How Great Are Great-Grandmas

My grandmother is now in a nursing home, after having suffered a stroke this past summer. She has good days and bad days. A couple of days ago, I received this card in the mail:

"You're three and you're special . . . "

I suppose this is a sign of her doing well and not so well. It is close to my birthday, and I am 3 plus something. Truly I love the card; I love the effort she made to think of me and to write to me. So because I love her, and I love that Geister and Boo have a great-grandma, I wanted to post about it. However, despite my efforts to write in a more essay-like manner, this post became a list post.

My grandma is a great great-grandma because:

• She remembers everyone’s birthday.


• She gave stuffed animals (dogs) to her great-grandchildren at Christmas.


• She treasures all the pictures she gets of the great-grandchildren.


• She called my daughter’s legs “doubles” when she first had her stroke, stroking Boo’s exposed legs and repeating “My, what doubles.” They were at the time, beautifully chubby doubles.


• She’s said that both my children have great names.


• She now calls the minister the “minister’s wife”, because the minister is a woman.
  

I know my children love their great-grandma because:

• When we left after the last visit to her, Geister said “Mommy that was fun. That was fun!” Granted, there were cars for him to play with, but I think his heart is blessed with the innocence of a three-year old. He thought it was fun to visit his great-grandmother in a nursing home.


• Boo likes to be held by her great-grandma, and play with her watch. Boo does not have eyes for age marks, wrinkly skin, or the discolouration of sickness.
  
  * * * * * *
  Well, that’s about it, because now I'm stumped; what else can I say? Should I be making fun of my grandma in any way, even when there is obvious humour? But I won't make light of what she means to me, or how much my children (and all the great-grandchildren) mean to her. She’s a tie to my past, a vision of my future, and at present, someone who sends me very cool mail.
  
  * * * * * *
  
  And also Yay Oma! I can’t forget her in a post about great-grandparents. She’s not so confused; in fact she’s in good health and she, also, loves to visit the great-grandchildren. I am the one who is sometimes left confused, as she has a tendency to throw in Dutch words with her English, without realizing she’s doing so. Hallo and Verwarring!
  

No Topic

I don’t have a topic to write about, although lots float around. Am I privileged? How does this affect my blogging, my writing, my voice? What about our vacation to Disney? Should I post a few pictures, talk about Mickey?

Today is such an ordinary day, except it’s my birthday. It’s a Monday, which means my husband worked all day, and then came home for a short time, before heading out for his weekly volleyball game—it’s hard to object to this, this non-adjustment of his schedule to accommodate my birthday, when his birthday falls every year on Hallowe’en. Sometimes I make him wait for his birthday; mine can wait too.

So it’s an ordinary day. Boo woke up at 7:30, and I nursed her. I don’t know when I’m going to give it up. I thought she would have weaned herself by now, but she hasn’t, so we continue on. Then Geister gave me the little gift of sleeping in to 8:00, which meant I had time to get myself up and dressed, face washed, hair quickly brushed and contacts in. When I got him up I told him it was my birthday, and that meant no matter when in the day I felt like a hug, he had to give me one. So he whispered “Happy birthday” to me in his morning voice and gave me a hug.

Then we all had breakfast, and I packed the diaper bag, consulting the list I keep on the side of the fridge—it helps me remember all the basics, even though I’ve been doing this for three years.
My husband called from the office, wanting to know would I be interested in seeing the von Trapp family children? I answered his question at face value, trying to assess my true interest level, when I realized of course this was a query targeted at finding a birthday present. I heard a few more clicks of his keyboard, as he continued his internet search. “How about Ricky Martin?” he asked. “Christina Aguilera?”
“I want a spa day!” I said.
“Nope. Boring!”

I called A. to see if she was willing to come to the indoor playground (which of course she was since it’s my birthday and I got to decide). She called K., while I called R. It’s an ordinary day, except that R. is grieving the loss of her sister-in-law’s baby, who died on Saturday. The baby died in utero, two weeks before the due date, the cord wrapped around her neck six times. She was breech; was she trying to turn herself around, getting ready for her own birth? R. is going to the funeral on Friday, and she herself is 39 weeks pregnant. How can this be?? But it is.

So we all agreed to meet at the playground, and I packed the snacks for the kids, grapes because they’re healthy, and gold fish because that’s what Geister will eat, and I got everyone in the van. I hit Starbucks of course, and treated myself with a grande size latte instead of the usual tall.

We got to the playground in decent time; I think the morning routine is increasingly efficient, although without much margin—a last minute poopy diaper can still make us late to anything.

