet there is a new unit every Monday, so there is no time for them to explore a topic in any depth. Dinosaur week there were toys, crafts and a couple of stories . . . nothing about meat eaters and plant eaters, or dinosaurs hatching from eggs. During transportation week the kids were practically fighting over the play centre with the big road map, but by the next week it was gone. She is obsessed with the kids sitting quietly and waiting at least three times in the 2 1/2 hours they are there, and she even bribes them with gummy bears in the circle room.

It was September when she first mentioned that she would be conducting a developmental screening test on the children, something she was unable to explain in detail even when asked to elaborate. The idea of this test made me very uncomfortable. I'm not a big fan of standardized tests under most circumstances, and definitely not in this preschool setting. I have no concerns about Will's development, and didn't want to risk a false positive score that would put her into the system. I didn't trust the teacher to administer any sort of test, especially to my child. When the consent form came home I clearly checked "I do not give consent" for my child to participate, signed the form and returned it to school.

Can you guess where this is going?

When my husband and I picked up Will from preschool a couple of weeks ago, Will started telling me about "going into the kitchen with the teacher and playing games." It didn't really occur to me what she was talking about until the teacher told me, "She did great. Twelve out of twelve." My eyes almost jumped out of my head, and fortunately my husband was there to ask what she was talking about. "The DISC preschool screen," she answered.

He chased after Will as I looked at the teacher. I hate confrontation, but there was no way that I was going to let this go. "But we did not give consent for Will to participate."

The teacher was stunned. "I was sure you had checked off consent!"

"No. We were not comfortable with the test and clearly signed that she did not have our consent to participate."

"Well, I never would have tested Will if I didn't have your consent. I mean, you can see the test and the information any time."

"I may have to look at it, now that she's already been tested."

I went home and wrote a letter to the board, outlining our reasons for refusing consent and our concern that our refusal to give consent was completely disregarded. Sure, it was a careless oversight, but a significant one.

And then I waited to hear from the teacher, assuming she would check her consent forms and realize she had violated our trust. No email. No phone call. Nothing.

I did receive an immediate reply from the president of the board. Apparently this test is standard practice in preschools across the region (that would have been something important to pass on to the parents) and apparently the teacher is specially trained to administer it (again, that would have been good to know). The president suggested that the teacher would be uncomfortable speaking with a parent about her concerns regarding a child without the test, which is bullshit. That's the teacher's job, and it is my expectation as a parent that she would approach me about any concerns she had with my daughter.

And the issue is still that of consent. No harm was done this time, but what if it was something more serious? What if I denied consent for a flu shot or a field trip and my consent was disregarded? How can I trust that my directions for my child will be respected?

Today I was duty parent for the first time since the incident. The teacher asked to speak with me privately at the end of the day. I went over my reasons for being upset, assuming she wanted to explain her position and listen to me explain mine. Instead she just offered to shred Will's test, "as if it had never happened." Of course I told her that was what I wanted. She said she "felt bad" and had learned "not to work from a master list next time" but there was no real apology.

I'm trying to look at the experience as a chance for me to practice being an advocate for my child. But looking to the years of formal education ahead of us, it really terrifies me. I know there will be more mediocre (at best) teachers and disappointed expectations. I'm trying to remember that even these experiences are important, and that there are excellent and creative teachers out there too. But oh, I can hear the siren song of the private school across town . . .

Random Monday

2010-11-15T14:46:00.002-05:00

So today I was the snack parent at Will's preschool. Have I mentioned how much I dislike being the duty parent? Yes? Let me just add that I think I prefer "snack" to "juice" as it involves washing dishes and serving the snack instead of cleaning the bathrooms and running the bathroom routine. It did take me 20 minutes to wash all of the paint toys today, and even then they are not perfect, but I'm thinking the craft doesn't usually involve using different trucks in paint to show patterns, right?

* * * * * * * * * *

Nablopamo? Clearly, no.

* * * * * * * * * *

I have discovered the secret to all my parenting challenges: I (often) can't remain calm or neutral. She gets agitated; I get agitated. She gets testy; I respond in kind. I am perfectly capable of keeping some emotional distance much of the time during the day, but throw in a nap or bedtime or the need to get to a destination at a particular time? Not so much.

Now I just need to come up with a way to deal with my triggers before this baby comes and things get a million times more chaotic and testy. (Yes, sleep deprivation is one of my triggers.) 20 weeks, give or take, should be enough time to figure out a solution, right?

* * * * * * * * * *

My mind is preoccupied with tomorrow's agenda:

1) First dental appointment in 3 years. Yikes.

2) Anatomy ultrasound!

The best sandwich ever (with no pictures)

2010-11-09T21:15:00.002-05:00

Step 1: If using a rotisserie chicken, shred breast meat and set aside. If using chicken fingers, cook those according to the directions.

Step 2: Make Lasha's amazing guacamole-type spread. Mash one avocado. Add the juice of half a lime (or so) and a clove of garlic, minced. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar, a pinch of salt and a half-teaspoon (or so) of sugar. Mix.

Step 3: Make some bacon. I use the pre-cooked kind that takes 30 seconds in the microwave.

Step 4: Gather additional ingredients. You will need large wraps (or bread), lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. Swiss, havarti and old cheddar all work well.

Step 5: Assemble the sandwich. Enjoy.

This is seriously the best. sandwich. ever. So good that I forgot to take a picture of even the finished product. Delicious.

Pendulum

2010-11-08T15:17:00.002-05:00

One minute we're baking banana chocolate chip muffins and emptying the dishwasher together.

The next she's refusing to wipe the excess Penaten from her finger or put her underwear on so it doesn't get all over.

In another minute I'm wrestling her to get the damn underwear on and my only pair of maternity jeans has become covered in Penaten, a substance I have never been able to remove from any kind of fabric.

Now I'm sitting on the couch after wiping down my jeans with Goo Gone, polishing off my second muffin and pretending not to know she's at the top of the stairs.

Later, she'll be all sunshine and roses and I will still be balancing on a tightrope of nerves and frustration, unable to accept that for one of us, it's over and done, time to move on, what's the problem, Mommy?

How to eat your way through the weekend

2010-11-07T18:45:00.004-05:00

(First, I need to tell you that I just tried to take my daughter up for her bath at 6:20 pm, as the only clocks in the house that adapted to the time change automatically were our iPhones. We are not, as you may know, a go to bed at 6:20 kind of family. So it was very frustrating to realize that there was at least another 45 minutes before I could reasonably begin the nighttime routine. Thank you Daylight Savings Time. And a real thank you to my husband who arrived home after his run in time to take Will with him for his stretching routine. Disaster averted.)

I actually had a lovely and mostly child-free weekend. My sister and I went to see "Wicked," my Christmas present to her last year. It was my second time seeing the show, and I left feeling certain that I would like to see it again.

Just as good as the theatre and the company, however, was the food. I love going out to restaurants, and my sister and I took advantage of our weekend out to enjoy some excellent fare.

Saturday Dinner: We head to a pre-show dinner at Mercatto. We split an arugula salad with walnuts and pears and some delicious risotto balls filled with mushrooms and cheese. My sister gets a pizza while I enjoy some mushroom-goat cheese ravioli in truffle oil. The best part? They sold wine by the 3oz glass, so I was even able to enjoy a tasting portion of riesling without guilt. Yay!

Saturday Late Night: My sister heats up some amazing butter tarts, which we enjoy after some havarti and crackers. While watching Tony Danza "teach."

Sunday Brunch: We drive over to Queen Street East to Table 17. We start with freshly baked muffins and coffee in cute little cups. (Note to management: leave a carafe of coffee on the table!) I enjoy Neapolitan Eggs (poached in a tomato sauce, something I have always wanted to try), while my sister tries out the Sloppy Giusseppe, basically fried eggs over a bolognese sauce. We ensure that we are completely sated by adding potato rostis on the side. We were quite pleased to not spend enough money to use my sister's groupon, as we have an excuse to return for dinner.

Crime Scene

2010-11-06T09:48:00.002-04:00

Every few nights, my husband and I get to the top of the stairs on our way to bed and find this:

One night we left her there, thinking if that's where she really wants to sleep, why not? Of course she woke up terrified an hour later, so that doesn't work.

The worst part is the way it startles you, like a crime scene. Especially if she hasn't bothered to use a pillow or line up her friends. You suddenly see a leg, or some hair, and then a body sprawled across the hallway. Time to call forensics.

What are your plans for this evening?

2010-11-05T20:44:00.002-04:00

I went to change the laundry last night, and found this:

Perhaps you need a closer look:

You still can't make it out? That's silly putty. All over my dark clothes.

I think the silly putty was a stocking stuffer. I do know that it has made a recent appearance in the house, and my husband and daughter think it's hilarious that I think it's cat vomit every time I come across the squashed putty. Which has been everywhere recently, so I probably shouldn't be surprised.

I guess it's lucky that it was concentrated in about three big clumps (including, of course, one of my favourite sweaters and a pair of preggo-comfy leggings) instead of stretching through the entire load.

Now I'm in possession of a spray bottle of "Goo Gone" and whatever shows are left on the DVR. It's gonna be a fun night.

So. Yeah. Pregnant.

2010-11-04T19:38:00.005-04:00

Despite the fact that I posted the picture from my first trimester ultrasound, I'm actually just about 18 weeks pregnant, a fact that floored my husband just last week ("But-- that's-- almost halfway!"). For a slightly compulsive worrier like myself, I only really start to relax when I'm well into the mid-thirties, and by then it's time to start worrying about labour.

So far, there have been a few differences from the first time. Much more nausea and general grossness in the first trimester, enough to get a prescription for diclectin. This medication worked amazingly well for my nausea and even better as a sleep aid. It was able to knock me out, and I didn't feel too wrecked in the morning after taking just one (two is another story). I'm planning to get the refill on my prescription for that reason alone, although I'm told it's the active ingredient in Unisom, so that should work just as well.

I'm definitely in maternity clothes much earlier than last time. I'm sure this wasn't helped by the fact that all I could eat for several weeks were cheese bagels, fries, the occasional other starchy food and full-sugar coke. Add a week of Hallowe'en candy and I'm surprised you can't already roll me down the street. But I'm over the candy now. And I drank an old bottle of coke tonight and it was disgusting. So consistent healthy eating is the plan for now on.

I did have some bleeding around week 6, which I never had at all with Will. I went in for an ultrasound right away and after a few minutes of silence (there was no sound on the machine at all, so I couldn't even listen for that reassuring whoosh whoosh, and the technician was quiet) she turned the monitor to me and showed me the flickering heartbeat. Even though I've heard the heartbeat on the doppler and even started feeling little swimming movements, when I saw that tiny flicker, that was the best moment ever.

Will is quite excited to be a big sister, so far. She has also become insanely clingy and already doesn't want anything to do with anyone but me (a fun time for her dad, let me tell you). I guess it's good that she's exhibiting this behaviour with so much time left before the baby actually arrives. I can gradually move back and let her dad move in without it being a complete shock.

Of course, it's always a shock, right? And chaos. But I'm ready (gulp). And so happy.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Big Announcement Edition

2010-11-03T14:49:00.002-04:00

Without a doubt, that is my husband's nose on this kid's face. Along with the sweetest little kissy face in perhaps the most detailed 13 week ultrasound ever.

On preschool: duty parent edition

2010-11-02T14:46:00.002-04:00

There are some positive things about being a duty parent at my daughter's preschool. Well, maybe just one. I do enjoy watching Will interact with the other kids in a group setting. Especially before she decides to treat me like her mother and just goes about playtime in her own way. She asks another child to play. She waits for a turn at the paint easel. Apparently yesterday she and two other kids pretended that all the animals on the farm were pooping, but I didn't get to witness that one.

Most of the time, though? Duty days suck.

1) The cleaning. Dear lord. I seem to always be the "drink parent" and am therefore responsible for the bathrooms (in addition to actually bringing the drink for snack time). I clean the bathrooms first thing in the morning. I supervise the bathroom break and handwashing. I clean the bathrooms again during circle time. (Remember that my child's preschool runs for exactly 2 and a half hours. That's a lot of cleaning.)

2) The boredom. I supervise kids playing outside. I supervise kids playing in the playroom. Today I supervised kids playing in the gym. YAWN.

3) The opening activity. If I have to hear the days of the week song again my head may explode. Or maybe it will happen when I hear, "What is the weather, the weather, the weather? What is the weather, the weather today?"

4) The moment when my daughter realizes that her mother is actually there, and tries to use this to her advantage. Today Will seemed to get bent out of shape when I was playing catch with a couple of other kids in the gym. Her shoulders slumped over and she went to sit against the wall. When she finally decided to join us, the teacher announced that it was time to clean up. On the way to put away her ball - and already in a fragile emotional state - she dropped it and another kid helpfully picked it up and put it in the bin. Will burst into tears and wouldn't leave my side for the remaining five (phew!) minutes of the day.

5) The teacher. But that's another post entirely.

Actually, the opportunity to watch this teacher in action is maybe the most important part of being a duty parent. I mean, she's fine. Not what I was hoping for, but fine. Still, it's good to be able to observe her and make assessments on a regular basis, otherwise I would be very uncomfortable with the situation.

What on earth will I do when Will starts Junior Kindergarten?

And we'll start off the month with the obligatory Hallowe'en post

2010-11-01T09:22:00.002-04:00

I haven't been writing as much as I would like, so I have decided to participate in Nablopomo again this year. Of course, the month always starts off easy, with November 1st being the day after Hallowe'en and all.

This year, Will decided to be a fairy.

She predictably chose a costume in purple, but her favourite part by far was the make up. Especially those little sticker decals that my friends and I used to get before our ears were pierced, convinced they looked like real stud earrings. Will just used them for glamourous fairy accessories. (Luckily she forgot all about her magical wand, as I had put it away somewhere last week and have no idea where it is, even now.)

I also purchased fairy wings in the same colours for Will's feline siblings. Oliver was a good sport for a minute or two. (Or as long as I lovingly held him in a vice grip in my arms.)

Pasha, however, was less than impressed.

So much for thinking I could get a picture of the three fairies together. Heh.

The week leading up to Hallowe'en was crazy busy, but fun. Will's preschool had a costume day, we went to two special craft classes and did some spooky holiday baking. Will insisted on wearing her old tiger costume (from two years ago!) to a couple of the events, as her best friend's tiger from the same year still fits. Will can get hers on, but it was lucky the make-up was enough to convince her to stick with the fairy for trick-or-treating.

Other than the inevitable post-candy bedtime meltdown, I'd say three-and-a-half is a great age for enjoying the spookiest celebration of the year.

In the house of sick, nobody sleeps. And things keep breaking.

2010-10-19T21:17:00.002-04:00

I got back from San Francisco two weeks ago. (I had a lovely time. Thanks for asking.)

There was a reprieve of four days and then the sick set in. I was the first one felled. Killer sore throat I tried to ignore until I found myself, nauseous and dizzy, sitting under a tree at a local outdoor craft fair. Then I slept for 3 hours before eating a few bites of Thanksgiving dinner. The next day was a bit better, but by Monday I was only the least ill person in a house full of sickies, and it was terrible.

Will has gotten the worst of it. She was a mess for three days, then seemed to rally for a morning before getting worse again. She's missed two weeks worth of preschool and all activities and playdates since she can't get through a morning without a desperate coughing fit. The coughing fits strike in the night too. Every night, for the past 8 nights, accompanied by pitiful commentary: "Oh dear. What can I do? When will I stop coughing?" And now I can't stop coughing either.

In the midst of the sick we got our new toilet installed, and an attempt was made to install our new front door lock. (We've been without the use of the front door for an entire month now. I know.) Turns out the lock we ordered doesn't quite fit - although not as badly as the installer originally thought - but he at least fixed the door so we can open it from the inside for Hallowe'en.

To top that off the oven stopped working. Then started again. Then stopped. Then when I called the Sears repair service (it's a Kenmore wall oven that was put in with the "new" kitchen 20 years ago) and fiddled with the oven while trying to explain the problem, it started working again. I just hope it's either fine or some kind of a fuse, because at first glance it doesn't appear that they make wall ovens that small anymore.

