So...
I've gotten a few emails since the "Jesus Complex" post I wrote in the middle of the night yesterday. It seems I should make an additional post to clarify what I meant...

Yes, I do seem to have a bit of a Jesus complex.
Yes, I do realize how tryingly annoying this is, but hey! Thanks for pointing it out to me.

For those people who seem to think I was actually following them through the store, give up the guilt. If you're ignoring your kid so you can check out bathmats, all the power to you - perhaps your child will return the favour to you someday.

Some dear friends have understandingly pointed out that all of this may stem from my frustration with the adoption process and how long it will take to do my masters degree and be in a position to help children. Others have recommended that I stop watching television as it is full of sensationalistic poison anyway.

I think both suggestions are valid. I understand that perhaps if our adoption was stalled or my masters degree was too slow or my neighbourhood wasn't baring it's problems or television was little more information and a little less drama or the stores weren't filled with consumerist rage... then I might be okay.
It is too much all at once.

You're right, I do feel frustrated because I don't have the tools to change the things I see as unjust. I am also frustrated with the people around me who don't think what I'm feeling is valid. Some people have always wanted to give birth to a child, I haven't. I certainly don't think it's wrong to want to be pregnant so why is it wrong for me to want to adopt?

I appreciate all the emails and comments to this weblog, really I do. Sometimes I can't believe the amount of understanding and compassion that I get from people I don't know. Nevertheless, it's times like this when I realize that my emotions at one in the morning aren't really an accurate depiction of my state of mind.

Funny enough, no one seems to have shared those feelings of everyone's child as connected to your own. I didn't understand this before I had Franklin but now I can't watch a movie or read a book that involves a child suffering without getting extremely upset.

A person I know, who is a very nice guy, once asked why I felt that the tragedy in Ossetia was any more tragic than any other hostage, bombing, mass murder in the world. Why do children make it more terrible?

Its not any worse than any other tragedy except that when you are a parent, you realize the responsibility you have to your child. You also realize how much they look to you to explain the world. Did these children in Ossetia understand why they were being killed? Children should have an expectation of love and security. It's horrifying when you hear of neglect and abuse against a child by someone they relied on to protect them.

Franklin trusts me so much and I can't imagine not being there for him if something went wrong. I know I can't be there all the time but for me, that's one thing that is so hard about being a parent - trusting that other people will treat him with the same respect and love as D and I do.

How must the parents in Ossetia live now? Did the children already understand the conflicts in their country? Were they prepared that something like this might happen? It's horrifying to think that they may have understood all too well what was happening. What kind of childhood is that?

It's all horrifying. It paralyzes me sometimes. Other times, it makes me cry. However, most of the time, I'm okay with my situation for the moment. I'm just working my way toward making a difference and I'll get there.

I want to write about uplifting things... really I do.
I can't do it these days. I'm just not feeling it.

Seriously, I am having a hard time.

Perhaps it started on the plane ride home last week?
When Franklin and I were jammed inside an airplane bathroom while Mum made "pee pee sounds" and splashed all over the underside of her bum (is there and overside?) and I faintly heard the pilot mumble something about weather and landing problems? Perhaps the repeated descent, assent, and then a final, suspenseful, forced landing in pea soup fog?
I don't think I have said that many Hail Marys since I first said the word "fcuk" on the playground when I was seven years old. I didn't want Clinton Mitchell to think I was a pussy but I also wasn't about to burn in hell for him either.
(That's three quarters in the swear jar, Justin - sorry Dave)

Then there was the time when I saw my neighbour's child wandering around in 7 degree weather in her bare feet, looking for her mother... again.

Then there was that American news broadcast I fell asleep to - the one where I think there are about 15 kids missing and presumed dead in the Oregon State alone. My dreams seemed to correspond with every abduction and murder in a vivid CSI action style complete with a re-enactment of bullets traveling through brains and water entering through lungs.

Perhaps it was the time I was wondering around the hardware store watching a Mother ignore her daughter in a frenzied state of Christmas shopping euphoria while addressing her chatter with that annoying
"umhmm? yeah? sure, that's nice"
Of course, until the kid started to whine and then she was all into the surprised,
"Man, Kaitlen! What is your problem today!" act until she was able to turn around and continue to check out bath mat and towel options.

Perhaps it's the realization that Lushlife, from my comments the other day, may have hit the nail through my thick head. Perhaps it's important to recognize our limitations and some people have a tendency to take too much work home with them. These people aren't able to handle those jobs which are emotionally draining.
I may be one of those people and a profession in project coordination for Unicef, the Red Cross or some other agency like it, is not the occupation for me.
So when the dream seems misfigured, where's the goal supposed to go? If I have trouble living here, watching the news, or even shopping, perhaps I'm not tough enough to set up those walls which are so essential.