The playground was fun—we hadn’t been in three or four weeks and in that time Boo had matured considerably, her taste in toys now completely grown up. She played independently in the toddler area, and even played in the sit-in cars (what do you call them?), propelling herself backwards with a surprising amount of control. Geister climbed up into the tubular play structure for the first time, and then got (predictably) stuck when he refused to come down the towering slide. I had to help him out, but he did so well to venture up in the first place. His friends have been doing this for while, but he’s cautious, and that’s OK.

After the playdate we went home for lunch, my parents sent me flowers, and I tried to minimize the time I spent playing cars with Geister, and tried to maximize the time I spent reading my magazine.

The day slipped on from there, reaching the home stretch to bedtime, a time when we all perk up; me, with the anticipation of some down time, and they with the last bursts of energy for the day. Geister got me to play cars one more time, creating a “crash” of cars so large, that he could only look on and quote Richard Scarry, “This is what I would call SOME ACCIDENT. You can see from yourself.”

Boo went to bed well, after a bottle and one last diaper change, a story, prayer, and song; then Geister went to bed, peacefully listening to my (always abbreviated) reading of the aforementioned Richard Scarry's Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. I tucked him in, lied down with him till he fell asleep, then snuck out.

It’s such an ordinary day, but it’s mine. It is and has been, and when I look at my children I am so deeply thankful that they’re here, living this life along side me, given to me by God, given a chance to reach their birthdays, too.

From 2004

When Geister was the same date as the e-mail.

This is an excerpt from an e-mail I wrote in May 2004, when my son was four months old. It contained questions regarding what I had learned about myself since becoming a mother.
The first section must have been my general thoughts (??). Who can remember. You can see my editorial comments are italicized. Duh.

I have no guilt about leaving my baby in dirty diapers, when I can't be bothered to change him. No comment.
At some point, sleep deprivation will catch up with me. Huh! As if four months of spotty sleep was deprivation!
I may be vain—Geister's flat head really bothers me. It’s all good now.

2) What have you learned about God since becoming a mother?
How much he must love us!!! And, how easily we could please him with the simplest things. This part I meant.
Re: Psalm 131—heavily quoted by Elizabeth George in A Woman After God's Own Heart. We were all meant to be homemakers!!! I believe I am saying this in jest, but Elizabeth George isn’t.

3) Do you feel like you've given up your own life since becoming a mother?
Yes!!! I don't do much for myself anymore. When Geister was 4 weeks old, my mom and him and I went to the mall and I splurged on some makeup—I remember it as being SO indulgent to buy something for myself, and to think of myself.
I have definitely given up work (temporarily anyway). However, I am rediscovering parts of my life—I'm reading more, participating in the community more.

4) What haven't you done since the baby was born?
Movies (at night). Restaurants (at night). Gotten a decent haircut. Travelled lightly. Eaten slowly.

5) How many times did you get up last night?
Once!!!! :)

6) What has the baby done to surprise you this week?
See above response :) He has also gnawed at my fingers, and he has sat in his high chair with great enjoyment watching my husband and I eat.

7) What do you do when you feel overwhelmed?
Internalize. Then talk to my husband when I can. Also, call the Grandmas in to help.
I’m not sure what talking to my husband would do, aside from increase the stress due to his sympathetic but entirely too practical suggestions ("You just need more sleep"; "Hire a babysitter" and the like); Now my first line of defense is to call K, A, R, G, AS, among others ;)

8) Which of your traits do you want to pass on to your child?
My level-headedness! And a rich inner life. Very important.

9) Which of your husband's traits do you want to pass on to your child?
Friendliness and enthusiasm!!

Now that we have two kids, I’m happy for them to split the pot. If at least one is friendly, I’ll be happy. If at least one is level-headed, I’ll be happy. Etc.

My Little One Is One

From my little little girl to

my big little girl.

The best days of my life so far include December 28th, 2003, the day my son was born. But it’s not his birthday today, so moving on: That best day was subsequently one-upped by October 12th, 2005, the day I had my 18-weekish ultrasound for Boo, found out she was healthy, and then was told it looks like you’re having a girl. I cried, while my husband just stood there not sure how to react to my reaction (Happy tears? Check. OK). Then in the parking lot of medical building I tried calling Aunt Sassy—work number not listed because you better not be calling this government office willy-nilly—whom I couldn’t reach, then called B&P who was silent when I called and told her the news because she wanted to cry. That evening my parents came to visit and I had the ultrasound picture with me, and so I could say slyly to my mom, “Do you want to see a picture. . .of your granddaughter?” My dad was just coming in the front door and was bent over slightly in the mid-attempt to take his shoes off. I wasn’t sure he heard me (I was going to ask him the same question) until he stood up in a nanosecond and said, “Girl? It’s a girl? Name?” in a perfunctory style that was so funny with the enthusiasm it contained.