Here's hoping nothing else breaks and these coughs finally resolve, or I may well lose my mind.

Last night

2010-09-13T10:10:00.002-04:00

Bath time went well. As usual, I played the role of the "salon girl" giving Will her special treatments. A conditioning shampoo, body scrub, blow dry.

There was a minor struggle over brushing her hair, and the stories weren't quite finished by 8:30, my goal on these new school nights. But she was yawning, and seemed quite content with her little pile of books when I went downstairs a few minutes later.

An hour after that, when she appeared at the top of the stairs, crying that she needed me, I thought she had been asleep and had woken up suddenly. Then I got upstairs.

"My lipstick is broken and it's everywhere. My one lipstick is broken."

I could smell the orange on her hands but didn't see the chapstick anywhere. "Where is your lipstick?"

"In Mommy and Daddy's closet. I'll show you."

"Have you been in our closet this whole time?"

She took me to the closet and retrieved the broken chapstick. I sent her to the garbage with it before I exploded. There were open markers and colouring marks all over the carpet. Matchbox cars and puzzle pieces beside them on the floor. On the middle of our bed was a pile of discarded bandaid wrappings.

Then I looked more closely at my daughter: marker was coloured all over her legs and feet and arms and face. Each leg was then covered with four or five princess bandaids, with another one on each forearm. There was chapstick and mucus in her hair.

I could not believe she had gotten out of bed (not an unusual occurrence in and of itself) and had gone into our room to play. When there was preschool in the morning! When she knew that wasn't the right thing to do! And she already wasn't feeling too well!

I told her all of this (in a loud, stern voice) while I scrubbed her limbs and pulled off the bandaids, crumpling them up to throw away. It was the destruction of the bandaids that made her hysterical. I could hear myself saying things like "NOT. ACCEPTABLE." as I continued to scrub and search desperately for a brush for the mess of her hair.

Things finally calmed down and she apologized, then got worked up again because "everyone says sorry!" and she wanted me to "say sorry for yelling at me," all the while looking up at me with giant pitiful tears running down her face. So I did apologize for the yelling, but told her that I was not sorry for the things I said because what she had done was NOT. ACCEPTABLE. and we rehashed it again until she said, "I understand." (Although it took her some time to agree to not do it again because she was "too sad to say that." Right, kid.)

Despite the drama, she got up for preschool and is there at this very moment while I enjoy my coffee in peace. Until I have to go and get her in half an hour. Two hours alone was not nearly enough time to recuperate.

Look who's a preschooler!

2010-09-07T16:29:00.002-04:00

She picked out her new striped sweater dress and two pony tails.

She had her owl backpack and her indoor shoes.

Of course, it helped that her mom was duty parent for the day, and got to hang out and help for the entire morning. The new teacher is fine. Not spectacular, but fine. It's going to be a good experience, learning to follow a specific routine and having to jostle for time at the play stations. And I'm happy with our decision to register for two days a week. That's just the right amount of time for my little preschooler.

This afternoon, in the car

2010-07-22T19:26:00.002-04:00

"Mom! Can I have the window down?"

"Get your foot inside the car! Keep it inside."

"I'll just put my hand out."

"No! Keep your hands inside!"

"Why?"

"Because it's unsafe."

"Why?"

"Because it is not safe."

"Why?"

"Because you could get hurt."

"Why?"

"BECAUSE YOUR HAND COULD GET RIPPED OFF AND THEN YOU WOULDN'T! HAVE! A! HAND!"

"Would my sticker fall off? What if I just put it on my other hand?"

Wordless Wednesday: Chocolate Pudding Edition

2010-07-14T14:42:00.001-04:00

(With thanks to Kate Gosselin. Really.)

Advice to my husband's uncle on how not to ambush me into joining an insurance pyramid scheme

2010-07-11T22:25:00.005-04:00

1) Do not invite yourself over for lunch, saying how much you want to have a visit and see the house, insist that you bring your famous ginger chicken, and then sit down with a cup of coffee and say, "How about you, Lasha? Wouldn't you like to work with families to make their financial futures brighter?"

2) When I say "No" do not try to manipulate me into saying yes. Just because I am a teacher does not mean I have any interest in "educating people about the way money works." Just because I am a stay-at-home-mom does not mean I have the time or interest in selling insurance.

3) When I say "No" it is not "a confidence issue" or because I am unwilling to try new things. It is because I know myself and anything related to sales is not for me.

4) I understand that these are sales positions, even when you tell me they are not.

5) If you want to make a presentation to try to recruit me (which will never happen), use the presentation to give me information about the position and what it involves. Do not try to sell me financial planning and insurance products. I have a financial planner. As I have already told you. Several times.

6) Don't tell me that "making families financially independent" is in any way equivalent to doing god's work. Just don't.

7) Don't ask me if I know any "doctor's wives" who might be interested in the positions. (I don't. Not any doctor's husbands, either.)

8) Don't tell me that my refusal to agree to even try this out has everything to do with your failure to communicate, since "communication is defined as one's ability to convince someone to do what you want." And do not, under any circumstances, use my child as an example, suggesting that I communicate most effectively when I convince her to do something she doesn't want to do. Um, no.

9) I will not be making any referrals, but I would refuse, on principle, to use a form that asks for the names of the "huband, wife, last name."

10) If you want me to even consider something like this, do not ambush me. If you had told me you wanted to come over to discuss a role for me in this business, I would have told you I wasn't interested, but would probably have agreed to listen politely to your presentation. Even if I was interested (which I would never be), I would not agree to do it based on the way you tried to trick me.

Becoming a baby (again)

2010-07-04T22:02:00.004-04:00

My daughter is obsessed with babies. Specifically, herself as a baby. I can't even count how many times a day I hear her say, "I'm just going to 'tend to be a baby, okay?"

And can I tell you? It is not okay. It may be one of the most annoying behaviours in the vast repertoire of irritating three-year-old behaviours.

For Will, being a baby involves walking with her limbs held out stiffly in front of her, in a slow lurch that looks like something between Frankenstein's monster and a robot. Even worse, she refuses to speak, and instead cocks her head to one side and grunts, something I could barely stand when she actually couldn't speak and cannot abide now. Sometimes she will speak in a language of incomplete words or phrases, and of course, she will point at what she wants.

I know this is all part of Will's exploration of how she fits in the world, no longer a baby but not really that big, in the scheme of things. But late last night, as we drove home from Buffalo, Will explained her understanding of babies and growing up.

She started talking about all the things she would do when she was a baby again. I tried to tell her that she wouldn't ever be a baby again, but she was insistent. Paraphrased, she said, First I was so little, and then I grew bigger. And I will get bigger and bigger. And then when I am so big, I will go down and down and little. And then I will be a baby again.

I was curious about what it would be like when she was a baby again, and she described it in much detail. First, she told me I would have to bring up the high chair from the basement (I might need some help carrying it up), and she hoped it had a tray - does it have a tray, Mama? - because babies need trays, they can't eat food off the table. She told me I would have to buy some "mouthy things" because babies like them, and she will like them (pacifiers) when she is a baby. She described the dress we just bought for a friend's newborn and said she wanted a dress like that one, and we would have to get some new sleepers from Walmart (?).

By the time we got home, she was telling me that although purple is her favourite colour now, it will not be her favourite colour when she is a baby. Then it will be pink. But she will also like red and gray, but not yellow. I think the colour categorization alone went on for twenty minutes.

I found this peak into her mind fascinating. Fragments of Alice in Wonderland (the only scene she's watched) mixed into her thoughts on growing up leading to something more familiar. The most familiar part being me. In her mind, even after she's grown up and back down, I will still be there to take care of her, when she is a baby again.

I know three-year-olds get hurt, but I'm not sure I can take it

2010-06-12T08:59:00.006-04:00

There are some things about being a mother that I pride myself on. Keeping a book of Will's drawings, complete with the story she has told me about each picture. Finding interesting destinations and workshops and activities to explore with my daughter. Remaining calm and flexible in most situations, from a spilled bowl of cereal to a potty accident to a really badly scraped up elbow.

When it comes to the medical stuff, though, I am only able to be calm and reassuring for one reason: my husband is a family doctor. Anyone would be impressed with my savvy ability to comfort a screaming three year old, unconcerned with the blood smearing across my shirt. What they don't see is me frantically mouthing silent questions at my partner over her shoulder: "Did you SEE her elbow? Is she okay? Stitches? Do you think she needs STITCHES?"

In the middle of the night it might be more of a panicked whisper: "Does she feel too hot to you? What about her breathing? Can we give her that? Are you sure?"

(Although I find his medical opinions invaluable, that doesn't mean I don't question every one. And yes, he does find that endearing.)

These past couple of weeks have been particularly trying in terms of accidents. I had heard that a person gets all her best scars as a three-year-old, but my heart can't take much more of this.

Last weekend, everything was completely normal. Bath was over and Will was putting on her pajamas. All of a sudden she started screaming, "My eye! My eye! It hurts!"

I lifted her onto the bathroom counter and called my husband over to look. We both thought we saw an eyelash in the corner of her eye, and I'm pretty sure I saw it wiped on to her cheek. But the crying didn't stop.

Will just kept holding her eye and telling us that it hurt. She begged to know, "When will it stop hurting?" I was terrified.

My husband looked again. And again. He was sure there was nothing in there. I knew she wasn't making it up. But she'd been rubbing her eye and it was swollen from crying; it was too hard to know what was causing her discomfort. I was as close as I've ever been to taking her into the hospital, but I also didn't want her traumatized by someone digging around in her eye socket if it wasn't absolutely necessary.

When my husband went to the pharmacy for eye drops, she calmed down a little, let me read her some stories. After the drops, which went better than expected, Will just crashed. I was convinced that whatever had been in her eye was gone, but announced that if she woke up saying her eye hurt we were going to the ER.

She did wake up rubbing her eye, asking why it still hurt. I could not believe I had let her sleep all night with something in there. Then my husband gave her another shot of the drops and within a few minutes she was herself, perfectly fine.

Fast forward to Monday evening. We were out on our almost finished new deck, having dinner with my husband's cousin, who Will had taken to calling "Zimbabwe" (what she heard from his name and the "Baba" title for uncle). She had finished her dinner, so I asked her if she wanted to draw while the grown ups were talking.

I brought out her purple lap desk, filled it with markers and told her to sit on the step behind the picnic table, on the part of the deck leading to the side door. She sat down and then scooted herself backward, and again.

I yelled her name three times and then saw her fall backwards over the side of the deck, through the space where the iron pickets will go. As she fell I gasped and turned away, covering my eyes. I couldn't get to her, but I still cannot believe I looked away. Then I heard my husband say oh my god, the family doctor who is never phased by any accident, and he had Will in his arms before I could even reach her. And I saw him examining her as he comforted her, as I looked for the inevitable bump on the back of her head and saw only dirt on her legs. She had somehow turned in the air. Somehow landed on her hands and knees in a way that did not even break anything, barely even scraped her up. And my husband said quietly, there's cement down here. Did you know there was cement? I knew there was cement. And I almost threw up, right there, and again later when I imagined it over and over again.

Will is fine. She told us she fell "first on my hands, and then on my knees, and then on my feet, and then on my head." There's a scrape on her hair line and one on her knuckle, and that is all.

And I can't even think about it, can't stop thinking about it. How things can happen in an instant. How I should have been more careful. Knowing that I am careful, and even if I become more fearful, more cautious, things can still happen. And she is my heart.

Why I love my husband

2010-06-11T14:10:00.002-04:00

When he asked me the whereabouts of his running clothes, at 7:15 this morning, and I realized they were in the hamper of clean clothes I had hastily shoved into our daughter's closet just before the cleaners arrived, and for the first time in almost forever we were waking up without the child in our bed and she was, in fact, still asleep in the room with the closet that held the running clothes . . .

He just went downstairs and had breakfast.

That is love.

(He's also taking me to the ballet tomorrow night, but forfeiting his run so the sleeping child could sleep later in her own bed trumps even such an amazing date night.)

Something special

2010-05-19T15:21:00.008-04:00

What are the highlights of a visit to Washington with a three year old?

1) Watching episodes of The Muppet Show in the car and then walking up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, turning to read the giant etching of the Gettysburg Address and hearing your daughter exclaim, "It's Sam the American Eagle!"

2) Remembering how much fun it is to swim in a hotel pool. Somersaults! Handstands! Water wings! And that particular grown-up pleasure, the hot tub. (What's not so fun is forgetting your most flattering bathing suit in the hotel and paying them to fed-ex it to you in Canada.)

3) Pretending to be a giant panda eating bamboo. Not to mention seeing the phenomenon live a few feet away.

Will may have preferred playing on the zoo playground that was actually a giant pizza. Really! She had to push a giant mushroom across the dough in order to be able to climb onto (and slide down) the wedge of cheese.

4. Watching the oldest bug keepers in the history of the world trying to keep the children from standing too close to the tarantula at feeding time. ("She will shoot out her poisonous hairs when she's nervous! I've been hit and it itched for a week!") The best part may have been hearing the other keeper declare, as she counted up some green worm-like creatures, "I'm missing one!"

5. Wandering through the neanderthal section of the National History Museum and hearing Will announce, "I see something special!" in that singsong voice of the excited three-year-old. My sister and I looked over to see her holding the, um, iron private parts of a toddler neanderthal statue. "It's so, so special Mommy! What is it?"

I tried not to laugh. "You know what it is."

"You tell me!" She was still touching it.

"It's a penis."

"Whoo hoo! A penis!"

Will then almost danced from statue to statue looking for more special things. I'd call that a successful trip.

Late April

2010-04-29T22:07:00.003-04:00

After the last two days of bright sun and freezing wind, today's mild temperatures gave us the perfect chance to visit Martindale Pond. There were some agitated geese, which I'm assuming may have been protecting eggs somewhere in the vicinity. We also saw some white moths (butterflies?), a bumblebee, a swan, and a huge fish that swam up to the surface, then over to the shore where it turned on its side and stopped moving. Oh dear. But the best part for me? Turtles! So many turtles, sunning themselves on logs and taking dips in the water. Very cool. Oh, and Will liked it too.

Eating some raisins.

Stand back, goose!

Turtle!

Among the daffodils

Spring!

(The day has been marred by much after-dinner woe. There was screaming when she realized I had put bubbles in her bath, which I always do. Then there was screaming when I pulled the plug and told her she couldn't have a bath. I was told that "Girls always have baths with no bubbles!" when she finally calmed down. Then we fought over wearing an overnight pull-up, and since then I've been up and down the stairs five thousand times. Happy Spring!)

Do you know what stresses me out?

2010-04-20T21:13:00.003-04:00

There may be nothing more ridiculous than taking the time to meticulously clean the cat litter area before meeting the potential cat nanny. Or stressing about not having enough time to clean the water fountain and clip the cats' claws before tomorrow. Not that I want to impress her, I just don't want her to think I mistreat my feline babies. (I try to clean the litter every other day, but I get distracted by my human child, okay?)

I'm sure cat nannies are always a little, um, eccentric, so I am looking forward to meeting this one. When she asked me how many times I wanted her to visit, I said maybe three times? Every other day that we're away? She said, oh no, she'll come every day, what she meant was how many times per day I wanted her to visit. Sadly, the poor cats will get more attention the week we're gone than they do when we are here.

I'll admit that the cat nanny stress is completely self-imposed, but do you know what stress I really don't need? I do not need my neighbour to ask if I mind if his 4 1/2 or 5 year old son joins Will and I for a walk around the block. Not when my 3 year old is carefully (and slowly) pushing her doll stroller while wearing flip flops (and a sparkly purple dress, white sunglasses and a pink rain hat) and the neighbour's little boy is zooming ahead on his bicycle with training wheels.

The boy was quite considerate. He did wait at every corner for Will and I to begin to catch up, but in the final stretch he pedalled ahead, and I only assume he made it home because I saw his bike on the lawn when we finally made it back. It was only around the block, but I did not like feeling responsible for this other person's child, and I felt terrible when he got so far ahead. And then I was stressed out when I did not go to his house to check on him. So please, I would rather wander the neighbourhood with only my daughter in my care.