Then there is the recent realization that my expectation for adoption is looking more and more grim. There are growing numbers of people and circumstances against this dream - more now than I ever had. I have started to wonder, was it only acceptable when it didn't seem to be a real possibility?

Or perhaps it's everything put together, making me feel ineffectual, with my little self-serving webpage telling people how sad I am. Poor me with a roof over my head, food to eat, university education, loving partner, healthy child, and supportive family.

You see, when you have a child, every other child seems to become your child too. At least, that's what seems to have happened to me. Anything, even an over tired toddler with her shop-o-holic mother will get me upset, obsessed and morose.

Perhaps it's me that needs a little less me time.

Then there was that American news broadcast I fell asleep to - the one where I think there are about 15 kids missing and presumed dead in the Oregon State alone. My dreams seemed to correspond with every abduction and murder in a vivid CSI action style complete with a re-enactment of bullets traveling through brains and water entering through lungs.

Perhaps it was the time I was wondering around the hardware store watching a Mother ignore her daughter in a frenzied state of Christmas shopping euphoria while addressing her chatter with that annoying
"umhmm? yeah? sure, that's nice"
Of course, until the kid started to whine and then she was all into the surprised,
"Man, Kaitlen! What is your problem today!" act until she was able to turn around and continue to check out bath mat and towel options.

Perhaps it's the realization that Lushlife, from my comments the other day, may have hit the nail through my thick head. Perhaps it's important to recognize our limitations and some people have a tendency to take too much work home with them. These people aren't able to handle those jobs which are emotionally draining.
I may be one of those people and a profession in project coordination for Unicef, the Red Cross or some other agency like it, is not the occupation for me.
So when the dream seems misfigured, where's the goal supposed to go? If I have trouble living here, watching the news, or even shopping, perhaps I'm not tough enough to set up those walls which are so essential.

Then there is the recent realization that my expectation for adoption is looking more and more grim. There are growing numbers of people and circumstances against this dream - more now than I ever had. I have started to wonder, was it only acceptable when it didn't seem to be a real possibility?

Or perhaps it's everything put together, making me feel ineffectual, with my little self-serving webpage telling people how sad I am. Poor me with a roof over my head, food to eat, university education, loving partner, healthy child, and supportive family.

You see, when you have a child, every other child seems to become your child too. At least, that's what seems to have happened to me. Anything, even an over tired toddler with her shop-o-holic mother will get me upset, obsessed and morose.

Perhaps it's me that needs a little less me time.

Twice today I began to write here and twice I stopped. Twice I was distracted by stupid, mundane things such as washing the stickers off our patio window or eating bacon...
and then I look up my webpage and see that blurry photo and my admission to inedible meals my child will actually ingest (if distracted by the right object) and feel compelled to leave something more presentable.

So here goes...

The journey from after dinner play up to the bathroom and into the bath is getting rough. D and I have devised such a production now that most people, if present for such theatrics, would quietly put their shoes back on and slip out the door.

Back when Franklin was "learning how to sleep" we found out about the marvels of a consistent bedtime ritual and have been successful ever since. The regularity of a bath, three stories and milk before bed helped us help Franklin. We had the routine down pat, Franklin knew the cues, bedtime was easy.

Now however, bedtime ritual means.... bedtime.
Why go to bed when you can do everything/anything else? As a result, to get Franklin to venture upstairs has become something we can't tell him to do. Instead, we convince him that going upstairs will be the MOST FUN THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD.

At present, the MOST FUN THING TO DO IN THE WORLD consists of a parade complete with paper towel roll horn, cake plate drum and whatever the third person can gather to wave around while singing. When we do this little pageant up the stairs, Franklin comes joyfully along singing,

"IIIIII love a parade, the tramping of feet,
I love every beat I hear of a drum.
I love a parade, when I hear a band
I just want to stand and cheer as they come.
That rat-a tat-tat, the blare of a horn.
That rat-a tat-tat, a bright uniform....

We're usually up the stairs by a rat-a tat-tat so we don't really go much further than this. I'll spare you the rest of the lyrics. Actually, I didn't even know the real lyrics until I looked them up tonight. D and I usually ad-lib certain stereotypical gay voice inflections with our own immature sexual innuendoes - because we're good parents that way.

To tell you the truth, getting upstairs isn't so hard. Getting his pajamas on (even in solid colours) isn't so bad either. It's the getting him naked and into the bath which has been the most difficult. He loves the bath, he's even better about water on his face now, but getting in the damn thing...