I grew up with the fundamental belief that when having children, it doesn’t matter what sex they are, only that they are healthy. This is what I heard my parents say, over and over again, on any occasion when asked if they had ever hoped one way or the other. I have specific memories of this. I am six years older than my sister, so I can remember my mother’s pregnancy and remember putting in my two cents worth that the baby should be a girl, because then I would have a brother and a sister. I got my wish.

So I carried this notion into both my pregnancies, that all I wanted was a healthy baby, and I dared not wish for something too particular. And this remains fundamentally true. But somewhere along my pregnancy with Boo, I realized that of course given the choice, since we had a son, I would like to have a daughter. And then I realized, I could actually say this out loud and if anyone dared misinterpret that to think I wouldn’t therefore love and adore another son, they would be wrong, wrong, wrong.

My mother soon after revealed something that shocked me: She had always carried a preference for the sex of her children. She wanted her firstborn to be a son, to carry on the dwindling family name. Then she naturally hoped for a daughter. Then with her third pregnancy, she hoped for another girl—she figured if she was going to hang around the house a lot and raise a “caboose” child (my word, not hers) then she preferred a girl.

*****
Now finally moving on to the next best day, February 24, 2006:
I woke up at 1am as my water broke. I couldn’t believe it—it was nine days early. It was hard for me to believe that I could deliver early, since Geister was eight days late. I felt instant low-grade fear at my core—after almost nine months of pregnancy, I was actually going to have to i) go through labour; and ii) bring home a baby and have two children to look after.

My husband is a doctor, so in our house none of the “Oh my water broke” or “Oh, I think I might be in labour” cause any nervous excitement whatsoever. He assessed the clock—Hmm, middle of the night—and rolled over to go back to sleep.

I dozed intermittently until four in the morning. I showered, and then pondered who to call. Who was on the list to get the “labour-has-started” call? Who on the list really wanted to be called at 4 in the morning? I tried to call my parents but I couldn’t reach them. Then I called Aunt Sassy. Then I called my parents again, who answered this time. Then at 7am I called Geister’s daycare to ask, since I was in labour, was it possible that he could come for the day, even though it wasn’t his regular day? Because of a particular confluence of factors, there was no one to take care of him until the reinforcements from out of town arrived.

We drove to the hospital shortly after 8, and I was examined. I wasn’t far along, and my doctor told me to go home and walk some more. Then a nurse pulled her aside and advised that I not be sent home, because there was no chance in heck I’d be readmitted. They were too busy. They were going to redirect; I’d be sent elsewhere if I left. So I stayed, and I was the last one admitted that day.

Labour progressed relatively slowly. I was hoping for a lightening-quick delivery, since this was my second child. But no, I laboured intensely for some time, only to be told I was 2cm dilated. Lunch time came and went. I was given an epidural at 6cm, but it didn’t take. Shortly after 3pm, I felt the need to push—Now for many women, they know what this feels like. The agony of needing to push. But for some of us, this is an unknown part of labour. With Geister, I had such a good epidural I never really felt the pushing—By 3:30 I had to push. My doctor was across the street, and in my haze of pain, I didn’t know that my husband had gloves on, ready to deliver his own child in case my doctor didn’t make it in time.

I remember being crossways on the bed, writhing, and thinking “I’m going to die” thoughts because it hurt so much I didn’t see how my body was designed to withstand so much. I remember being told to straighten up so that the baby didn’t shoot out onto the floor. I remember looking at the faces around me: my husband, the med student, my doctor—no longer across the street—the L&D nurse, and my mom. It was a crowd, but it hardly mattered. I remember thinking that despite the pain, I knew that it was too late for a C-section, that the baby was too far down. So I pushed and willed myself past the pain. My daughter was born at 4pm that afternoon.

She was so beautiful! 8lbs, 4oz, and a nicely shaped head. (I note this, as with Geister, on whom the vacuum was used, I can make no such claim.) It wasn’t love at first sight; we had loved her for so long already.

****

So Happy Birthday Boo! You are one year old today and you are worth all the sleep-deprived months of this past year and more. You are gorgeous, and wonderful, and I am so privileged to be your mommy. Sigh.
Love, Mommy.

Who Are You and What Is Weird?