And of course, we can't forget the intermittent stressor known as our crazy next door neighbour. We have decided to go ahead and replace our front porch and deck this summer, and we met with a landscape design company last week to discuss their proposal. During this meeting we learned that our neighbour had accosted them quite vigorously when they were in our yard taking some measurements. She told them they could not leave debris on her driveway like the workers who replaced our windows, and warned them against trespassing on her property. (Then she asked them to level out her backyard, so I guess they became friendly?)

Then earlier this week I had to do some damage control after she sent me a semi-hysterical email about us using her driveway as a "right of way" (which we are allowed to do). So when I rounded the corner of our street, trying to catch up with the neighbour's son on his bike, Will trailing behind with her stroller, and I saw my husband in conference with this neighbour on her driveway . . . Is it any wonder that I forgot about the giant black dog across the street and got the bejeezus scared out of me when he jumped against the fence barking like the world was on fire?

Just a bit stressful. That's all I'm saying.

She found her own way into the water

2010-04-15T14:54:00.003-04:00

I took Will to her first independent swimming class yesterday. She looked adorable in her little tankini and ponytail as she first cautiously, and then more confidently walked across the deck to her instructor and the other three-year-olds.

No, I did not even attempt to take a picture of the cuteness, mainly because I was already getting looks for wearing my street shoes on the deck, but the worker who was vaccuuming the pool was wearing hiking shoes, the deck was too gross to consider going barefoot, and I will remember next time.

The kids didn't even get to go into the water anyway, as a child in the previous group had actually vomited into the pool. That's just, ewwww. I mean, poor little kid, but also, how disgusting. Especially after realizing that that's what the lifeguard was actually skimming off the top of the water with her net. (Insert shudder here.)

Of course, because it is a city program, they tried to avoid holding a make-up class by saying there would be "dry lessons" instead. For the three-year-old set, this meant meeting the teacher, who told them not to run on the deck or eat or drink in the pool area, and then drawing a picture with markers for twenty minutes.

They were not directed to draw anything in particular, but Will came up with this:

She told me she drew a picture of herself swimming in the water (see all the water?) wearing her bathing suit. Very clever.

(I've started writing down Will's descriptions of her pictures and saving them in a book. I know I will want to look back on her collection of girls in beautiful polka-dot dresses with octopus legs, and I'm hoping we can turn it into a journal of sorts, where she can think back on her day.)

On being a manager, or what to do when a staff member is doing her laundry at work

2010-04-14T14:33:00.005-04:00

When I became head of the English department, the largest department in the high school where I taught, I was also put in charge of the smallest: Family Studies. These two women -- one in charge of fashion and parenting, the other in charge of food studies -- made up the most problematic, divisive, ridiculous excuse for a team I have ever encountered.

Taking on a leadership position, I had assumed that my responsibilities would lie in developing curriculum and guiding teachers to work together to make courses more consistent, especially in the way students were evaluated. Primarily in the English department, of course. Family Studies was presented to me as a self-contained unit that would basically require me to manage the budget and order supplies as needed.

Instead, Family Studies became the bane of my existence. One teacher would lie in wait for me, like a spider, watching for me to walk up the hallway and then spring out at me from her office door, accosting me with demands for ingredients and ink cartridges and a new oven. The other would stand in her classroom and wring her hands with anxiety: the broken sewing machines, the students who were safety hazards she wanted out of classes, the fact that her colleague could easily break the other washing machine doing her personal laundry.

Oh, yes. I had to deal with a teacher who would bring her personal laundry to school, who had broken a washing machine in the process, and who was refusing to stop doing her laundry in the one remaining machine.

But even my bizarre, albeit brief experience in management is nothing compared to the stories I hear from my husband and sister in their dealings with personnel. The following are my favourite quotes from disgruntled or confused employees.

1) After being fired: "So what am I supposed to do, just come in on Monday?" (This was followed up by a phone call to her former employer asking why her cheques had stopped coming.)

2) When asked to use the computer only for work: "But I don't have the Internet at home. When I am supposed to check my Facebook?" (This was followed by a repeated request to provide the employee with a laptop, with the explanation that she could then check her Facebook at home.)

3) When confronted with a sudden decrease in the quality of her work: "Well, I haven't had a vacation since Christmas! I need a break!" (This meeting took place in early February.)

4) When asked not to use her cell phone at work: "But this is the number I give out to people. What if someone needs to get a hold of me? Like my mother? Or a doctor's office?" (This employee was working at the front desk in a doctor's office, and her ringtone was that song "Watcha Say.")

5) When questioned about the lack of focus on work-related tasks: "We get the feeling that you want us to come into work at 9 o'clock, just work all day with a half-hour lunch break, and then go home at five." (Um, yeah. Isn't that what's called a job?)

Wednesday

2010-04-07T14:30:00.002-04:00

Will is now the perfect age. When I ran out of toilet paper this morning, I asked her to go to the bathroom downstairs, open the top drawer of the brown cabinet and bring me a roll of toilet paper. She did. Invaluable.

******

The MIA tree man rang my doorbell twice yesterday morning (and I hid both times). The first time didn't bother me, but the second time made me feel just a little like I was being stalked. When the doorbell rang again this morning, I thought it was our cleaners and opened it immediately. He told me he had come by yesterday and "we must have been in the backyard because the door was wide open." It wasn't, because we were pretending not to be home, which means he probably drove by the house at least one additional time. He said he almost went around back (!) and that they couldn't come the other day because the chipper needed some work done . . . something, something the warranty. I told him we hired another company after he didn't show up and he immediately bounded away, calling back, "as long as the work gets done!"

******

My husband stayed at his parents' house last night and came home with his dad's famous biryani, with boneless, white meat chicken. Yum. His mum also sent some Easter chocolate for Will, who has yet to see that this includes a Lindt bunny. I've already finished the Reese's eggs . . .

******

The cleaners called us upstairs (we play in the basement while they are here) because there were two wild turkeys in our backyard. And there were. Real, live turkeys with gobblers and everything. Unfortunately, my camera blinked "change batteries" when I tried to get photographic evidence, and the next thing I knew they were flying. They looked much too large to get off the ground, but suddenly a bird caught their attention and they were up and away in a flurry of turkey wings.

And I had great-grandparents, too

2010-04-05T15:00:00.004-04:00

I am on the back porch in the sunshine, fighting the glare on the screen in order to write this post outside. Like everyone else who has been cooped up all winter, I have been reveling in the heat and the light. It wasn't even a terrible winter, I know, but it was still grey and wet and yucky, and I am so ready for spring.

We have already discovered that Will can actually ride her tricycle this year (and loves it). Today she and I took one of her babies (Betty) for a walk in her stroller before lunch. We are mastering that scoop game of Hi-Li (my husband has been calling it hi-a-lai, so that took a while to find) left yesterday morning by the Easter bunny.

And I'm going to learn to run. (I think. No, really.)

I went for a run on Saturday morning with my sister. I was terrible, of course, but embarrassment did make me run much longer at a stretch than the minute or two I usually complete. It felt good to stretch my legs in the final (short) sprint my sister insisted we run at the end. Then yesterday I couldn't decide whether my quads or my lower back were going to give out first, and I wasn't sure I would ever try to run again.

But today my body feels much better, and I took a closer look at the Couch to 5k app on my iPhone and it looks . . . doable. (It also looks like there may be an updated app that allows for music while they tell me how long to run. That would be even better.)

The point is that I'm going to try it. I've always wanted to be able to run for twenty minutes without stopping (that's all!) but I've always thought it was just one of those things I couldn't do, like research my family tree.

(When I was a kid and people would talk about geneology, I used to think about how nice that would be to really know one's family history, but sadly, I didn't have any relatives before my grandparents. I know.)

Since that misconception has been put to rest, maybe I will discover that my body really is like everyone else's, and if I commit to a program, I too will be able to learn to run.

Weekend weirdness

2010-03-28T21:08:00.004-04:00

A couple of weird things happened this weekend.

On Friday, a man came to the door offering his services in tree care, while a woman (his wife?) sat in the passenger seat of their car with her sunglasses on. He seemed to know what he was talking about (he knew that the tree in our front yard was a linden, something I only recently learned) and what needed to be done in terms of pruning. My husband called him back and then hired him to do the pruning Saturday at 4 pm.

Saturday morning around 10 am there was frantic banging at the front door. I opened the door to a huge truck with a chipper in front of the house, the same woman standing beside it wearing an orange safety vest and her sunglasses, and the tree man. "I've come to prune the linden!" he announced eagerly. I told him we were leaving and could he come back at the time we had arranged, 4 pm. "No problem!" he said.

We haven't seen or heard from him since.

Later on Saturday morning, I went with my sister to file her taxes. We walked into the most bizarre H&R Block I have ever seen. One of the receptionist's front teeth (just one) was covered in orange lipstick. The tax associates were dressed like they were at a casual barbecue; one overweight employee in an unkempt blue polo shirt left his desk to sit on the floor behind the reception desk. Music played out of a huge silver boom box (with tape deck) circa 1987, which also rested on the floor near an outlet in the corner of the room.

My sister's senior tax associate, who was very nice, looked like a dishevelled Kirsty Alley from her "Cheers" days. She had long, frizzy brown hair that poofed above her forehead and was then held back by a brown plastic headband. There were also several stray hairs jutting out under her chin. She was dressed a denim shirt with H&R Block embroidered on the pocket. With the exception of one pinky, she wore a ring with a stone on each of her fingers. She was very relieved when my sister didn't freak out at the news that she owed some tax money.

I also watched The Blind Side, hoping for a cheesy feel-good movie, but found it sadly lacking in cohesion and real impact. But that part of the weekend wasn't so weird.

And then she was three

2010-03-24T21:39:00.003-04:00

Happy birthday, sweet girl.

Turning Three

2010-03-22T14:43:00.008-04:00

In the past few days, I have chauffeured my daughter to a pre-birthday shopping trip and Chuckie Cheese adventure with the grandparents (and though I know for a fact that this Chuckie's is only a few years old, I swear that the games have been there since 1972), organized and hosted her birthday party for the family, and worn my own tiara to a Princesses on Ice extravaganza.

Will doesn't even turn three until Wednesday.

The birthday girl loved every moment, of course. We decorated the house with balloons and flowers; the favours were flower pots that included some seeds and a paint-it-yourself wooden flower; Will picked out a purple and white dress covered in butterflies. The only thing that didn't fit with the spring theme was the cake: Will has been asking for a snowman cake for weeks, so a snowman it was.

I'm getting pretty good at this cake-making thing, if I do say so myself. (Nobody needs to know about my meltdown during the second round of baking, right?)

My craft table was also a great success. Kids from almost-three to ten (well, thirty-three if you count my brother) decorated foam crowns with stickers and markers.

It was also my kind of celebration: lunch, conversation, gifts, cake . . .

. . . and everyone gone by 2 o'clock. Perfect.

When you are almost three, it is important to end the day with some dancing in the twirliest, sparkliest dress you can find, in preparation for a visit with some skating princesses.

I think Will would agree that this is a great way to celebrate a birthday, and it's not over yet.

RIP Mr. Snowman

2010-03-16T15:07:00.003-04:00

February 26th:

March 13th:

At least we got one good snowman out of the winter. Now on with spring!

Searching for another good fit

2010-03-11T09:00:00.000-05:00

I continue to be delighted with our recent success in the potty department (as if it had anything to do with me. Ha!) I also continue to be amazed at the number of times a young child can actually pee in a two hour period. Four times? Five? How is that even possible?

Now that it seems that my daughter will actually qualify to go to preschool (daytime potty training is mandatory), I was heartbroken to discover that my preschool of choice for Will is no longer operational.

Last year I was so methodical, researching programs and attending open houses a year and a half in advance of Will's anticipated date of attendance. After realizing that Montessori was not for us, I was so happy to find my perfect fit: a play-focused curriculum with a flexible teacher whose philosophy matched my own. An opportunity for Will to interact with other children and the elderly residents of the home in which the school was located. My own confidence in this place as a positive introduction to "school" for my daughter.

Now I have to start over, with few options available outside of Montessori. And I'm particularly frustrated with the fact that almost none of the preschools even have websites. How am I supposed to evaluate whether a school's philosophy is in line with my own if I can't even read a summary of its principles and practices, before deciding whether to make an appointment?

It is promising that the one preschool I have found with a website does seem like it could be a good fit for Will. We have an appointment to tour the school and pick up an information package on Monday. It's during March Break though, so even if we like it I will have to meet the teacher before I can make an informed decision.

Ironically, I got a call today that Will has been accepted into the most competitive Montessori preschool in the city. (I put her on the waiting list last year before deciding that the program wasn't for us.) I guess someone else will get the spot they have been hoping for, while we keep searching.

Like magic, or why I should not stress over my child's milestones

2010-03-10T14:52:00.003-05:00

How are things going? Fine? Good. Same old, same old around here. Except. Will seems to be suddenly potty trained. (On the pee side of things, anyway.)

How did this happen, you ask?

Thursday morning she woke up and said, "I want to try and use the potty, really fast!"

So she took off her pull up, sat on the potty and peed. She had the long-promised ice cream sandwich for breakfast and we were off for the day. Then she did it again, all by herself when I thought she was asleep for her nap.

"Mommy! Come and see the pees!" Gladly.

The next day she used the potty first thing in the morning again. With success. And every other time she needed to go. Dry pull-ups all day.

On Saturday, she tried to pee at gymnastics, went successfully at the brunch restaurant and then several times at her cousin's house.

Now she either tells me when she has to go or uses the potty on her own and then calls me over. I'm guessing we will soon be transitioning into full time underwear at home and then, well, everywhere. And I'm thinking the poop situation will work itself out. She puts her own pull-up on if she has to do that anyway.

How did this happen?

I knew, intellectually at least, that Will would start to use the potty when she was ready. But it was just taking so much longer than I expected. Everyone told me she would go when she was ready. People suggested that waiting for her to do it on her own would be better than trying to make her (and she couldn't be forced anyway).

Yeah. Those people were all right. And I didn't do anything. She just decided.

Maybe one day I'll have a chance to look into an anxious mother's eyes and tell them the same advice. And like me, she probably won't believe me.

But for now, I'm giddy with relief.

You say potato, I hear rutabaga

2010-03-02T15:55:00.007-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I laughed as I read Holly's post about mispronunciations. Ever since, I've been remembering my favourite brushes with inaccurate language. Some of the funniest phrases I've encountered have actually been in writing. My top five include examples from both the spoken and written word.

1. My roommate in university used to refer to someone who was a little uncouth as "a country pumpkin" instead of "a country bumpkin."

2. During my first year teaching, one of my Grade 12 media students did a whole presentation on a print ad from the United Parcel Service, referring to it as "ups" the whole time, instead of "U.P.S." I could barely keep a straight face.

3. Every time I taught Elie Wiesel's Night to Grade 11 English students, inevitably one of them would write an essay referring to the way the Jews were used as "escape goats" by the Nazis.

4. While working at the C.N.E., my sister was proof reading a media release written by another summer student that included the line "now that we are in the mitts of the fair . . ." Her coworker dismissed the idea that it was supposed to be "in the midst," arguing that going through the fair was something like being deep inside mitts. What?

5. My favourite Grade 12 academic-level essay included - in the student's rough drafts and final polished essay - the phrase "self-of-steam." As in, one of the causes of Oedipus' downfall was his low self-of-steam. Oedipus had such low self-of-steam that he could not recognize his own fate. Or why he did not get a high grade in this assignment.

Some family history

2010-03-01T14:46:00.006-05:00

Although he drinks Tim Hortons, my father accepts the Starbucks I insist on as we travel east to Belleville, then Kingston, to visit my godmother, who is dying.

We read to each other during the trip, something neither of our spouses will ever willingly do. First from my father's choice, The Shack, a book so overwritten I cannot disguise the sarcasm in my voice at the paragraphs dripping with adjectives and mixed metaphors. Of course I feel my choice is better, but the letters of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society are probably easier to follow by sight than by sound.

