This weekend was purposely packed with opportunities to teach Franklin how to share. The daycare has noticed that by the end of the week, he has the concept pretty much figured out. He may not like it, but he will grudgingly go along with the rules. He asks to play with toys that others have near them, he tells his friends he's not finished if they try to grab anything from him, he's okay with another kid playing next to him with another batch of play dough... Basically the MEMEME bubble gets a little thinner.

By the end of the week, the jumping up and down, shrieking fit has mellowed down to something that resembles controlled negotiation.

So, as a result, it's been concluded that he doesn't have to conform to the same rules at home.

duh

He's an only child. He doesn't have to share. It's all his and his alone.
Apparently, this isn't so good. All that literature I read about sibling spacing and rivalry and competition and comparisons are for nothing because now I'm raising a spoiled and selfish child.
I refuse to believe this.

So, this weekend we had two play-dates, one on each day. Franklin's wonderfully laid back (and 5 month younger) little friend M came over on Saturday. I had an activity planned that was a hell of a lot of fun and incredibly messy. We played with flour. We played with that cake pastry flour that comes salted, that I bought by accident, that I don't use because it's kind of gross to put salt in chocolate chip cookies. It's great to push around with a two inch high bulldozer though!

M's mother thought I was crazy (or stupid).
D thought it was more of an "outdoor activity".

Whatever. Flour went everywhere. Franklin and M had a blast.

On Sunday, we kicked it up a notch and Franklin went to visit two little boys who aren't that laid back and are used to a more aggressive sort of negotiation for their toys.

It was a little crazier, especially since all play revolved around trains. Nevertheless, it was good.

Today was the test. I told the daycare this morning about our play-dates. I thought the woman was going to pat me on the head.

"Good For YOOOOU!"

Franklin's day went well. It wasn't prefect, but there were no meltdowns.

If my mother-in-law read this weblog I'd be getting a phone call right now. For her, there's no time like the present to pop out another curly haired angel.

So this is it.

I'm not writing a long entry because I've spend half the night loading up archives.

It's still all over the place.

I'm also trying to figure out if/where I'm placing Franklin's photo. It might become more of a pop-up than a front page presence because to add a photo to this design might be a little much.

It's pretty different, eh?
It might not be as "family friendly" and it might not look like a "Mommy Blog" but I like it and I want to keep it this way for awhile. I am in LOVE LOVE LOVE with the picture of that olive.

Just look at that olive!

Juicy.

So, I'm looking for observations from other users.... font size okay? Clear? Navigation? Suggestions?

I'm changing my website design. This means I'm changing the "DNS nameserver" and making another hosting transfer. The place I'm with, however nice and courteous, has waaaay too many bells and whistles than I need. I think it's meant for large scale operations with many computers, and many pages that sell things and answer questions and require technical support. It's alos on the pricey side.

This little dirtyolive doesn't need all that much zippity-do-da.

I'm a simple gal. I'm changing to movable type and I'm moving everything over to tartgraphics. If anyone wants a great person to deal with - understanding, cool, human and an all around geek genius - go there.
I'm glad to be done with Yahoo! (or "Yahell" as she put it) and I'm excited about the new look.

I'll appreciate any feedback you have about the design. I've already emailed it to a small amount of people. They were all helpful comments, thank-you. That said, I haven't changed much. It might not scream "family blog", but I want to live with it for awhile before I tone it down - if I even do.
Nevertheless, I am still open to the comments.

So, I'm off to find that little "DNS nameserver" area. I've been travelling around in a panic looking for this little hosting thing. I actually have a trail of changes to follow just to figure out just who in the hell hosts this site.
Those who are anywhere near computer orientated, beyond my hack style of trial and error, are probably shaking their heads in disbelief right now. (Perhaps I should introduce you to the other people who have some sense of correct grammar and spelling.)

Hey! Who said web bloggers have to know what they are doing? My God, look at all the user friendly blogging programs out there!
I get the necessary done, that's my motto. If I figured out a way to hack into my ex-boyfriend's email in university, I can teach myself how to code an extremely simple webpage.

What more does this girl need, really?

D has squash league tonight.
Every Wednesday night.
Squash League.
He gets all sweaty with another person in a big box with a large plexiglas viewing window. I'm here watching the Fifth Estate and Al Franken shedding tears over some Ann Coulter statements. It's not only sticks and stones that break you. I think Heather would agree today.

Tonight, D had to leave extra early. I had the pleasure of cooking dinner, feeding, bathing and putting Franklin to bed on my own.
I really do mean pleasure, by the way.

... and this is where everyone really starts to see what a nut I am.
I used to hide this from the weblog. Now I'm stripping off the undies and everything.
Well, the pasties are still there - and perhaps a thong... and a sock.

If you have no idea what I'm referring to, read the last post.

When D goes out for anything that requires me to hold down the fort on my own I jump at the chance. It's not that I don't want or need his help. It's not that I like to feed Franklin candy canes and kitty litter when no one's around. It's not even that I secretly skip the horrid hair washing bath night. It's that I need that validation every now and then that I can do it on my own. I need to know that if anything ever happened to D, I would be OK.