OK, Her Bad Mother tagged me with making a list of six weird things that you don’t know about me. Now, defining “you” in this case to be primarily Aunt Sassy and Bub and Pie, then they know everything and so make the task virtually impossible. But if I consider my audience on a wider base, then “you” don’t know very much about me and the world of my stories is my oyster.
As then for the term “weird” what if these things are not so much weird as “interesting” or “fascinating” or “never-woulda-guessed”? And what truly is weird, when all of this is so normal to me?

But enough dithering. Here goes:

1. I have to leave a little bit of my drink in almost any glass I use when drinking, and there is no reason why, although I often come back to finish the drink.
2. I once punched a man, twice, in the streets of Santiago, because he touched me. I was riled up, after having just seen the movie “The Net” with Sandra Bullock, aka “La Red” in Spanish.
3. I won a talent contest for creating and acting in some commercials (there was a very small competitive pool, and I think I was twelve).
4. My son was 10lbs 12oz when he was born, vaginally. I’ve been planning a whole labour and birth story post on this one.
5. I got Garth Iorg’s autograph, and thought he was cute. Former Blue Jay—long time ago.
6. Once I wear an outfit to a funeral, I have trouble wearing it again—when I was a child, I felt like the clothes had caught the cooties, but today it’s more from a sense of lingering sadness.
   

And that’s weird enough to call it a day.

Geister Is a Quiet Boy

At home, in his natural environment, with Boo on the floor. Cars: All you really need.

Two days ago, Geister got a report card from preschool. The contents were not surprising to me, in terms of the overall comments. They were:

“Geister is a very quiet person. He enjoys working in the blocks and cars centre. Geister likes to participate in both creative and art activities.
Geister did have some trouble recognizing letters and numbers. We are going to work with him on this and with the phonics program and workbooks in place hopefully they will improve.
Geister loves to come and listen in circle but does not always want to participate in what we are doing. He seams [sic] to be more comfortable speaking to the kids in a small group.
Keep up the great job Geister!”

That’s my son. He is a quiet, car-loving, non-participatory boy, who often thinks the letter W is the letter M.

In addition to these comments, there were four detailed sections outlining his progress in the areas of Language Components, Fine Motor, Gross Motor, and Social/Emotional Component. I knew some of this, but didn’t know others.

For example I knew that he:

• knows his gender
• is beginning to know his full name [Well, false, really. At home, he knows it all the time.]
• can’t zip a zipper, but he can button buttons, and put pegs on a peg board
• can hop on one foot
• can throw a ball in an intended direction [natch].
• can build tall towers
• can share, role play, and imitate others
• needs a lot more practice letting others know when he needs to use the washroom

But I didn’t know that he:

• is beginning to trace dots, and use a computer mouse
• can walk on a balance beam
• is able to move to rhythm
• washes his hands without help [!]
• gets high marks for consistently tidying up after himself. [Shocker. Not observed at home.]
• is less adept at expressing emotions
• is generally good at helping others

All told, I’m pleased with his report and so I echo the sentiments of his teacher: “Keep up the great job Geister!”

The Post Where the Blogger Interviews Herself

Q: Where did you come up with the name “Mommy-Like Days”? Are you glad you picked it? Do you still think it’s cool?
A: From my head; Hard to say; No. I guess I like the intended pun. I have always thought that was Clever. But I picked it in isolation, when I wasn’t exactly involved in the blogosphere. I didn’t realize, should I ever appear on a blog roll, it would place me in the middle of the pack, alphabetically speaking. Clearly, you want to be AAA Mommy, or 1 Mama, or something.

Q: Why blog?
A: Writing is fun! And topically speaking, mommy-related issues, child-rearing issues are extremely relevant to my life now. Blogging about such things is a way to carve out a bit of a life to call my own. As long as I can’t escape the mommyness of my life, I might as well embrace it.

Q: What is the main reason you don’t blog more?
A: The children. Boo doesn’t sleep well—I don’t have a morning, and I certainly don’t have an evening. I sometimes have an afternoon, but you know, things around the house have to get done sometime, as much I don’t prioritize “housework”. My husband once called housework the “biggest waste of human existence”, but he’s given to unintended hyperbole. I am not that strongly opposed to it, but stuff does need to get done.

Q: Who are your favourite bloggers?
A: Bub and Pie, and Her Bad Mother. They’re also the only ones I read regularly—but I’m looking to expand. I really want to expand my horizons.

Q: I’d like to talk about memes. Do you consider them to be an effective way to bring bloggers together, or merely imitative?
A: What’s a meme?