At the hospital, my godmother can't really sit up and she drifts in and out of conversation, but she knows who we are. Well. She knows my father and through him, remembers me. I am uncomfortable in this room, with this woman I don't really know, but my father talks and weaves a conversation, asking questions and, if necessary, answering them. Where is so-and-so living now? You remember, Jack's wife. That's right. Is she still in Belleville? He includes us both, my godmother and me, though neither of us say very much.

The oncology resident comes in with news that they want to begin some radiation treatments. They are thinking five should shrink the tumor, reduce her pain. He wants to know what she thinks? Should they go ahead and set that up?

My godmother is clearly in no position to make this decision. When the resident asks her again, anxious to get things arranged, it seems, my father lets him know that her son has the power of attorney, and should be contacted. When the doctor leaves, my father reminds her that it is her decision. It is up to her what is done, now.

When the nurse comes in, we retreat to the cafeteria for some mediocre coffee. My father answers my questions, filling in my gaps of knowledge about their relationship. I know he lived with my godparents and their children, became like another son to them, but I don't know the chronology.

I find out that he first boarded with them in Belleville after dropping out of school in Grade 11. (My father - the principal - dropping out of high school?) His dad offered to get him "a good job" in Belleville, away from his own family in Stoco, working at an A&W. His only day off was Wednesday, so his dad told him not to bother coming home. And then he had the accident where he dropped a vat of hot oil on his foot (I have heard this story), went on Worker's Comp for a while and convinced his dad to let him return home and to school.

He lived with my godparents again after high school, when he worked for the bank in Belleville. I know a story about the bank, too, when my father "worked the door" of a party for some of the bank's best clients. While reading in the lobby, he moved a curtain that was letting in the glare from a streetlight and inadvertently sent a signal to the police that there was trouble at the bank. The police stormed the bank, breaking up the not-so-legitimate social gathering.

He lived with them one more time during his early teaching career. During this period, my godmother discovered my godfather was having an affair. She convinced my father to drive her (and her mother) over to the woman's apartment building, where she was able to catch and confront her husband, in the moment. Although they ended up staying together, my godfather kicked my father (and his mother-in-law) out of the house.

He has a long history with this woman. I have come on this trip mostly to be with him, so he doesn't have to be here alone, so he has someone to tell these stories, share these memories.

Her dinner has arrived when we get back upstairs. My dad continues the conversation as he feeds her: some mashed potatoes, some tomato soup. A few peas? No? Some applesauce? I know some of your grandchildren are coming by on Saturday, so that will be a good visit. Have some more potatoes. That tomato soup looks good. How about this cranberry juice. Oh no, you don't care for that, do you? I will talk to the boys later, and I will come back to visit again.

Mistaken identity

2010-02-21T23:06:00.002-05:00

I can't stop laughing. Oh Meredith, they hold the Terry Fox Run in New York too, you know.

The rest of the story

2010-02-18T21:18:00.002-05:00

So. The coffee.

Thursday arrived (last Thursday that is) and no coffee. No refund. No reply to my phone messages.

Then my husband called the Tassimo office Thursday evening, said everything I had been saying for weeks, and was offered coupons for free coffee and given the supervisor's extension and a promise that she would call at 8 am the next day.

And she did call! And she corrected the problem with the computer system! And she promised the coffee would arrive on Tuesday after the long weekend!

(Meanwhile I wrote an indignant blog post in my mind about how my husband was immediately taken more seriously than I had been over multiple phone calls, despite the fact that we said almost exactly the same thing to the same operator even. Sexism, I raged!)

Then Tuesday arrived, and the UPS truck pulled up. They gave me two boxes. One contained four packages of coffee (I had ordered 24). The other was a box of laundry detergent.

Um?

How does one even respond to that?

It's hardly worth mentioning that although they sent the rest of the shipment overnight it didn't arrive because they sent it to my old address. (Which I may have used 2 years ago to register my Tassimo machine, but definitely didn't use for this order. Not to mention the fact that the tiny Tuesday shipment made it to my house okay.)

Let's not mention any of that because this afternoon I finally received this:

The coffee was delicious. I am never ordering Tassimo from the Internet again. And that is the end of this story.

(Unless we decide to report them to the better business people, or their head office or someone. Then I will keep you posted.)

Tassimo sucks (now with update)

2010-02-09T15:26:00.007-05:00

Guess what I'm doing? I'm waiting for someone - anyone - at the Canadian Tassimo office to get back to me. Which they probably won't. And I will be forced to call them again. Me, who is afraid of the phone. And confrontation. Which make phone confrontations probably one of my worst nightmares. But you be the judge:

Timeline of my interactions with Tassimo over the past several weeks, faxed to their office half an hour ago.

Jan 10 I place my order for t-discs online with Tassimo

Jan 11 I receive email confirmation of my order, including charge for 5-10 business day shipping.

Jan 13 The transaction appears on my credit card

Jan 14 The transaction is formally posted to my credit card

Jan 22 I call the Tassimo office to check on the status of my order (it has been 10 days). I am told that some of the coffee is on back order but that it should all arrive the next week.

Jan 28 I call the Tassimo office again as my coffee has not arrived. I am told they cannot send it out because my credit card was declined. I fax a copy of my credit card statement to the office to prove that, no, it was charged in full.

Jan 29 I do not hear from Tassimo.

Feb 1 I do not hear from Tassimo.

Feb 1 I call Tassimo to find out what is going on with my coffee and credit card statement. Person on the phone knows nothing, but says she will talk to a supervisor and get back to me. While I am waiting, I contact the main Tassimo complaint line and I am told they will get back to me within 24 hours.

Feb 2 I do not hear from either Tassimo office.

Feb 3 I call the main complaint line and I am told I must deal with the Canadian office directly. I call the Canadian office and they announce that the problem is solved! We're sending out your coffee! I ask why I wasn't contacted and they say it was just resolved. I ask to speak to a supervisor about the discount I will surely be receiving.

Around 4pm a supervisor calls to tell me they will send out the coffee Priority shipping via UPS and refund the cost of the shipping. She does not apologize.

Feb 4 My coffee does not arrive. My credit card is not refunded.

Feb 5 My coffee does not arrive. My credit card is not refunded.

Feb 8 My coffee does not arrive. My credit card is not refunded.

Feb 9 I call the Tassimo office and they tell me my coffee hasn't been sent out because my credit card was declined.

My head explodes.

Then I fax a copy of my statement and a copy of this timeline. I ask that a supervisor contact me with the solution by the end of the day. I am told the supervisors leave at 4:30. I tell the person he better get a move on then.

If you received this timeline, wouldn't you contact the customer immediately? And apologize? And send out boxes of free coffee to try to stop the customer from going out and buying a Keurig?

I'm calling back at four.

*********************

So. I called back at four and my contact person had information for me.

Not that he had bothered to call me with it.

Apparently, both the coffee and the refund will be in my hands on Thursday. I'm guessing it is just the refund of the shipping, since they do not seem to care about my business.

I've also sent a copy of my timeline to the main complaint line. Maybe someone there will think this is as appalling as I do?

Until Thursday, I'll be testing out the Keurig machine at my husband's office.

I have to record this, even if it is just one night

2010-01-25T13:49:00.003-05:00

Something happened last night, something that hasn't happened since September 2007.

Will slept through the night. In her own bed. By herself.

She was about six months old when she stopped sleeping through the night, something she'd done since she was a couple of months old. We assumed it was a sleep regression, of course. And it was around that time that I (finally!) learned to breastfeed lying down, so Will would start out in her crib and invariably end up in our bed at some point in the night.

There was a brief period where we tried co-sleeping all night, but that didn't work for any of us. The middle of the night transition from crib to bed worked best. Then she got bigger, and started waking herself up in her crib, then kicking us all night in the bed. When she woke up in the night I tried to keep putting her back in the crib, but she took so long to fall asleep and I was too tired to do it over and over again.

I thought the move to a big (double) big-girl bed would give her the room she needed to get comfortable, but she continued to wake in the night. So around this time last year, the middle of the night transition became mine, as I stumbled into her room to comfort her, and always fell asleep. At least my back was no longer aching, bent over the crib (though it sometimes ached from clinging all night to tiny corner of her mattress). At least my husband could get the sleep he needed so he could work during the day (even if I could barely keep my eyes open).

Many nights, I didn't mind it. That is, if she didn't kick me all night or toss and turn. With my little girl snuggled up next to me, I often loved it.

Of course, it wasn't without a toll on me. In these two-plus years I have lost the ability to fall asleep effectively on my own. Nights that Will didn't wake until later in the night just left me half-awake and waiting, then groggy and grumpy the next morning. Last night I even opened her door at 3:30 am, confused and concerned, waking her up with the sound. In a whisper, I asked her if she wanted her door open or closed, and she told me to leave it open and then went back to sleep.

At just after eight I heard a familiar voice, not next to my ear, but coming from another room. "It's not dark out! The sun is out! Is it time to get up?"

It was nice to have a moment to myself, before walking down the hall to her room singing a song I haven't sung in almost two-and-a-half years.

"Good morning! Good morning! You slept the whole night through. Good morning! Good morning to you!"

Shhhh!

2010-01-19T21:42:00.002-05:00

In a strange turn of events, I am downstairs in the quiet of my house, freshly showered, enjoying a glass of wine.

Last night the child refused to go to bed. She did not accept her new (sweet) deal of reading or whatever quietly in her room, with the light on, until she is ready to fall asleep. Oh no. After bath and stories she decided to hit me, continuously, to see what I would do. What I did was put the gate up at the top of the stairs and ignore her. She waited it out, occasionally calling down: "Where are you guys?" or "Can I come downstairs now?" It was after 10:30 when my husband finally went up and directed her still half-awake body into her bed.

The news that my husband would be out tonight (and Thursday. and half of the evenings next week) was not welcome.

But after dinner she drew and played while I showered. Then we danced to the Glee soundtrack ("The loud ones, Mommy!") and I fed her some yogurt and raisin bread in an effort to stop her "I'm hungry" stalling technique. After bath and stories she hit me, again, and this time I shut her door. The door that she can easily open.

Instead she called for her Charlie and Sun (milk and water, named after favourite Hi-5 characters) and when I brought them in she was in her bed. She said goodnight, and has only called down once hoping for a second vitamin.

Kids are weird, but tonight I'm not complaining.

How I am being defeated by the potty

2010-01-14T13:49:00.003-05:00

When Will, at 18 months exactly, started pointing to the toilet and asking to sit on it, I went out and immediately bought a potty that was more her size. I figured that it would all just sort of happen. She was a little bit interested, the potty was there and offered, and eventually she would just decide it was time.

She's almost 3 now. And while I know this isn't even slightly out of the range of normal for potty learning, 3 has always been my "scary age" (like Carrie and Miranda in Sex and the City). As in, surely she cannot be more than 3 years old and still in diapers. Or pull ups. No way.

What is most frustrating is that all the pieces are there.

She wants to wear underwear. She wears underwear whenever she can.

Whenever we put the underwear on, she talks through the process that goes along with it: "When I have to pee or poo I will say, 'Mommy! Daddy! Take me to the potty!' And then I will pee or poo on the potty."

When I notice she has to go, I announce that it's time to try to use the potty. (I learned not to ask if she wants or needs to go. Ha.) She invariably either gets upset or angry or just insists she does. not. need. to. use. the. potty. Period.

Then she pees in her underwear. Or demands a diaper. Or puts on her own pull-up and then goes.

Case in point: As I was typing this post, Will called me upstairs because she was done her poop. She had a dry pull-up all morning, and when I insisted that we "try" to use the potty before nap, she very matter-of-factly told me that she would tell me when she needed to pee or poo on the potty. Self-directed. Perfect. So I left her to sleep and she crouched in the corner and then called me upstairs.

We have the cutest potty books available. She even changes the name of the girl in "The Princess in the Potty" to her own when we read it.

She knows and is excited about all the things she will be able to do when she uses the potty: Preschool! Regular school! Gymnastics by myself! Ballet!

I also know this is probably going to work out the same way her language development has. At this time last year, she was still barely speaking, and never on demand. She rarely made animal sounds. Some of her friends were referring to themselves by name and speaking in full sentences. But although I was anxious, I wasn't worried. Does that make sense? I could see her observing, constantly, and I knew she had a clear understanding of her world. She was just waiting until she was confident that she could speak the way she wanted.

Of course, when she did start speaking for real it was in complete and compound sentences, and now she never stops talking. (Unless she's singing. Or sleeping.)

I feel like this potty thing will be exactly the same. Will is waiting until she knows she has it right. And when she finally believes in herself enough to act, there will be no turning back.

But believing that doesn't seem to make me any less likely to rage, you know when you have to go and yet you won't do it why? why? why? At least in my head.

Then I say out loud, as if it doesn't matter to me either way, "Just let me know when you have to use the potty, okay?"

How's your day going?

2010-01-12T15:25:00.005-05:00

Nap time today has been thwarted by the late-arriving and extended visit of our cleaning service. Yes, I know I keep saying that this is the last month I will pay them to do a mediocre job basically wiping everything down for a ridiculous amount of money. But I abhor cleaning and am afraid that letting them go will mean the house will never approach real cleanliness ever again. And I have no idea how to go about getting a good cleaning person, as no one my husband or I know in this city is willing to share any contacts with us. So. There's that.

At the moment Will is lounging on the futon I pulled out in the basement watching the end of Annie. When it's over I think we will gather ourselves and take a trip to the grocery store. Who knows when this sweet child will hit the wall, and my reinforcement is not arriving until sometime after dinner. We had better get out of the house for a bit in between, is all I'm saying.

If you hear the sound of an almost 3-year-old singing "Tomorrow" or "It's a Hard Knock Life" you can look our way. If she happens to sing, "I don't need anything but you, Mama-Jo" than the loss of a nap may be all but forgotten.

I like cats

2010-01-06T23:06:00.003-05:00

What can I say? I'm so happy that my daughter is developing a love of books so much like my own. But her ability to recite this entire story, especially the twenty-something cats by name and in order does freak me out a little bit.

Ten years have come and gone so fast, I might as well be dreaming

2010-01-04T13:59:00.012-05:00

I'm not sure if those are the right words from that Oprah theme (how many years ago now?), but when I saw this idea over at Jayesel I thought it would be interesting to look back on the past ten years for myself.

2000: I finish teacher's college with a month-long internship I set up in Kingston, mainly so I can move in with my then-boyfriend (now husband) for the summer. I teach Writer's Craft for the month (using some of my creative writing training), then work as a tour guide for the Haunted Walk and as a coordinator for the Labour Day picnic. In September, I start my first teaching job in the infamous Jane-Finch corridor of Toronto. I work with an incredible department head who believes in my teaching ability even before I prove it to myself, and I discover that I really enjoy being an English teacher. Who knew?

2001: I continue teaching high school, and add a night course in composition at a local community college. The subject matter is boring (although it solidifies my own understanding of grammar and rhetoric) but I love working with older students who are responsible for their own learning (or not). My boyfriend is accepted into medical school-- in Albany, New York. We take a road trip out to Eastern Canada, which includes one full day of Anne of Green Gables craziness in PEI and several camp-outs, the last of which ends with me in tears and a quick retreat to a nearby motel. Yeah. I'm not much of a camper. My boyfriend moves to Albany a few days before the 9/11 attacks, and over the next few months is centred out for "random" car searches at the border and strangers calling him a terrorist. It makes for some interesting trips into the U.S. Around Christmas that year my boyfriend finally tells his mother that we are dating and serious. Our cultural/religious differences have kept us a secret from his family for years. Nothing comes of this revelation.

2002: More teaching. A lot of questions about the future of our relationship, now that it has been admitted to, but still not acknowledged. We officially get engaged in July, on a beach in eastern Ontario. I meet my future in-laws (who had wanted an arranged marriage for their son) for the first time as girlfriend/fiancee. While listening to my future father-in-law's concerns, focusing on how I'd fit in with the extended family, I may have agreed to sleep on the floor at big family gatherings, something I have not had to follow though on (thank god). We begin the process of planning a wedding that represents us: European and South Asian heritages, Muslim and Catholic religious backgrounds, food? service? clothes? how would we ever bring all of this together?