Last night, D was playing squash and I knew I was going to have to approach the subject on my own. We got upstairs (rat-a tat-tat...) and I started to run the water.

Franklin squeals, and runs screaming in the other direction. Argh.

So what does any mature and reasonable mother do?
I take off all my clothes and do a naked dance. He's laughing, he's watching, he starts dancing (because look how much fun Mum is having!) and lets me take off most of his clothes. However, it's the shirt that's the trouble - especially if it's striped.

So I bribe him.
I tell him he can wear my bra if he takes off his shirt.

The shirt is off in an instant. The bra is on, we prance, he gets bored.
But he's naked!
All of a sudden we're in the tub, we're washed, we're out of the tub, pjs are on, milk drank, stories are read, everyone is kissed, hugged and said goodnight, I love you too! to.
It's bedtime by 7:30pm.

Task accomplished and all it took was a parade, a naked dance and a bit of cross-dressing. Who says I can't do this parenting thing?

I don't believe all children's television is bad.
I don't think that watching Blues Clues, Dora the Explorer or This is Daniel Cook is a passive way to keep Franklin occupied while I smoke crack in the kitchen. I find it amusing when people tell me with such pride that their child doesn't know who Steve is, or the Wiggles, or Sniper the Fox. These shows aren't the crap we watched when we were kids, man. It's really quite cool.

We participate with Franklin while we watch. We point out the clues to Joe, tell Swiper not to swipe, help Boots can pick the right path, and break dance with Daniel.

In terms of Blues Clues, we all miss Steve. Don't get me wrong, Joe's great and his drag queen rendition of Little Red Riding Hood was a classic. I especially love the fact that he changes his clothes.
Nevertheless, there was something about Steve that made you feel like you were in on the joke - that he knew that you knew, that the world is nuts but it's all okay for the next little while as we tried to figure out was the hell Blue's trying to say.
Steve also had a tendency to where the same green striped shirt every day.

Every day, the same striped shirt.
If it was cold, he had a green striped hat, scarf and mittens. When it finally came time to pack up for "college", his suitcase was full of the same green striped shirt.

Franklin loves the striped shirt. It is a bit of a challenge to convince him to take off anything striped he might be wearing - pajamas, t-shirts, pants, even his socks. They don't have to be green, just striped - "like Steve".

Fortunately, there is a large variety of striped children's wear available and we have taken advantage of every value village stripe in his size.
Every Stripe.
If you live in this city, have a 2 year old and you are looking for stripes in children's consignment stores, I apologize. I'm just trying to get my kid to wear clean clothes everyday.

The only thing is The Stripes Don't Match - yes, here is the anal retentive, Martha Stewart side of me that only my mother knew existed.
Nevermind don't match! Who wears stripes and stripes together! - even if they did match!

It seems Franklin has reached that age when he wants to read his own stories and choose his own clothes and although I don't mind skipping pages and making up new dialogue, I seem to have an odd hang up about my son looking like a circus clown.

Yes, I know, I gotta get over this.

So, people I have been emailing and talking to have been referring to certain dirtyolive posts as, "The One Where You Talk About Your Baby Sleeping" and "The One Where You Wrote About How You Want to Adopt" and other such non dated references. It's beginning to sound like I have a Friends sitcom going on here.

- and I don't.

So, perhaps I'm going to try and come up with titles. This shouldn't be so hard. Perhaps I'll just use the last sentence of my post as the title to the beginning. That way, you'll have some idea of where I'm going with all my babble. Sound good? Good.

Now back to regular programming.

My son is odd.
For instance, my latest evidence consists of his vocabulary choices. He doesn't just hand me his juice cup like a normal, cute, little 2 year old. He doesn't even say, "Here Mommy, take my juice please". Nope, he will pass the container my way and say,

"Here you go my Mother, this is a juice cup".

We've been reading "Are you my Mother?" to him every once and awhile so I'm thinking he may have caught this little phrase from the book. As well, about a month ago, as I was leaving from daycare, I said "Goodbye my son!" in a grandiose, overly dramatic flourish so as to distract him from the gooey cornstarch and vegetable oil swamp with which he was burying his T-Rex. He didn't feel the need to match my theatrics while answering back. Rather, he glanced up (very un-dramatically) and patiently replied,

"See you later, my Mother".

Now that I'm writing this, you probably think I'm crazy. Trust me, it sounds weird coming out of a toddler's mouth.

Well, after that big revelation - that even my son now understands what a goof-ball of a mother he has - I will depart. I figure, if I'm going to get all title-happy on my webpage, I might as well try out some CSS too. I'm going to try and look all proper, because then I'll be a real writer, feel misunderstood, and stick my head in an oven.

Too much Sylvia Plath.