Q: What was a bigger adjustment: having your first baby, or having the second?
A: The second, by far. Adjusting to two kids is far more all encompassing, though when the first was born, I’d never have thought so. I mean, I would have said having one was a pretty big adjustment.

Q: What’s going to be harder, raising a boy or raising a girl?
A: How should I know?

Q: You have what is popularly known as a million dollar family. You have both a son and a daughter. I hear that your husband and you, however, prefer to call your family the choix de roi. Can you explain that?
A: It was in a book we read, a really funny essay of an American couple living in Paris. They were having a daughter and everyone was congratulating them because they had a son already, too; so they had the choix de roi. It takes them almost until the day the wife goes into labour to figure out what people mean. Basically it insures their kingdom survives. . .you know, the first born male preserves the lineage, then the second born, a girl, can be married off and expands the kingdom. I mean, if they were royalty, of course.

Q: You and your husband are not royalty.
A: (Pause) I guess I’m not totally comfortable sharing all the inside jokes . . .

Q: Whatever. Here’s my next question. Are you a good parent?
A: Wow. That’s a good question. My love for my children is absolute and unequalled, so I’m doing OK on that front and for all that matters, which is a good deal I suspect. But it’s the details of parenting that befuddle me, and that I’m not so good at. I can be a bit absent-minded at times. That’s a sign of sleep deprivation, too, but I think I’m not a natural when it comes to their daily care. But encouraging them, exposing them to new experiences, I’m good at that.

Q: I want to thank-you for your time, MLD or however you want to be known. And personally I think you’re a kick-butt mommy, you’re just too humble to see it.
A: Humility is my greatest attribute. And thank-you.

Sad, Hungry Geister

This is a sad, hungry boy, demonstrating how to do breakfast right, any time of day.

When Geister got up from his afternoon nap today (he had an afternoon nap—yay!) he climbed up to the table and promptly requested breakfast. He requests breakfast in this manner: “Mommy, I want breakfast. I want Cheerios, juice, and Life cereal on the table.”
That is to say, only the Life cereal is placed directly on the table. The other parts of the meal are in their respective bowls and cups.

Why did he want breakfast of all things? Did he think he just slept through the night??
But then I realized something that made the order or titles of the day’s meals irrelevant: We forgot to give him lunch today.

Oops.

Nevermind that we were traveling from out of town back home, or that, after a good and proper breakfast in the am, we had drunk drinks with Aunt Sassy* at Starbucks—we had forgotten to give him lunch of any kind.

And so he ate his breakfast and then the chicken fajitas I’d cooked for supper. Oops.

*I would like to introduce Aunt Sassy. She's my sister, and Sassy is not her real name. Despite the fact I just heard a tale of a real-life Aunt Sassy who was/is the family drunkard, I am proud to give my sober sister this name. It originated courtesy of Geister.

What I’m Talking About

One of the most useless rejoinders my husband throws at me in conversation is “What are you talking about?”, always expressed in a tone of slight frustration. Would I be overstating my case if I said I hate it?
Allow me to give some examples of how it is used:

Me: Boo only slept for half an hour this morning. I think she’s going to be cranky.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: Geister needs his snow pants for preschool tomorrow. Don’t forget to bring them.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: Your parents called this afternoon. You’re supposed to call them back.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: Hey, do you see yesterday’s paper? I haven’t read it yet.
Him: What are you talking about?

Me: It’s cold outside.
Him: What are you talking about?

The answer to the query of what am I talking about is always exactly what I’ve just said.

So it was to my dismay this morning when, as I was handing Boo a mum mum, Geister looked at me and said, “Mommy, what are you talking about?”
At least, unlike his father, it was not frustration that provoked this question. It was honest, it was sincere, it was of the moment. It was also a little misplaced, as I had said nothing whatsoever.

It was a reminder to me of how our children are a product not only of our genes but of the environment we provide for them. They do what we do, say what we say. Just last night, Geister and his daddy were running around throwing and catching balloons, and I could hear him say “Fumble-itis!” when he missed his catch, or alternatively “Fumble-ruski!” These are the unique lessons (i.e. words) he’s learning from his father. These are not phrases he’s likely to hear outside of our loving home. (He’s sure to pick up the word “smurf” as well from his father which can be used in place of any word whatsoever, as an adjective, noun, etc.—We are leaving early Saturday morning for a road trip. One could say we are leaving at the crack of smurf.—Try it at a party. It’s fun. Honest.)

I wonder what lessons and mannerisms my children are learning from me. Truthfully, I’m too close to tell . . . and maybe I don’t want to know. Do I want someone to notice that my son often walks on a veer, like I tend to do? Or that my daughter rubs her nose like I do?
Hmm, no I don’t.
Note: These are potential examples only and not related to any real life ticks I may or may not have.