2003: So. The wedding. I will not convert, so agree to a "temporary" marriage available in Shia Islam (that's another post entirely) for 99 years. Our July wedding includes the signing of that contract, followed by a ceremony we have put together ourselves. Worried about the legality of the contract and the stress of bringing our families and friends together, we elope in May. We are legally married on the shore of Lake Ontario by a Unitarian minister, witnessed by my sister and my husband's best friend. We move to Albany in July and I am faced with some of the 9/11 fallout: I can get a NY state teaching certificate, but no visa to teach high school. Through a different visa, I am able to teach part-time at a community college in Schenectady. We adopt our first cat Pasha.

2004: Not a great year. I spend a lot of time alone, not working enough but not motivated to do anything else. I watch the entire Buffy the Vampire Slayer series. I become very attached to my cat and believe she prevented me from falling into a real depression.

2005: This is my husband's last year of medical school and we make the decision to move back to Canada for his residency. Our first choice is Toronto and he gets into the program at St. Joe's hospital. We rent the first floor of a beautiful old house in my favourite Toronto neighbourhood: Roncesvalles/High Park. I had (thankfully) only taken a leave-of-absence from my teaching job, so I go back to work at the same high school. I become the new head of the English department, but must also run the two-teacher Family Studies department. My first challenge involves one teacher's use of the department washing machine to do her own laundry. The drama here definitely merits a post of its own. We adopt our second cat, Oliver, who fits into the family easily as the pesky little brother.

2006: My husband decides to work for a month in Zimbabwe as an elective for his residency. As we finish booking the trip, I realize that this is my opportunity to do something I have always planned: travel to Europe. I spend weeks planning for the 5-week trip, researching and booking B&B rooms and activities I don't want to miss. Rick Steves is my constant companion. I fly into London in early July for my adventure: London, York, Stratford, Bath, Paris, Rome (via Nice), Florence, Venice, then a quick jaunt through Munich and Frankfurt to meet my Dad in Amsterdam and visit some relatives in the Dutch countryside. It is amazing. Oh, and I find out I'm pregnant while I'm in Paris. I don't tell my husband until I'm back in Canada, when he demands to know whether I got my period as we are turning into the parking lot at the Lone Star.

2007: My daughter is born on March 24 after a long labour and delivery. As we are adjusting to our new role as parents, my husband finishes his residency and we decide to move to a smaller community that is in real need of family doctors. In the fall, Will stops sleeping through the night (for what turns out to be forever) but we develop our own daytime routines: music class, mommy & me movies, swimming, library story time . . . I find myself enjoying this motherhood thing more than I had anticipated.

2008: We buy a beautiful old house in the neighbourhood I fell in love with when we first visited the city. I decide not to look for a new teaching job and stay home with Will for another year instead. As someone who had declared that I would be disappointed with myself if I didn't go back to work, this is a real change for me. We leave Will with my parents for a few days while we travel to Vancouver for a wedding. We all survive. I start this blog, and am happy to be doing some writing again.

2009: Will turns two (!) and goes from speaking occasional words and phrases to complete sentences, which has become non-stop talking and singing in the past couple of months. I embrace my role as her primary caregiver and constant companion (I am still a "half-way through the night" co-sleeper), but reject the notion that I'm any kind of a housekeeper, to my husband's chagrin. My husband and I travel twice without the child, taking a trip to Savannah and Charleston I have always imagined, and another to visit friends in Philadelphia. We also take a road trip with Will in tow, and she has not stopped asking when we are going back to visit her friend in New York City. We are learning that old houses need a lot of upgrades, and that just because a child is closing in on three does not mean she goes to sleep easily or sleeps through the night. But she will sleep better at some point in this next decade, right? Right?

Sing it, Effie

2009-12-30T00:24:00.004-05:00

As one of my stocking stuffers, I received both volumes of the Glee soundtrack. My husband received (from me) a pair of long-coveted speakers for the computer. So we have been listening to a lot of power ballads over the past few days, many of which continue to be sung or hummed long after the computer is silent. (Curses to you, Paul Anka and "You're Havin' My Baby!")

Earlier today, Will was putting together some puzzles at the living room table. She was singing to herself, one of her newest activities (and one that has led me to purchase the entire "Bread and Jam for Francis" series of picture books). I listened carefully, and realized she was singing "No way. I'm not living without you."

My husband and I listened, amused, for a few minutes before she got distracted and moved on to something else.

Then later tonight, she started shouting, in her loudest voice, right to me: "No! No! No! No! I'm not living without YOU! No! No! No! No! I'm not living without you!"

"Okay," I said. "I'm not living without you, either."

Good to know we feel the same way.

Christmas Meme

2009-12-23T12:26:00.003-05:00

In the spirit of posting more regularly again, here's a Christmas meme I'm borrowing from Swistle.

Eggnog or hot chocolate? Definitely hot chocolate. Egg nog = blech!

Does Santa wrap the presents or leave them open under the tree? When I was a kid, our Santa presents were never wrapped. Now I'm doing a bit of a hybrid: stocking stuffers and big things (like last year's doll-in-stroller) unwrapped. Other smaller gifts wrapped in Santa-only-uses-it paper.

Colored lights on a tree or white? White only, please!

Do you hang mistletoe? No.

When do you put your decorations up? I put up the wreath and the stars in the windows mid-November. All the other more festive decor sometime after December 1st.

What is your favourite holiday dish? Savoury: Hot hors d'oeuvres. Sweet: shortbread and magic cookie bars.

Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Usually my husband and I open something from our stocking exchange.

How do you decorate your Christmas tree? Ornaments from all over. When I go on a trip or somewhere interesting, I try to pick up an ornament to commemorate the occasion (which is surprisingly difficult sometimes). This year was the first time Will was interested in hearing some of the stories about the ornaments. The one we got our first year with Pasha. Her first Christmas ornament with the picture. The one we picked out together this year in NYC. I look forward to telling these stories every year.

Snow: love it or hate it? Hate the cold and the hassle, but am missing a real white Christmas this year. (I know. But in my part of Canada, we've got nothing.)

Can you ice skate? Does clutching the boards count?

What is your favourite holiday tradition? Probably telling the stories while trimming the tree. But I really like the freedom of making new traditions. This year we decided to go out for Christmas dinner. It seemed so wrong at first, and then so right. I love that.

Candy canes: yum or yuck? Take them or leave them.

Favourite Christmas show? Do movies count? Love, Actually and Meet Me in St. Louis (but I'm a sucker for the original Grinch).

The nightmare before Christmas

2009-12-22T14:47:00.005-05:00

Will has taken to drawing faces recently. She started with eyes (well, eye sockets) and would ask me to fill in the rest. Then she added noses and mouths, asking me to do the hair and the body. Now she handles all of that, with the addition of teeth, eyebrows and sometimes ears and earrings.

Although I am impressed - very impressed, actually - I also feel like I may have given birth to the next Tim Burton:

Will calls these her "scarecrows" and names them after herself and the other people she knows. Then she asks if she can "shave it off" (I can hardly bring myself to correct her on that one) and draw another one.

It did freak me out a little when I left her alone for a few minutes after her nap, and the map puzzle in her room became the background for ten (!) new scarecrows (in marker):

Highlights of the exhibition included two boys (notable by their short hair).

The snowman, with buttons and a hat.

Happy girl, with long hair.

Finally, freaky girl with a baby.

Clearly, our house is decorated for the holidays!

New York City

2009-11-19T22:12:00.002-05:00

We survived our road trip to NYC with the two-and-a-half year old. In addition to our regular luggage, I had a duffle bag full of packaged snacks and a second bag just for activities. A new purse with chapstick and a hand mirror! Dollar store binoculars! Etch-a-sketch thingie!

I also painstakingly chose and mapped out activities at locations along the way, almost none of which we did. (Will got to run around a J.Crew outlet more than once instead of stopping at a jumping playland in Rochester or getting to the hotel in time to swim. Dancing in front of mirrors while Mama gets new jeans is still fun, right?)

It will be a surprise to no one that the best pre-trip purchase we made was a portable DVD player. The sun sets early these days, and there is nothing you can do with a toddler in the car in the dark except watch a show. I bought a bunch of cheap movies and brought our Dora/Elmo collection, but do you know what she wanted to watch, over and over again? The two-episode Madeline video I bought for $2.99, reduced at the cash register to $1.50. Worth every penny.

Our time in the city itself was amazing. We stayed with a friend with whom I used to teach. (I spent too long changing that sentence around - the judgement of a fellow English teacher. Shudder!) Her husband's job has relocated them to New York for the next two years, so she's taking the time to be with their daughter, who just happens to be about 2 weeks older than Will.

The two girls are exactly the same height. Their voices sound freakishly similar. They have boundless energy and the same determination to get. what. they. want. Luckily, they tended to have their meltdowns at different moments. Other than the occasional power struggle over a stroller or a doll, they really became good friends.

I had only every visited New York for the day, driving in from Albany in the morning and leaving ridiculously late at night. It was different waking up in the city, being able to plan more than one day. And even though we had to view it from the perspective of two little girls, we did everything I wanted.

With the girls, we went to Peanut Butter and Co. (no allergies for these kids) and walked around the Village. We took them to the Museum of Natural History for the dinosaurs and Central Park for the playgrounds and the zoo. We even went to a Gymboree class and to Alice's Tea Cup, where they got to wear fairy wings and eat a cupcake as big as their heads.

My friend occupied the girls so my husband and I could visit MoMA (the Jackson Pollocks are a favourite) and then she and I hit the town to see Superior Donuts on Broadway. I'm still not sure what was better, this very satisfying play or Hugh Jackman looking directly at us from across the street as he left his own production. Seriously, I screamed like a fourteen year old girl.

It was awesome.

A logical connection

2009-11-05T23:46:00.003-05:00

Aunt Pisho: Do you think that one day you'd like to go to music class by yourself? Without Mama?

She thinks for a minute.

Will: I need Mama to drive me!

Hallowe'en Recap

2009-11-03T13:51:00.002-05:00

Sensing it would be my last chance to influence Will's costume, and after finally watching the first season of "True Blood," I decided to send my daughter out into the night as a vampire.

Purple is her favourite colour, so the outfit was a big hit, right down to the spider pendant and vampire shoes. The one casualty of the night was the "bones" bracelet of skulls, which somehow got lost on the final stretch of trick-or-treeating. Will was devastated-- until we showed her the stash of smarties in her bag.

Aunt Pisho handled Will's makeup, while my husband gored up my bite.

The wind let up and the temperature stayed fairly mild, so it was a good night for gathering treats.

She was actually most excited about a box of raisins, but when that was gone she happily turned to the smarties. It was a good night.

A different perspective

2009-10-29T21:50:00.004-04:00

As art class was winding down today, it was clear that Will had developed a bad case of ants in her pants. We decided to go to the closest mall to run off some energy before lunch.

She ran. She jumped. She played with some cats at the satellite animal shelter. We tried a misguided trip into the dollar store and she climbed on a bench to touch some fake pumpkins in a mall flower bed.

At some point, Will decided to crawl. I'm not sure whether she was pretending to be a baby (which she loves) or a cat (meow!) or if she was just reacting against my attempts to navigate us towards the exit.

It was gross and unsanitary, but I had a bag full of wipes and hand sanitizer, and since we weren't in a rush I decided to not to make a big deal out of the situation.

I told her she needed to walk, and I would wait for her at the next bench (a few feet away).

She crawled a little more, making doe-eyes at me. She put her head down on her hands and then peeked out at me. Finally she got up and sauntered over, saying she was ready for a smoothie.

An older lady pushing a cart circled us and then stopped in front of me. "Do you need some wet wipes? I have some in my purse."

"No thanks! I have some in my bag too." I thought it was cute, amid all the flu panic, that she was concerned about the state of my daughter's hands.

But the woman kept looking at us, before finally asking "Is she okay?"

I glanced over at Will, now bouncing beside me. "Um, yeah. She's fine."

"Really though. Is she all right? Just energetic? But she's okay?"

I was suddenly very uncomfortable, and took Will's hand. "She's fine."

As we walked away, she continued. "Well, she's just an adorable child!"

I have no idea what the woman was implying. Some sort of delay that would make a toddler act like a baby (or a cat)? Some sort of attention deficit or hyperactivity? Some sort of bad mothering that would allow such terrible behaviour?

When I get compliments on my daughter from perfect strangers, I have to admit that I don't think too much about it. It doesn't seem particularly strange or invasive (except when they ask for her name). Yet I cannot get over the audacity of this woman, that she would feel entitled to ask whether my child was "all right." What if she wasn't, at least according to this person's understanding of "okay"? What must it be like to have a child who is different in a visible way, and have people feel like it's all right to comment on something that is just a part of that child?

How I thrilled the world (or at least Ontario wine country)

2009-10-26T21:40:00.003-04:00

I decided to learn and perform the "Thriller" dance based on several premises:

I have a long history as a Michael Jackson fan, including attendance at the Victory tour in Toronto (with my dad, as a gift for my tenth birthday)
I was once responsible for choreographing the first few bars of "Thriller" (for my elementary school folk dance team in 1984, but still)
I used to be a dancer (it may have been years - even decades ago - but dance is like riding a bicycle, right?)

Perhaps most important, my husband volunteered to learn and perform the dance with me. So I set out to learn the dance from the youtube instructional videos, and by the night before the performance I had all the sections down. I wouldn't say I could perform them with more than minimal grace or skill, but really? I'm supposed to be newly undead so I was quite sure it wouldn't matter.

By Saturday morning, my husband announced that he couldn't possibly learn the dance in time. Reluctant to drop out of the performance, I instead recruited my sister (Will calls her "Aunt Pisho") to join me. She began learning the dance 90 minutes before we were due to check in at the park.

Clearly, we are both quite concerned.

But we work on the choreography.

The wind-tunnel sequence. Notice I am working so hard that I have had to remove my sweater. That's dedication.

Will knows the moves better than we do.

Zombies for the win!

Rehearsing with the other participants. I will spare you the video of the actual song. We look much more composed in the pictures.

Even without a costume, Will performed along with the rest of us, only getting nearly trampled twice (and more accurate than we were in much of the choreography). ROAR!

CSI: Dead Turkey Edition

2009-10-25T21:18:00.002-04:00

Date: 25 October 2009

Time: 12:35 am

Location: Ceramic tile floor between the kitchen and the family room.

Report: My sister and I were sitting on the couch in the family room when we heard a loud crash. Looking up, we were surprised to see both cats lounging nearby. We got up to see what had happened, and we saw this:

Our beautiful Thanksgiving centrepiece had imploded, its rotten core no longer able to hold itself up on the little iron legs.

The smell was just . . . oh my god, it was awful.

Look at the fluids pooling underneath him, spreading towards the stairs.

When I tried to transfer the pumpkin to a garbage bag, it started to disintegrate in my hands. The insides were almost completely black. And did I mention the horrendous smell?

The Lesson: Once you pierce a pumpkin with decorative iron stakes, it will rot. Now you know.

Wordless Wednesday: Gobble Gobble

2009-10-07T14:31:00.001-04:00

Miss Leslie and the film projector

2009-10-06T14:24:00.002-04:00

I've been taking Will to our main library's free kids' programs since she was 8 months old. I cannot say enough good things about "Books and Babies" and then, "Toddler Time." The pace of the programs, the age-appropriate activities, the mix of songs and stories and now, a craft. I have always been impressed with the quality of these free opportunities for early literacy in the community.

But the central library is not the same as a nearby branch of the same system, it seems.

Half the fun of the program has been hanging out with my mom friend and her daughter after each class. We bring the girls a snack and they have a chance to run around while we chat. So when her teaching schedule interfered with the fall toddler class, we decided to sign up for the session at a different library branch.

Well. Apparently, my friend was the thirteenth person to sign up for a twelve child class. She was put on a waiting list and asked to wait upstairs until they saw if there were any openings. She and her child were ushered in when a couple of kids didn't show up, but as they settled in beside me and Will, we heard an unearthly shrieking sound.

"You hoo! Excuse me? Hello! You there!"

Suddenly we realized a woman was directing her bird-calls in our direction.

"Move into the middle! I need to be able to get down the sides of the room in the dark!"

We herded the girls and ourselves away from the edges of the group as she strided towards the front.

"I have been running these programs for over thirty years," she announced proudly. "Somewhere along the road the children started calling me Miss Leslie, and it has been Miss Leslie ever since."

Gazing around, I saw that the room was set up as a kind of shrine, covered in bulletin boards with "Thank you, Miss Leslie!" and "We love you, Miss Leslie" cards and posters.

Miss Leslie - who was at least 60 years old - continued. "I have set out a pile of red paper apples at the back of the room. Take one every week and write down the titles of the three books you read to your child. Then bring them back, and at the end of the session this tree--" she pointed to one of the bulletin boards,"--will be literally overflowing with apples. The children love it."

My friend leaned towards me: "Three books? We read seven just waiting to be called in."

Miss Leslie then proceeded to have one of the children - "oh, angel!" - help her match two of the same cut out leaves on the floor in front of her. Then each child was given a leaf and had to go up to the front of the room in a mad rush to try to match her leaf. Will, who can match 36 different paintings in a game at home, would only put her leaf next to the nearest one, while her friend refused to go up to the front alone.

"This is very challenging for the children." Miss Leslie tried to soothe us in case we were panicking because our children couldn't complete the task. "Very challenging for the little ones!"

After that chaos, Miss Leslie pulled out a felt board and told a story completely unrelated to leaves or fall; instead, it was about a little duck trying to make the sounds of the other animals in the barnyard. Then she picked up the picture book from beside her chair - covered in pictures of autumn leaves - looked at her watch and tucked the book under her arm.

I knew that the craft, at least, was about leaves, as I could see the photocopies of trees and the cups full of crayons set out on the side table. But instead of directing the children to the table, Miss Leslie shushed them and announced it was time for the movie.

"Movie?" I raised my eyebrows at my friend and listened to Miss Leslie gush about their collection of old Disney films - the only library to have them - and how the children loved the films, just loved them. Then she walked to the back of the room, turned out the lights and turned on - wait for it - the film projector.

And the room full of 2 and 3 year olds watched this for seven minutes:

Nothing to do with fall or leaves or early literary or even 2 year-olds. But Miss Leslie has been doing this for years, and boy, was Miss Leslie proud.

September: a photo essay

2009-09-30T14:20:00.001-04:00

There hasn't been a lot in the way of blog posts this month, but that does not mean we haven't been doing things. My hopes for a summer-hot September fell short pretty quickly, and now this last day feels like November (and we discovered this morning we don't seem to have any fall shoes). However, these are the kinds of things that kept us busy this month.

The beach: Labour Day weekend

Our local, historic carousel: still only five cents (!) a ride

Hanging out with her cousin at the Lion Safari

Olympic gold medalist at the downtown kids' parade

First time at the movies as a "big girl." Watched the entire show!

Watching for the next float in the grand parade

Celebrating Eid with a new shalwar kameez

I knew I looked good in a shalwar kameez, but really

2009-09-27T21:47:00.004-04:00

Last night we went to my inlaws' house to celebrate Eid. Whenever we get together with my husband's family, there are a few things we can be sure of:

Nothing will start on time. (At least) one person will be late; therefore whatever we are supposed to be doing will be delayed. At Will's welcoming ceremony, my husband's brother actually left the house to pick up the food at the time the event was supposed to begin.
We will eat, but it will not be until really late. Much later than 2-year-olds should be eating. (Read: bed time.)
We will not leave until late. Very late. Much later than our predetermined "ideal time of departure" and even later than our "absolute latest depature time."

Despite these constants, there are also things we never know until we get there:

What the women will be wearing. This one is stressful for me since I never know whether I should bring Indian clothes.
What we will be eating. My father-in-law's delicious biryani? My sister-in-law's salmon? Take-out from the Chinese restaurant up the street?
Who is actually coming to the event. Often there are cross-border relatives who are held up at customs. Someone who has married into the family may have invited her entire immediate family who live in the same city. At the big events, there is almost always a surprise guest: a cousin who's flown in (or driven all day) with a new baby; a patriarch visiting from India; a new convert who just happens to be marrying someone's daughter.

At dinner last night, my brother-in-law and his family were late, we didn't eat until just before eight, and we couldn't get away until ten.

I brought one of only two Indian suits that I really like, but then received another from my mother-in-law as an Eid gift, so ended up wearing that one. My father-in-law did make an amazing, albeit spicy beef dish that I have no idea how to spell (it sounds like "pa-sun-day"). There were no surprise guests, but we knew ahead of time that my husband's aunt and uncle from India would be there.

The uncle (let's call him "A") is actually my father-in-law's great uncle. My FIL's great-grandfather had a lot of children over a period of at least 50 years. His third wife gave birth to A just a couple of years before my FIL was born - to his granddaughter. Got it? To make things even more confusing, A's wife is my mother-in-law's younger sister. Family relationships in my husband's family are very confusing, to say the least.

So yesterday, we are sitting around the dinner table and uncle/great-uncle A, who is known as both a philosopher and a big talker, announces, "I want to speak to the daughters-in-law."

He points at me and, presumably, my sister-in-law who is sitting nearby.

"Daughter-in-law. How do you spell? D. I. L. You would say that 'dil', daughter-in-law, 'dil'."

Remember that A still lives in India, and speaks with an accent.

"Now in Irdu, what is 'dil'? 'Dil' is 'hot.' Daughter-in-law is hot."

He points at me again.

"To husband. To family. Daughter-in-law is hot. Dil."

I wasn't sure what to say, except "Thank you." I had been worried that my new Indian suit was a bit see-through, but I thought the scarf covered everything. Oh, right. I had taken off the dupatta to eat dinner.

On the car ride home that night, I asked my husband what he thought about the whole exchange.

"Heart." he said. "Dil means 'heart.'"

Sayings that don't make the lack of napping any better

2009-09-24T16:03:00.001-04:00

"That looks like a pretty good book."

"Nacho. Pickles Jones. Tinkerbell. Wishbone . . . (22 more names, in order, from her favourite cat book) . . . Tommy. Midnight. Charlotte. Smokey."

"Is it time to get up yet?"

Spelling her name over and over.

"Scratch my back?"

"Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!"

"Can I flush it down it goes?"

"I go to sleep already!"

"Mama! What are you doin' down there?"

"You're missing the fun!"

"I'm stinky! Mama change me, please."

(Although that last one might explain everything.)

In summary

2009-09-15T22:06:00.003-04:00

-As of two o'clock this afternoon, the house is sealed against mice. It will take 10 weeks for the little beasts to make their way out through the one-way exits (or into the live trap that I have not yet placed down in the basement). It cost an exorbitant amount of money, but the house is now also sealed against bats (the little detail that sold me on the service) and from the looks of the rather unattractive gook that now fills all of the house's exterior crevices, I'm hopeful that it might impede bugs and spiders as well. The workers were very courteous, but did destroy several of my husband's prized perennials, so he wasn't too impressed with that.

-After our one brief victory, potty training (learning?) has completely stopped. Will was so proud of herself, I thought the process would really pick up, but when I read her signals the other night and started leading her towards the bathroom, she FUH-REAKED out. So. Not quite ready, I guess.

-Fall activities are starting this week. So far, Kindermusik with the new instructor seems like it will be good. Will is now the oldest in the class, so has morphed from being the shy quiet child to the star. It would be nice if the class was a bit bigger (there are only five) with a couple more kids her age, but it is good that she has the chance to shine in this new role.

-I'm back on the WW points, hard core. The first few days last week were a lot harder than I remembered, but now I'm back into the counting. I'm remembering some of the tricks, as well as the 10 point dinners that actually fill you up (thank you, president's choice burgers). And I lost 2 pounds last week, so that gives me the push I need to keep going.

-I'm finally watching True Blood, the first season. It is just as good as everyone says it is, and I'm particularly pleased with the way they are using the vampire mythology. A good vampire story has to remain true to the basic tenants of the genre, while making interesting and believable adapations. (Why yes, I am referring to you, Edward, glittering in the sunlight. Just no.)

Nothing says "mommy blog" like potty training and naptime

2009-09-10T13:39:00.002-04:00

On Monday, Will and I had a blast painting outside. We also made a huge mess, so I stripped off her clothes and hosed her off before heading inside. While playing in the nude, Will announced, "I have to poo, Mama. The poo is coming!"

I took her over to the potty and asked her if she wanted some privacy (she has always demanded that we not look at her when she's having doing her business) and she shut the bathroom door.

I waiting, a little nervously, wondering what would be waiting for me when the door reopened.

Suddenly, Will called out, "Mama! I see the poo!"

And there it was. We "flushed it down it goes" and celebrated with three (maybe four) smarties. We limited our calls to Daddy and a message for my parents: Hi Manno! Hi Papa! Poo. In the potty. Owls. Bye!"

Of course, lunch in underwear ended in a high chair full of pee. And in the days that followed, the only receptacle for toddler poop has been the trusty diaper.

But . . . I ordered some fancy training pants that arrived today. Will put them on immediately, and was crushed that she had to take them off for her nap so I could wash them. She was so excited that they be wash that she demanded I do so right away - no snuggles as she fell asleep, just wash those underwear so she could wear them when she got up!

For a child who does not go to sleep alone, this is a big deal, even though I can hear her singing at the top of her lungs.

Who knows? Maybe she will actually fall asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Um, no. But at least she's asleep. And maybe she'll still like the training pants . . .

Mouse 2.0

2009-09-03T10:08:00.007-04:00

It's been more than two months since I found the empty mixing bowl on the back deck. In that time and longer, we have had a few problems with flickering lights and electrical outlets (unlike Dooce, my brand-new washing machine stopped working because of the wires in a nearby socket). So when my sister swore she could hear mice scampering up the wall behind one of the vents in the living room, I started to have visions of the little rodents eating through the wires and causing unseen damage inside the bowels of the house.

Literally days later, as we are hanging out in the living room during nap time, there is a huge crash. Then Oliver - the more skittish of the cats - steps gingerly into our line of sight, a mouse dangling from his mouth. His eyes are a bit frantic and you can almost hear his voice: Look what I've got for you, Mama! But what should I do with it? Where should I put it? Halp!

My sister and I jump onto the coffee table, alternately hissing at each other and praising Oliver: "Oh my god, it's a mouse! Good job, Oliver! A real mouse? Well, it's dead! Good work Oliver, catching that mouse. Is it? It could just be pretending. DON'T put it down, Oliver. Good kitty! How are we going to get rid of it?" My husband starts looking for some kind of container. Oliver turns around in a circle and then darts downstairs.

In the basement, the mouse gets dropped and stays "dead" for a moment before running for its life. It's caught and cornered by both cats, then dropped again before disappearing.

Meanwhile, Will has gotten up from her nap and is recruited into carrying a flashlight into the basement to help my sister look for the mouse. Although we see lots of places for mice to congregate (ewwww!) we think we've lost it, until we notice Pasha staring into my rolled-up yoga mat.

Five minutes later, with the help of a pasta pot, we are out on the deck staring down at this:

A little closer:

We get the mat off and the top on:

Doesn't that seem like a fat mouse? As in, clearly not starving in my apparently hospitable house? Here's a closer look:

Also, I had no idea mice had such beady eyes. Ugh!

After convincing my husband that we could not in good conscience free the mouse in our annoying neighbour's flower bed, Will helps him carry the pot to the far corner of the back yard.

Freedom!

You can just make him (her?) out to the left in the top part of the picture.

Although I'm still not too freaked out by the idea that there are other overfed rodents living in my admittedly old house, I am not excited about the damage they could be causing inside the walls. I have already contacted the wildlife removal people, who don't kill the animals (I would never consider using poisons, especially with Will and the cats in the house) but apparently install "one-way exits" and block all the other entry points.

I will let you know how it goes.

Another morning

2009-08-26T14:52:00.002-04:00

This morning it was pouring rain. I watched my husband leave, knowing he wouldn't be back until after eight tonight. I looked over at my daughter eating her cereal, my heart filled with apprehension.

But. But . . .

We have yet to turn on the TV.

Instead, we built a long, snaking train track. We coloured a picture, glued together some toilet paper-roll binoculars, and made a butterfly covered in pom-poms.

We threw a wet cloth up at the ceiling in my bedroom to remove some of the high cobwebs, the room filling with laughter.

We jumped in front of the mirror - faster and faster - until we just had to collapse on the floor.

We took turns giving each other haircuts with imaginary clips and orange spray. Then she asked for four ponytails, and let me put them in her hair.

Then we went out for lunch for at the Pizza Hut buffet and had a delightful time.

Some mornings are hard. But then there are the ones like today.

And that was just the morning

2009-08-25T15:00:00.003-04:00

First, the cleaning service - whose office can never tell me what time they will arrive, although it tends to be mid to late morning - actually woke us up this morning.

Will and I jumped out of bed, passed my husband a robe so he could move modestly from the shower to the bedroom, and holed ourselves up in the basement to watch Shrek. All we had to eat was one nutrigrain jam bar between us.

As much as I detest cleaning the house, and as terrible as I am at it, I am considering breaking up with "the mawlies" as Will calls them. They were in and out in just over an hour, and although the house is passably clean, I don't think it's clean enough for what they charge. Really, I just need a regular cleaning lady, but I'm too paranoid to bring someone into my house from a kijiji ad, and I'm having a hell of a time trying to find a referral.

Next was the battle over going upstairs so Mama could take a much-needed shower. In the midst of the cajoling (mine) and refusing (hers), she hit me. We had a very serious talk about hitting, and Will was informed that if she hit Mama again she was going into time-out.

There was more cajoling and threatening (both mine). It has recently dawned on me that my now standard "If you do not come here by the time I count to three I will bring you here myself" probably won't work when she's 9, but I'm not sure how to adapt my arsenal of consequences, especially when we are trying to just. get. moving. But that was cut short when halfway up the stairs she hit me again, so into time-out we went.

After that detour, I actually got a shower (with Will in tow), and all was well until we got dressed and were both suddenly ravenous and miserable. Will couldn't fathom that this horrible feeling was hunger and refused all offers of food. My fuse was even shorter than usual until I realized that something in our stomachs would make us both calm down.

A little apple juice gave Will enough sugar for her to articulate a desire for "peanut butter jam, please." That gave me enough time to reheat some spinach lasagna for myself.

A walk around the block led to nap time and finally - finally - a cup of coffee.

The end.

So. The cottage.

2009-08-18T22:20:00.003-04:00

My father-in-law is not a talkative man. He is content to sit quietly at his computer or on the couch, or make his way alone as the rest of the group walks ahead. But every time we get together there is a moment when he clears his throat, takes a sip of his coffee or tea and announces, "So."

We have determined that one of several things may follow. A story about his childhood in India (So. We forgot to tie up the ox in front of the school, and he just found his own way home.) A discussion about politics or religion. Comments on the current state of the extended family. Some information about a new scientific or technological discovery (So. What is so special about this i-phone?)

Now it's my turn.

So. The cottage.

Looking at these pictures a few days after being home - our wonderful home with its hot shower, comfortable beds, fresh smelling furniture and bug-free ceilings and walls - I can almost remember the whole experience washed in the idyllic light of the sunset.

But dear god, it had its moments.

Forget about the mosquitoes and the spiders (which had mostly been killed by the time we arrived, or I wouldn't have slept even the little I managed) or the smell of the couch, which literally made me gag when I moved to be closer to the light. Forget the tension between my sisters-in-law, one of whom loves to cottage and cannot under any circumstances stop talking, and the other who arranged for a return to civilization a day early but could not go out for ice cream without scrutinizing the nutrition chart with her oldest daughter. (Newsflash: there is nothing low in calories or fat at the DQ. If you are looking for the item with the lowest caloric content, however, my mother-in-law found - and ate it: a pineapple sundae.)

The lowest point was when I had to carry a literally kicking and screaming Will from the beach to the car and then in to the house. That was made a thousand times worse by the sister-in-law who stared into the car at the screaming child and then refused to just go when I gestured to her, and the grandmother who kept asking Will if it was she who was crying, as I carried the snuffling child up the stairs, or the children who kept coming into the room to ask why she was crying, why?