This Is Geister and Boo

It's their stuffed animals, really. I am very technically challenged right now. While this is the picture I meant to upload, I am only doing it so I can try to link to it from elsewhere.

You Do What You Have To

Doing what you have to do is key to surviving with two children. I assume this holds true for more than two kids. Before my daughter was born, this was really the best—not so much advice as truism—that I heard. After a couple of months, I made a list of what “doing what you have to do” means to me. I wrote it in the car, while the children were captive.

The list includes:

• Letting Geister watch more television than he used to. I used to restrict the amount he was allowed to watch, when it was just the two of us. It’s funny, I used to think that two Baby Einstein videos in one day was indulgent.
• Going through the drive-through at McDonald’s so that I can eat my lunch, while Geister eats his happily strapped in the car seat, and while Boo sleeps in her car seat (or, if not, then feeding her in the car—actually more comfortable than some narrow-sided rocking chairs I’ve used).
• Letting Boo cry longer than I’d normally do.
• Cooking while nursing (putting water on to boil, taking something out of the oven, etc.)
• Letting Boo co-sleep with us, because I don’t want to come up with creative techniques for inducing sleep, in the middle of the night, when I have a two-year old to deal with in the morning.
• Keeping Geister in daycare two days a week—excellent for mental survival.
• Stealing someone else’s diaper while at a drop-in because I forgot some for Geister (sorry Adam, your name was on it but we were desperate). This point is not so much part of the list, but a confession I’ve been meaning to make.
• Trying to get out of the house every day so that: I retain my sanity, Geister has fun, and Boo falls asleep in the car, there, on the way back, or both. Sometimes I worry I may be over-scheduling the little ones, but that’s another discussion.
• Putting make-up on in the car as we sit in the driveway in the morning. This works well because, aside from taking advantage of the natural sunlight, the kids are strapped in and not going anywhere. I’d do my make-up in the house, but there just isn’t time.
• In public, giving in to more demands from my two-year old than I’d like, because when feeding Boo, I can’t physically enforce whatever it is I’ve told him to do (as in “Put the car away, Geister.” He ignores me. I then ignore that I’ve asked him to do anything). Kudos to my friend A. who I’ve seen chasing her son when he doesn’t listen, with her daughter mid-feed.
• Putting off toilet training.
• Watching The Berenstain Bears: They’re just like people only more so.
  
  Note: I wrote this a few months ago. As an update, we are no longer eating at McDonald’s, or any other drive thru. Co-sleeping is a thing of the past (after CIO), and Treehouse has given way to the CARS movie. I would hate to give the impression that I’m somehow “over” these techniques, though. I’d still use them in a second. But is it possible that life is actually getting easier?

The Devil Wears Old Navy Baby

I’ve just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada, and so I thought I’d do a side-by-side comparison, since the similarities between the boss from hell and “working” for a baby are so evident. That’s how I came to the conclusion that the devil wears Old Navy Baby (and sometimes Gymboree, when there’s a sale).
Note: Of course babies are way cuter, nicer, lovable, and in no way devils.

You probably know the story, but here’s the quick blah, blah, blah plot summary: Andy is the junior assistant to Miranda, the editor-in-chief of a high fashion magazine, and so has to do more of the hands on grunt work than the senior assistant.

Therefore:
We mommies are the junior assistants, and daddies the senior assistants (because we do more of the work in the trenches—but go daddies!).

Andy is on call 24/7.
Mommies are on call 24/7.

Andy gets very little sleep, due to the demands of her job.
Mommies get very little sleep due to the demands of their job.

Andy is not allowed to skip work due to any kind of illness.
Mommies are not allowed to skip work because they are sick.

Andy is not allowed to eat in front of Miranda (“What is that disgusting thing?”
she asks as Andy stands there with a cup of soup. “Throw it out!”)
Mommies are similarly and otherwise prevented from eating.

Andy survives on Starbucks.
I survive on Starbucks (can’t generalize this one, cause I don’t know about other mommies’ drinking habits).

Andy sneaks in calls when she is ostensibly on the job.
Mommies sneak in phone calls only when babies nap, ostensibly on the job.

Miranda’s mood is unpredictable.
Babies’ moods are unpredictable.

Miranda never gives praise for a job well done, but screams when Andy has done something wrong.
Babies don’t give praise for a job well done, but use the cry/scream as the main channel of communication.

Miranda expects Andy to read her mind, and anticipate needs, and frequently changes her mind at the last minute.
Yup.