That happened on the second day, and we learned. It's good to prepare a 2-year-old for your departure from the scene before you even get out of the car, in case you were wondering. And things got better.

Will had an amazing time "with all the cousins!" They ran and played, and I was comfortable - sometimes - with her even out of my sight. She loved being surrounded by her grandparents and aunts and uncles. She adored going to the beach. She was generally pleasant and friendly even with delayed naps and bedtimes, and it was so much fun hearing her talk to other people.

So. It turns out I'm not much of a cottage person. I'd like to come back from the beach to a room with a freshly made bed and clean towels.

But. I'm still very happy that we had this chance to be together.

Splish Splash

2009-08-10T22:18:00.002-04:00

Clearly, Will and I got a little wet today.

After running errands in zillion degree humidity (the first real humid days of this cold and wet summer), lunch and a nice nap, we decided to hit the splash pad. For the first 20 minutes it was great fun. Will even got doused with water from one of those swinging buckets and she loved it.

There was a dark cloud that started creeping closer, but it didn't seem like it would actually do anything. I even called my husband so he could stop by on his way to his evening clinic.

Well. Just as the first raindrops fell, Will decided she wanted to play on the equipment nearby. After climbing into (thankfully) the smaller kids' apparatus, it started to pour. Since she was already wet, I didn't really think much of it. Just a passing summer shower, so we played on.

Suddenly I saw Will's feet fly up in front of her and she was almost flying towards me down the slide. Luckily I caught her at the bottom of her slippery fall, and she was more frightened than injured. By the time she got calmed down, the rain had almost stopped and she wanted a swing.

Well. A few minutes into that swing and the skies just opened. The rain was pouring down in sheets, and there was thunder and lightening. We ran to the car and climbed into the front seat, watching the flood in front of us and laughing. We decided we get ourselves home - soaked though we were - and get ourselves warm and dry once we were there.

If the goal was to cool off with a little water fun, we definitely succeeded.

Phone message, painstakingly transcribed

2009-08-06T09:00:00.000-04:00

Hi guys. This is just your neighbour next door. I just wanted to tell you I had hosed down your car yesterday. I didn't ask because you weren't there and I probably shouldn't have done it but I wanted to see if my tree or your tree and how much came on by the next morning. It was just a slight experiment. So I do apologize for not asking permission to hose off your car. But I wanted to see what the difference was between what went on my car and what went on your car. And which tree was doing the worst drop. Because it's real sticky stuff and it's never lasted this long before. It usually lasts a couple of days and it's gone, but it's been going on for about three weeks now. Anyway I hope I didn't offend you, I just wanted to make sure that, um, you know I did that little experiment so I could see which tree was the worst, and they are both the same. But I wanted to-- Anyway-- Thanks! Sorry to bother you. All right. Bye!

I'm not sure if this is better or worse than the time she let herself into our backyard to pick up our branches. Either way, I think it's spelled c.r.a.z.y.

Still my baby

2009-08-05T20:39:00.003-04:00

Out for a walk after lunch, she tripped on a crack and skidded into the sidewalk. Wailing, she demanded that "Mama hold the me" so I scooped her up and she wrapped her arms and legs around me like a monkey.

At home, she cried over the antiseptic spray - "No poly! No poly!" - and kept crying even while declaring that "bandaid make boo-boo much better."

I sat on the edge of my bed and held her, and suddenly she found that spot on my shoulder that she loved as an infant. She curled up tight as a bug, still able to snuggle against me, despite her dangling limbs.

Her cries turned to gulps, then shudders as she drifted into sleep. I pushed myself back into a pile of pillows, and she burrowed even deeper into my chest. Slept.

The same weight of my baby, bigger now. My body still able to offer her comfort, help her drift into sleep.

I couldn't move. I didn't want to.

I wished someone was there to capture this moment in a photograph.

Squinting at our reflections in the closet mirrors, it looked almost the way I remembered.

Wordless Wednesday: Shadow play

2009-07-22T10:12:00.002-04:00

Sisters

2009-07-18T22:12:00.002-04:00

I just got back from an evening with my sisters. We went to see My Sister's Keeper and then to the Lone Star for the best fajitas in the world. I'm completely serious. There are not close to enough Lone Star restaurants in Ontario, and I had to drive an hour to get to this one. But always well worth it.

The movie itself was okay. That's not to say we didn't shed quite a few tears. The story itself is very sad, and raises a lot of interesting emotional and ethical issues. But the film was disjointed, and I didn't feel like we really got to see much character development or real interaction between the characters.

In fact, one of the most real scenes was a throw-away one in which aunts and uncles visit the very sick girl. She rarely sees these relatives, and yet they gather around her deathbed eating pizza and making ridiculous statements like (paraphrased): "Here is a book of healing meditations that I am sure will help you." "I saw a woman on a talk show who just told her cancer to get out! Go away! And strangely enough, it worked." "Promise me you won't give up."

It was easy for us to picture some of our family members in this role, showing up for an obligatory visit with an awkward hug and cliched words of encouragement.

Apart from the movie, and even the delicious fajitas, it was just good to spend time with my sisters. And it made me realize (even more) that this is something I want for my daughter.

When I think about having another child, I often think about it in terms of myself. Anxiety about how pregnancy and breastfeeding will take over my body, worry about how I will ever learn to manage two small people, abject fear over making it through the long sleepless night known as the first three months of infancy.

But it is different when I consider the issue from Will's perspective. I think about how valuable it would be for her to have someone to share this particular experience of growing up, this family. Someone who can be her ally against me (sniff) and her father. Someone who understands where she came from because he or she came from the same place.

Give her the chance to be someone's sister.

This way and that way

2009-07-16T20:50:00.004-04:00

We have been back from our trip for exactly a week today, but I'm still feeling pulled in a dozen different directions. Since I can't pull my thoughts together on one subject, here are a few of the things that have been bumping around in my head.

- My husband's cousin and his partner visited for a few days, and while they are fascinating to hang out with, they were continually getting so caught up in something that they lost complete track of time. Which fine, no problem, but we are hanging out with a 2-year-old here. I do not at all expect the world to revolve around my parenting schedule, but I do expect some awareness (especially from family guests) that spending the day with a child in tow requires some structure.

(And to be honest here, I ended up being the rude one, when my frustration over everyone taking so. bloody. long. got the best of me. Maybe I expect too much?)

- This 2-year-old thing? I'm starting to get why it has such a bad reputation. Will can go from chirpy and affectionate to raging hell-beast in 2.5 seconds. Seriously. And even more strange, she can go back the other way. One minute she is screaming over the wrong band-aid or replacing all of her language with a keening wail and then suddenly she is dancing "round and round" or asking me to watch her draw a picture on her easel.

- Another irritating toddler trait? Suddenly everything takes forever. Getting ready. Walking somewhere. Climbing into the car. Part of it is the obsessive need to follow every routine exactly. Then there's the distractibility factor. Will is a little like Dug in that movie Up: Here I am on my way from the bed to the dresser to get a diaper - SQUIRREL! Not to mention the fact that Will is now developing selective hearing, an exasperating experience all on its own.

So. I'm learning to make my way through this new terrain without losing my cool. But oh my god, it is difficult to ignore my own emotions and deal with Will calmly when itistimetogo-wearealreadylate-ohmygod-justletmebrushyourhairalready!

- I have a love/hate relationship Canadian reality TV. I am appalled at "Pressure Cooker," which was hyped as some sort of Top Chef Canada but is so terrible I can't even describe it. What type of cooking competition tells the audience the ingredients the chefs will use, but does not bother to tell us what they made with said ingredients? Maybe we would like to know what the judges are sampling? Not to mention the fact that the teams all used the same ingredients in different ways. Ridiculous.

As a former Broadway-wannabe, I love love love "Triple Sensation." The first episode I watched had the competitors participating in theatre master classes. Their classes with a beautiful 82-year-old dancer/choreographer (I cannot find her name anywhere!) were unbelievable. She was so limber and animated that it wasn't even disconcerting when she discussed feeling the song in one's "crotch and nipples."

- It was while watching "Triple Sensation" that I fell in love with the song "I Won't Mind." Based on the few lyrics in the episode, I thought it was about a young mother giving up her baby. With a little digging, I discovered that the character singing - Auntie Lizzie - is actually Ben Franklin's daughter-in-law, who has suffered a miscarriage and discovered she can never have children of her own.

Every time I listen to this song, I pretend I haven't teared up and I determine to be more patient with my own little girl. Because I really am so very lucky to have her in my life.

In West Philadelphia, born and raised (okay, visited)

2009-07-11T09:35:00.005-04:00

We are back from our trip, during which I drove everyone crazy by softly humming the theme from Rocky every time I thought of it, and my husband sang the intro to Fresh Prince every time we made it back to our friends' place in - you guessed it - West Philadelphia.

We also took a total of maybe eight pictures.

Based on my touristy pose in front of the Liberty Bell, that's probably a good thing.

As someone who needs her personal space, I was anxious about actually staying with our friends for three days. I have never liked staying overnight with other people. I hate the feeling that I have to be "on" all the time (even if it's not true) and I would much rather spend a wonderful day and evening with you and then retreat to a hotel, to meet you again in the morning, of course.

With the exception of the actual sleeping experience (I curse you, air mattress!) staying with our friends turned out to be just fine. I had forgotten that they are very much like me: no pressure to start sightseeing at the crack of dawn, lots of stops along the way for coffee and bathroom breaks, hours lingering over wine and good food. Good times.

It also helps that Will loves spending her own vacation with "Grammo and Papa." Every time I phoned - and I only forgot one night as we were rushing out to see a play - she would excitedly sum up her day in about three words and a vigourous goodbye. "Water! Aunt May-na! Purple! BYE!" "Pizza! Pony! Bouncy-thingie! BYE!"

She also learned how to jump, sing the entire alphabet song, and steadfastly refuse to do anything she doesn't want to do, although I'm hoping that last one is just a side effect of the transition back to normal life.

For the most part, though, it just feels right to be together and home. And if the testing is heightened, so is the cuteness. When her dad gave her a flower last night, I asked Will what she should say. Her answer? "Thank you. I love it."

It's good to be home.

To Grandmother's house we go

2009-07-03T09:48:00.002-04:00

Today I'm taking Will to her grandparents' house for her annual vacation. We've been practicing the way I will call her every night on the phone.

Me: Hello? Who's there?

Will: Me!

Me: Hi Sweet-pea. Are you having fun at Gramma and Poppa's?

Will: Yeah.

Me: What have you been doing?

Will: Play in sandbox!

Me: And where do you sleep at night?

Will: In BIG Dora-ji bed!

(She always adds what sounds like the Indian endearment "ji" to Dora's name. Don't ask me.)

Me: In the big Dora bed?

Will: With Grammo!

Me: That sounds like fun! What are you eating?

Will: 'Moothies!

Me: That sounds delicious. Daddy and I are going to see you in a few days. Have fun with Gramma and Poppa. We love you!

Will: Bye!

While Will and the cats are visiting my parents, we are off on a road trip to Philadelphia. See you when we get back!

Things I learned this weekend

2009-06-28T10:11:00.004-04:00

1. Being stuck in a traffic jam that isn't moving at all makes me claustrophobic. As my sister put it, it makes you want to abandon the car and just start running up the highway to escape.

2. People who drive on the shoulder during a traffic jam, thereby impeding access for emergency vehicles, are fucking ridiculous. What if someone had a heart attack in your car, and the ambulance couldn't get to you because you were blocking the road with your sense of entitlement and deep held belief that you deserve to get in front of all of these other cars?

3. Blending up fresh herbs with some garlic, lemon juice and olive oil makes an amazing condiment. (Thanks to my BIL for that one.)

4. Even if one's toddler falls asleep late every. freaking. night. this does not mean you can delay her bedtime. Just no.

5. If you have insomnia, a little strip of melatonin is a wonderful thing. Unless you are going to be jarred awake every hour by a disoriented toddler. Just a warning.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T17:25:00.001-04:00

Losing my "time out" virginity

2009-06-19T20:46:00.003-04:00

I am a little giddy.

I put my child in time out for the first time ever tonight, and it actually worked.

She decided to yank my hair - which hurt - and I told her to stop. Then she yanked it again, and I started to yell (trying to restrain that impulse). Then she did it again. I looked her in the eye and threw down the gauntlet.

"If you pull my hair again you are going into time out."

Her eyes grew wide and she immediately said, "No." I'm not sure how she even knew about time out. We definitely haven't talked about it.

She stroked my hair and looked at me. I gave her a final warning. "Remember, if you pull my hair you are going into time out."

She waited, just a moment.

YANK!

"Okay. You are going into time out."

This was a good one for me. I wasn't at all stressed or angry by the situation, and could handle Will crying and yelling "No! No time out!"

I pulled out a chair in the dining room and placed her on it. "You need to stay here for one minute." I walked away into the kitchen.

Of course she got off and ran to me.

I put her back on the chair. "You need to stay here. For one minute."

We did the back and forth dance a few more times. This was where I got a bit anxious. She was overtired and should have been in the tub. What if she never stayed on the chair?

Then on the sixth or seventh return, she stopped crying and sat.

I walked into the kitchen, turned away from her, and watched the clock. I could hear her mumbling "Mommy . . ." under her breath. After about a minute and a half, I went back to the chair and crouched in front of her. She gave me a big smile.

"Why did you have to sit in time out?"

"Pull Mama's hair."

"That's right. Are you going to pull anyone's hair again?"

"No."

"Good job."

She gave me a big hug.

I think I did a pretty good job myself.

That's my girl

2009-06-18T23:20:00.002-04:00

Sitting in the bathtub, she holds each of her three ducks under the water, letting them take a drink.

"Blue: Daddy duck. Yellow: Mama duck. Small: Baby duck."

The three crabs make up a similar family, but she inserts her name onto the baby crab.

Then she gets to the turtles.

"Daddy turtle. Daddy turtle. Baby turtle." She holds them up for me to see. "Two Daddy turtle."

Sounds right to me.

Still summer, despite the weather

2009-06-17T13:11:00.005-04:00

So far, today has been the least summery day this week. But that didn't stop us from behaving as though the sun was shining and we were on our way to the beach (or at least a picnic).

I have come to the realization that a one-litre water bottle is too big for me. It makes me feel guilty when I don't finish it, and it is way too big to carry on our excursions, so I end up without water when I really need it. So after music class, we headed to the outdoor store to get me a new Laken. Will has been loving her "happy monsters" Laken a lot, so we picked up a new green one for her too, with frogs on it.

Summer also requires a good hat, and now that Will has four (hopefully preventing us from being anywhere without one) I realized that I need at least one that I'm not embarrassed to wear. Surprisingly, my choice is a baseball cap (so much for the hair) from Life is Good that says "Hello Sunshine." Loved it and bought it, but couldn't quite justify wearing it out in the rain.

Then we drove through the rain to our local strawberry farm for a quart. Strawberries are my absolute favourite. (I still can't get over the year I actually missed the whole harvest. Seeing the fruit at the market without a chance to stop, and going the next week to realize that had been the last of them. Awful.)

Apparently Will has quite a taste for them too, since we ate almost half the container on the ride home, sun nowhere to be found, singing along to a song about "sand in my sandals."

Being unable to resist eating fresh strawberries is one of the best things ever, and totally worth ruining a yellow t-shirt because you need "another one." Pleeeeeeze?

One, two, three . . . shake!

2009-06-16T22:13:00.005-04:00

For a long time, Will would only count to "two."

Then she suddenly started counting to "five," then "six," and if you gave her "seven" she could get all the way to ten.

Now she's on some sort of a loop.

My favourite part is when she starts shaking her booty against the screen door. That's the way to count, baby.

And they weren't even ladybugs

2009-06-12T21:57:00.003-04:00

After nap this afternoon, Will and I made a trip to the "pajama store," aka the new Carter's/Osh Kosh outlet on our side of the border.

The selection of PJs was a bit disappointing. I was hoping for more footless, one-piece jammies, but the summer stock for toddlers was purely tops and bottoms. The girls' pants also tended to be that slippery faux-satin material, so after choosing one pair with an apple motif we wandered over to the other side of the store.