The pay is a mere pittance.
Ditto.

And finally: Andy is promised that the reward for putting in just a year of servitude will be a leg up on the competition for her dream job.
Mommies are motivated to survive the year by thoughts of an equally tremendous reward—a child who sleeps through the night and eats solids (ah, freedom!).

P.S. It occurs to me that making a comparison of the most taxing job imaginable with motherhood is so easy, I might as well have launched into a tirade examining the ways in which the Pirates of the Caribbean ride in WDW is imperialistic and misogynistic . . .

My Piggies Went to the Carwash

This blog is primarily aimed at family members who like to hear cute toddler stories and, politely, never get tired of them.

I love two year olds for a couple of reasons:
1) What they say is unpredictable.
2) They are very patient when, on occasion, you don’t understand the unpredictable thing they have said.

The other night when I was putting my son to bed (“Mommy, it’s very late! It’s story time!” he had called to me, as is the routine), he noticed my bare feet. He has an aversion to his own bare feet—he’s not the least interested in wearing the sandals I bought him, only the hard-soled Spiderman shoes or soft fire truck Robeez.
We were sitting on the bedroom floor reading stories. We don’t sit in the rocking chair anymore. Maybe it’s because of the makeshift “blackout” curtain my husband put up in the window, which is right by the rocking chair. The curtain is a plastic tablecloth duct-taped to the window frame. It’s frightful.
Anyway, my son noticed my toes. With the delight only possible for a two year old who has just noticed something ordinary, he cried: “Mommy’s toes! Mommy have toes!”
Then he wiggle-waggled across the floor to reach my feet and grabbed the big toe on my right foot.
“This piggy go to the car wash,” he mumbled with imperfect memory, but perfect imagination.
He was more confident with the next toe: “This pig. . .went groceries!”
Next toe: “This pig at home.”
Next: “This pig, car wash!”
And the last: “This piggy went for car ride!”
The game produced many giggles (he laughed, too).

At supper recently, he displayed his patience, comme ca:
“Yellow flame!” he demanded.
Huh?
“Yellow fame!”
I asked, “You want a yellow something?”
“No. Gellow fam.” He was very calm about it, but insistent.
I still didn’t’ understand, so I tried another tactic—the one where I admit I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Sweetheart, can you use more words to tell Mommy what you want?”
He was very agreeable: “Mommy, I want you to sing the song Grandma’s Farm.” As clear and complete as that!
Grandma’s Farm is a song that I learned as “Grandpa’s Farm” but since I have a grandma with a farm, we’ve changed the words slightly in our house. It’s a song that’s used to welcome a bunch of children to a group and their names are inserted at the beginning of each verse. This is a treat for my son. He gets to veto anyone he doesn’t want me singing about. Suffice it to say, some people make it to grandma’s farm, and some don’t.

And now for the bonus family moment: After staring at me with great interest, my son stated, perfect sentence and all, “Mommy, you have boogers in your teeth.”
Boogers?? Where’d he hear that word? Daycare?
Perhaps it goes without saying, but I really didn’t.

Two Kinds of Ugly

I had another topic in mind for my blog today, but since I have started the day with extremely bad hair, I’m in a bad mood, and I’m pondering once again the two kinds of ugly. What I mean by extremely bad hair is this: it’s not that the hair is as bad as it could be, it’s the surrounding circumstances. In somewhat decreasing levels of acceptability, I think it’s OK to have bad hair when:

• you haven’t showered that day
  
• when you have showered but haven’t had time to blow it dry because the baby has started to fuss
  
• when you have showered and completely styled your hair but you are very overdue for a haircut, which has been difficult to schedule because of baby’s imagined erratic feeding on the day you want to go; or even when said baby’s schedule (and/or the toddler’s shenanigans) prevent you from even making the phone call.

It is the worst kind of bad hair when, like me today, you have had time to shower and blow dry your hair, and have recently had a cut and highlights. Then there is no excuse, and I have plummeted into a pit of bad moodiness. (My husband recently called to talk about the Weed Man and fly larvae in our lawn, and asked me how I was doing. I explained that I was in a bad mood due to bad hair, but that in a sense I am finding my current state of mind to be useful. It filters out all the positive things in my day, and leaves me with a true picture of all the negatives. He claims to not relate to this at all.)

In any case, BFF and I realized the phenomenon of two types of ugly in high school. The first and more benign type of ugly is when you aren’t looking your best but it’s still obvious that you’re an attractive person, and it’s a rectifiable situation. The second type is when you look like an essentially ugly person, even if the situation is easily rectifiable. So let’s work this out then. Sometimes you have bad hair, and it’s only the first type of ugly. Sometimes you have bad hair and it’s the second. Sometimes you have an acne breakout and it’s the first type, sometimes the second.
It’s capricious, really.