An act which caused one of the sales associates to rush over in a panic.

My daughter had already spotted a pair covered in brightly coloured bugs (the shirt declared, "don't bug me!"), and we were trying to decide between a crocodile and a dinosaur when the clerk made it over.

"Um. Hi! Has she seen the ones . . . " She gestured to the girls' side of the store. "There are lots of pajamas over there. You know. Too."

"You mean on the girls' side?"

"Yes! The girls' side." She seemed relieved that I knew why she was upset. "She would probably like them. They are really cute."

Will, meanwhile, had chosen her favourite pair. "Crocodile! And bird! Yellow bird!"

"I think she likes these ones."

I almost bought a package of boys' briefs just to make her fear a little more for my child's gender identity, but thought it might be a bit much. Will liked the purple ones better, anyway.

I wish I had a picture of this

2009-06-11T17:21:00.003-04:00

Last night as I was puzzling over "The Real Housewives of New York," waiting to see how the women would respond to the presence of someone's husband at "girls' night," Will woke up. She has impeccable timing - waking up just as we are thinking about going to bed, but before we have managed to brush our teeth. Anyway.

My husband went up to try to comfort her as I tried to catch some of the dinner party drama. Will was having none of that. Her cries were pitiful, and when I went in to her room to help, she was pointing desperately at her eyes.

Usually, if her eyes are "itchy" I blow in them lightly and all is fine. But this time, she was pointing and crying for her "glassicals."

She loves her sunglasses, especially when it's "too bwight," but at this point it was midnight in a room lit only by a night light.

"Do you really want me to get your sunglasses?" I asked.

"Yes. Glassicals."

I found the sunglasses downstairs and brought them up to my snuffling daughter. She put them on and immediately calmed down. That's when I started laughing. The image of her sitting in her bed in pajamas and sunglasses was hilarious.

Kids are a real trip.

Will vs the Chicken

2009-06-10T23:35:00.004-04:00

We visited Riverdale Farm this week and a good time was had by all. Will and her best friend were able to run free, while their moms got to catch up with our old friend and boss from our days working at the CNE (but that's another story).

Will also had her first close encounter with a free-range chicken.

Oh look! A chicken!

Do you see me? Beside this bird!?

Come back!

Where are you going?

I think the chicken is "all done."

Mom! I'm all done too.

Under stress, I always put on my shoes

2009-06-08T09:29:00.006-04:00

The sign on the table read, "Call me about the bowl outside by the laundry room."

I peered out the door. Our biggest stainless steel mixing bowl was out on the side deck.

Him: You know how, when the cats are acting weird, it's important to take them seriously?

Me: Yes . . .

Him: Well, when I came downstairs this morning, both Pasha and Oliver were staring intently under the sideboard.

Me: . . .

Him: And then Pasha went under there and rooted around for a bit, and when she came out she had a mouse in her mouth.

Me: Oh my god! Like in Troy!

Him: She started batting it around and throwing it up in the air.

Me: Ew!

Him: Then it would escape and she or Oliver would chase it and catch it.

Me: <a variety of gasping and gagging sounds>

Him: And it was 6 in the morning and I was trying to get ready for my meeting, so I grabbed that bowl and an empty cereal box, and I somehow manoeuvred the mouse into the bowl. Which I put outside.

Me: I'm going to see if it's still in there.

Him: I don't think it could get out.

Me: (opening the door slowly and tiptoeing onto the deck) There's nothing in that bowl.

* * * * * * * * * *

So. A mouse.

I'm actually much better with the idea of mice in the house then, say, spiders. But the idea of mouse is still very different than seeing a live one skittering across the living room floor.

I guess we will keep our eyes open and keep a close watch on the cats, before we do anything rash.

But seriously? When you add in the rats in the park and the baby birds that just hatched next door, I feel like this is turning into a wildlife blog.

* * * * * * * * * *

In other news, I solved the mystery of the wet map.

It turns out a toddler with a heavy morning diaper can make a puddle on the floor through her already wet pajamas.

Good observation skills, Sherlock.

The Mystery of the Wet Map

2009-06-05T14:50:00.003-04:00

Will has a giant map puzzle on the floor of her bedroom.

She loves to pull apart the giant foam shapes and then piece them back together. There are lots of animal pictures, not to mention letters and numbers and colours to identify. It's a great area for a big kid diaper change and the perfect place to sit and read while that same kid slowwwwwwly falls asleep.

This morning I found a puddle on the map. On Mali, to be exact, although it was pooling into Burkina Faso and Niger.

I looked at Will. "Did you pee on the map?"

"No. Potty." She led me into the bathroom for emphasis. "No pee map. Potty."

I knew she hadn't actually peed on the potty. She has only done that once before, and she still had her diaper on from last night. So then she couldn't have peed on the map either, right?

Her diaper was soaked through, but even if she had tried to pee on the map, it would have collected in her pajamas, not in a neat little puddle on the map.

It wasn't me. I'm pretty certain it wasn't my husband.

That left the cats. I knew I had been ~~a little~~ lax in cleaning their litter boxes this week. But when I cleaned up the mess there was definitely not that pungent and unmistakable smell of cat pee.

Hmmm.

My detective mind went back to Will. Maybe she peed on the map last night? After her bath but before her diaper?

But last night I sat on that map, right near Mali, and read my book. Will got out of bed and walked directly across it to stand on my book. I took her back to bed along the same route more than once, and never stepped in a puddle of wet.

Then what?

Was it really pee, or maybe just water? Spilled or poured from a child's cup with a straw?

I don't think I will ever know.

If you knew the "money" theme song you'd be singing it too

2009-06-01T14:15:00.004-04:00

My husband has a thing for Gail Vaz-Oxlade.

She may have even replaced - gasp! - Judge Judy in his adulation, although he has yet to set the DVR for episodes of Til Debt Do Us Part.

If you have never watched the show, Gail works with a couple who is in debt and/or living beyond their means. She first evaluates their finances and lets them know how much they are spending and how far in debt they will be if they continue. Gail then helps them create a budget and makes them live on cash for one month, with a few challenges and life lessons along the way. If they get their financial act together, at the end of the month they receive a cheque for $5000 to help them with debt repayment.

Every time my husband watches this show, he ends up at the computer examining spreadsheets and bank statements. He rants for a while about doing "a real budget," but by the time I have a glass of wine and watch an episode of The Tudors, he's usually over it.

Until this weekend. On Saturday night he found Gail Vaz-Oxlade's blog, complete with her budget worksheets and guide to actually building a *real* budget.

We decided to plug in our real numbers from April to evaluate our own situation.

I do want to say that we are very fortunate that my husband's work is something that shelters us from the ups and downs of the economy. It is because of this work that I have been able to stay at home with Will and make parenting my full time work right now.

That said, we had a sneaking suspicion that our Starbucks habit alone might be something that should be reined in.

Um, yeah.

Food consumption is clearly the major issue for us. We may not go to the movies or, well, anywhere right now, but by god we are masters at picking up Swiss Chalet or Thai food. They aren't even expensive purchases. Just multiple trips to the grocery store or Costco, and excursions to our favourite restaurants or coffee shops.

In the spirit of taking control of this spending (and maybe starting to think about retirement) we have adopted Gail's "cash jar" approach for the month of June.

As of 2:40 pm on June first, I have yet to pull money from any of the jars.

(And I'm totally not counting last night's Superstore run for cereal and a couple of Joe t-shirts cheating. It was still May, after all.)

Saturday

2009-05-30T21:29:00.002-04:00

An actual shower.

Make-up music class with the whole family.

Chasing Will through the garden centre.

Eggs and french toast and coffee.

Watching my husband plant while our daughter naps.

Thirty-four kids' books for a dollar each.

Daughter laughing as the swing goes up, up, up.

Wading at the edge of the cold lake, waves rushing against our toes.

Steak and asparagus for dinner.

Bedtime without tears.

Two chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, one for each of us.

If I'm in the kitchen, it must be Hemingway

2009-05-28T14:43:00.002-04:00

I think it's the warmer weather (not counting today, ugh). I suddenly want things to be immediately accessible, no matter where we happen to be.

Sun hats? Will now has three, and I'm trying to keep them at key locations: back door, front door, stroller. I think we need another one for the car.

We still have only one bottle of sunscreen, and therefore ended up at the Folk Arts Festival hiding in the shade or counting the exposed minutes in front of the stage. All the bags and trunks and strollers need a bottle of that stuff for the summer.

I'm not sure why this obsession with access has transferred to my reading habits. After being stranded in the car with a sleeping child and no book, I now find myself part way through at least four novels, each one ready to read in a different place in the house.

If I'm in Will's room and it's nap time (read: light outside), I'm reading either The Origin of Species by Nino Ricci or Tom Robbins' B is for Beer. So far the Ricci book is truly terrible. I can't stand the protagonist, but I'm enjoying reliving my time in Montreal. His description of the life of a student in the city is perfect.

In the hallway outside of Will's room is my nighttime novel, The Gargoyle, which I am finally reading after kgirl sent it to me as part of a December giveaway. This interesting book has my little LED light inside, so I can read as Will slowwwwwly falls asleep.

My own bedside novel, What are You Like? by Anne Enright has migrated to my purse with 1, 2, 3 Magic. I've since added Jen Lancaster's Bright Lights, Big Ass to my night table, along with the history text I picked up in South Carolina, Black Majority.

In the downstairs bathroom I have the option of Bed Timing or Cringe. Usually there are sections of Saturday's The Globe and Mail and a bunch of medical journals in both bathrooms.

Excessive, even for a student and teacher of literature? Afraid to be alone with my thoughts? Or just prepared?

Breakthrough

2009-05-24T21:30:00.002-04:00

I think it is safe to discuss, in a completely nonchalant way, the breakthrough we ~~have achieved~~ are achieving with Will's sleep situation.

It is very far from successful, if one defines success as sleeping through the night. But! But.

I no longer lie down with Will in her bed as she falls asleep. I don't even sit on the bed with her. Instead, I sit across the room - next to the door even! - and I read my book with the fantastic LED book light I got at Chapters. (The light also doubles as a flashlight I can shine across the room to see if Will has fallen asleep. Something that backfires if I shine the bright light onto the face of an almost sleeping child. But we were talking about successes here.)

It all started with laundry. There were two baskets overflowing with clean and dry, but unfolded laundry that had been taunting me for days. One night last week I said to Will, "I'm just going to sit over here and fold laundry while you go to sleep."

She didn't go to sleep while I folded the first basket. But she stayed in bed. She had not fallen asleep by the time I finished the second basket. But still in bed. Then I leaned against the wall between her dresser and the door and waited. She fell asleep.

I actually asked my husband to give up "his night" at bed and bath so I could try it again the next night. Much dirty laundry was washed and dried, ready to be folded. Other than a brief meltdown over a sip of water ("The water's right there, you can get it. Good. Now climb back into bed.") it worked again.

The next time it was my turn I showed up with just a book. Sat in the same spot and read. It worked again.

Now, it still takes FOREVER for Will to fall asleep. And when I tried to replicate the snuggle, tuck-in and then go to the door to read routine when she woke up at midnight last night? Forget it.

But my daughter is finally learning to fall asleep on her own, without either one of us getting particularly upset and without me feeling like I am falling into an abyss or losing my mind.

That's my definition of success.

My friend who hates rats may want to skip this post

2009-05-20T19:14:00.005-04:00

There we were, enjoying the weather and a picnic next to the duck pond.

Bagels with cream cheese and sunshine, yum!

There were mallard ducks and Canada geese, geese with white heads and lots of ducklings. And something else . . .

The tail could have been anything, I guess. But then . . .

Templeton, is that you?

I don't know why I kept taking pictures (in between half-shrieking, to no one in particular, "oh my god, that's a rat!") except that I could not believe what I was seeing.

In a completely unrelated story, Will helped set the table on the deck for dinner tonight. She unrolled the place mats, positioned the napkins and plates and forks. Then I brought out the spaghetti sauce in a bowl, and went inside to get the noodles.

When I came back out - moments later - there was sauce dripping out of the bowl onto the table and the deck. Half of the sauce was inedible. I couldn't help myself from reacting: "Oh no! Will! What have you done?"

Then I noticed that each plate had one perfect scoop of spaghetti sauce on it, and I almost died from the cuteness (before explaining that serving the meal was really something that required Mama's or Daddy's help).

In lieu of the dinner helper, more cuteness from after the ~~rat pond~~ duck pond.

Green thumb

2009-05-18T20:34:00.002-04:00

What do we have here?

Could that be Lasha, using the new potter's bench to - gasp! - pot her herbs and vegetables? You mean to tell me that she didn't just look at the pretty pots sitting empty on the stylish bench? She didn't pass the herbs in their biodegradable containers and briefly consider potting them, before something else caught her attention, indoors?

Look! I really filled all of those pots myself, with my gloved (and sometimes bare) hands. The herbs are mostly on the top, with one pot of tomatoes. Then there are more tomatoes and basil on the bottom, with the red leaf lettuce and the morning glories Will planted in art class. (Her frog pot is peering out at you from beneath ladybug eyebrows.)

It is freaking me out that I actually completed the first phase of my garden project. The next phase being watering and maintenance, which I'm assuming will include getting rid of (and replacing) plants that don't make it. But so far, I have quite a sense of accomplishment. In fact, I think I'm going to have a glass of wine.

Half asleep in frog pajamas

2009-05-17T18:41:00.004-04:00

It had to have been after ten o'clock last night, as Will stumbled into the downstairs kitchen at my in-laws' house, that the title of the Tom Robbins' novel fell into my mind.

Most of the relatives turned Indian standard time into an art last night, arriving to a five o'clock get-together between six-thirty and seven. (For the record, we got there shortly after three.)

But I was in good spirits for the evening. My husband had taken on the toddler co-sleeping the night before, and I slept the entire night on my amazing pillow-top mattress. After eight or so blissful hours, I awoke to the sun gently filtering in through the windows. I heard my child eating her breakfast (without me) downstairs. I stretched my non-aching limbs and padded downstairs for some coffee.

With a morning like that, even a delayed family gathering - with dinner to follow - couldn't upset me. Then Will ate an entire bowl of biryani with meat (she never eats meat!), saying "yum" the whole time. She revelled in her older cousins' attention, and the 2-year-olds put on a great show of all their favourite songs.

The late night threw us all off today, but we still managed to pick out a lot of different pots and plants for me to start my own deck garden. I'm going to focus on a few herbs: basil, thyme, parsley and rosemary; some strawberries in a pot; some mini tomatoes and red leaf lettuce. I've never been ~~much of a~~ any sort of a gardener, so we shall see how it goes.

Cough, cough, sniffle

2009-05-10T09:00:00.000-04:00

There are some definite benefits to being married to a family doctor. Free birth control pills. Twenty-four hour access to a medical opinion. The hilarity of watching one of your brothers ask him to take a look at "this one spot on my" whatever at family gatherings.

But ever since H started seeing patients every day, and especially after he finished building his practice - over a year ago now - Will and I have been getting sick. A lot.

It started last June when she had a terrible deep cough for more than a week. She ended up on two different puffers and an antibiotic for an ear infection. My cough got so bad I had to use the puffers too.

This fall I got strep throat for the first time ever. Again, the benefit of the family doc husband is that he could bring home the rapid strep test. The downside? Strep throat really hurts!

At some other point in the fall both Will and I had such deep coughs and wheezing that we even went for chest x-rays - which showed nothing - but back to the puffers we went.

I know all of this exposure to different illnesses is actually building Will's immune system, so I guess in the long run it's a good thing. But enough is enough. There is nothing more pitiful than a toddler waking up in the middle of the night crying, "nose! nose!"

I am also absolutely certain these upper respiratory tract infections are contributing to Will's sleep issues. Every time something starts to work well, the coughing/sputtering/congestion wake ups start all over again.

I am grateful for one thing. (I feel like I should whisper this, so the fates don't hear.) We haven't yet been hit by a terrible stomach bug. I'll take another cold virus over dealing with vomit any day.