Today, with my extremely bad hair, I feel like I’m the second type of ugly. But wait! I have a personal out: I’m still experiencing all kinds of post-partum hormones, from nursing full time. This has totally changed (read: screwed with) my hair. For instance, I could smell it burning when I was blowing it dry this morning. Burning hair is not normal. That’s the hormones! Maybe the hormones are also making it look dry, and making the bangs hang limply in my face.
But, nevertheless, this is not apparent to the casual observer. The casual observer is not going to know that while I was trying to blow dry my hair this morning it started to burn, emitting the worst kind of odour. I had to stop drying my hair in that one section, and then I stopped completely, even though my daughter was relaxing in her bouncy seat to the buzz and hum of the hair dryer.

On this note, I would like to mention that although it seemed like I was verging on ugly type two at my brother’s recent wedding, I should be excused for that since my baby was only nine weeks old. I had to shop for a two piece outfit for purposes of easy nursing (I like more formal dresses for weddings), when my body was not yet itself, in a season when the predominant trend is towards a bohemian look. Not good. I ended up wearing a gold skirt with an elastic waist. An elastic waist. That’s not going to hold anything in!
In my more Pollyanna moments, I rationalize that I don’t look that bad in the wedding pictures, just old. Sigh.

To cap off this entry on ugliness, just remember if you have an excuse it’s the first type of ugly. If you don’t, it’s the second. But don’t despair. I doubt many people have had the dubious honour, as I have had, of winning an ugly contest. Years ago, my sister, BFF and I played it round-robin style on a camping trip. It was early in the morning, and we didn’t use mirrors. Instead we each took turns comparing the two people we could see and declaring who was uglier.
I won.
Sigh again.

Pass the Dutchie

I’ve never had a problem grappling with the idea that I married a guy who is half Dutch—mother born in Holland and then raised there till the age of five—but what often causes me pause, is the fact that I now have Dutch children, even though I’m not Dutch myself. (I’m more Irish/Scottish, or mostly Canadian since my ancestors have been here since the early to mid-1800s). I am a fan of the Dutch, and the phrase “If it ain’t Dutch, it ain’t much” is one I’m fond of. The phrase “Dutch people: wooden shoes, wooden head, wouldn’t listen” also amuses me, but of course it’s not as nice.

I don’t like Dutch candies—the black licorice tasting ones with the salt—but I do like Dutch cheese (Edam—yum!), tulips, and Dutch athletes. There’s one great swimmer in particular: Peter Hoogen-can’t-spell-or-pronounce-it-Baum.

I have one rule about the Dutch. I never play Dutch Blitz with them. Dutch Blitz, technically speaking, is a German card game, but you should see the tremendous dexterity and swiftness with which my Dutch friends can snatch up cards and throw them down. I have never won a game. Never. So in accordance with this rule, if I decide to adhere to it, I won’t be able to play Dutch Blitz with my children. But I’m not too sorry about that, as they can play Dutch Blitz with their father, level playing field and all.

So the World Cup action is underway. As my husband is a huge sports fan and LOVES soccer, he finally decided that our car desperately lacked a Dutch flag, the kind of thing most people in the greater Toronto area have flying from their vehicles, respective of their soccer-playing countries of course. We had to look far and wide to find the flag; the malls don’t sell them. Instead, we stopped at a roadside flag vendor and my husband proudly spent $20 to buy the Dutch flag, which in his own words “kind of sucks.” (The flag, not the money spent, although I will note I have since found out that the wholesale price of the flags is $7.) My hubby thinks the Dutch flag is too generic and can be easily confused with the flag of Luxemburg and Croatia, among others. “Will people know it’s the Dutch flag?” he wondered out loud. “Sweetie,” I reassured him, “the right people will know.”

So there it is: we now have the Dutch flag flying proudly from the car. My husband broke the first one, so I went and bought him another. And it’s OK with me: after all, my kids are Dutch, as crazy as that seems to me. My son has beautiful blond hair, and blue eyes, and my daughter we’re not sure about yet. At four months old, her hair isn’t fully in, and her eye colour isn’t set. They’re blue now, but there’s a chance they will turn green and be like her mommy’s.

Hooray for blogs!

This is only a place holder blog. I just wanted to get set up properly, and then all the blogging I do in my head can be downloaded to a real blog.

Yay for me--I'm a happy blogger.