This is why I bring Franklin and the groceries in all at the same time, even though D is in the house and can easily take care of our son or grab the bags from the car.
It's also why I like to take the bus to work and daycare - in case we come to a time where we can't afford a car.

Is it possible to take a shower and entertain Franklin at the same time? Yes!

Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? Bedtime? D's camping? No Problem!

I know how good I've got it. D and I both have jobs, we can pay for the groceries, we have a vehicle if we need one, we're healthy, we come from stable homes, our lives are somewhat under control.
I suppose that's what scares me. In fact, this is probably what keeps me awake at night the most. Everything is so stable. My life has always been so stable. I've had my wild and dangerous twenties, don't get me wrong, I know how to lose control. Yet, this part of my life is different, this family part. My parents were the ones we knew would be sober enough to call at 3am in case one of us decided to take too many of whatever we were trying and play Chitty Chitty Bang Bang with the car.
Will I be able to handle it if/when everything isn't so good? I need to be sure. It's not that I want anything to happen, and I'm sure you understand this, but I need to reassure myself that even though I've got these great gifts of love and shelter and food, I will be okay if it's all taken away.

Perhaps I feel guilty, like I need to earn all of this somehow.

- but I know it's impossible.

Last night I handed in my assignment. I'm becoming such a newby economics nerd that I contemplated staying up late to work out a graph to reveal the perfect equilibrium between work hours and work quantity. All this from a couple of comments left on my last post. Don't worry. I scrapped that idea. I think I might be starting to sound like one of those 18 year old psychology majors who try to analyze all their friends in a drunken stupor while simultaneously analyzing the reasons why they need constant validation from their parents and peers.

(I don't need constant validation from my parents or peers. The above was a reference to all the idiots I used to serve during my bar working/drink pushing days. However, the fact that I felt the need to tell this to you might be an indication of the opposite.)

I'm writing this during my lunch break at work and a co-worker of mine has just asked me if I've heard the new Donny Osmond song. I think I'm insulted that she would think I listen to such music as well as the fact that she would assume I know who the hell Donny Osmond is in the first place - other than some vague parental pop culture smiley face.
I must be quite an interesting looking person. I can be ID'd for alcohol one week while being a 40 year old Donny Osmand fan in another. I am spanning at least 20 years here. It's fitting then, that I'm pretty much smack dab in the middle (31).
I wonder who will be Franklin's "vague parental smiley face". Tom Cruise? Usher? Josh Grobin? The possibilties are endless.

I find it funny that I need to mention that I am writing this during my lunch break. This way, no one can accuse me of "blogging at work". So many blogs I read forget that little disclaimer altogether. I'm sure many of us blog during our breaks, smoking just isn't cool anymore. However, only I seem to have the need to mention that I'm a NON WORK BLOGGER.

Personally, I'm scared shitless of "blogging at work". I've actually never done it "on work time". Really. Never. Check my computer. Seriously. Do it.

I'll be blogging on moveable type soon. I've noticed that the entries are not only dated, but time recorded as well. Now you will all believe me when I say I don't sleep. Seriously, I don't sleep. Blogging at 3 am has become a norm. My skin is proof. However, at least it isn't during work.

People are so strange about blogging. I've found that for some, it's almost as if they find out that I'm a stripper in my spare time. I suppose, I am in a way. I'm stripping my emotions for all to see. I'm an exotic language dancer, dancing for money… no wait… dancing for free, I actually pay to dance for about $30.00 a year.
I'm taking off each article of my life slowly and torturously - to the tune of whatever you have going on wherever you are at this moment. Right now, I'm stripping to a photocopier machine and a co-worker clearing her throat.

Sexy.

However, the only difference is between me and a stripper is that I know of only one person who is probably getting off while reading this.

This post will be short. I have my first Public Sector Economics assignment due on Monday. I'm finding the course work incredible easy which means one of two things;

1.) The notoriously difficult course, which many specifically avoid if they can, is simply a walk in the park for me because I have found my hidden talent and will actually finish a Master's degree in Economics. I can then go on to apply for jobs like this and this.*

2.) I have just jinxed myself and the first assignment is just a hook for students to be lulled into the course only to be shocked to attention after the deadline to drop courses has past.

I'm going to go with this new "I'm Fabulous" motto and believe in #1 until someone taps me on the shoulder and tells me to leave the dance floor.

*(can you believe I'm already job searching? After one assignment?** I find this hilarious. Last week a woman was talking about all the different books she has read about sleeping and babies and I had to admit that I spent more time looking into what books to read than an actual varietyof them. This must say something about my personality. I'm definitely not a person that jumps with both feet. I will ask around for other's experiences with the water and the jumping sensation, check the thermometer, read about the flora and fauna of the ecosystem, test the level of acidity... )

**(Don't worry parents, I'm not changing my schooling, again. I still want to do what I'm doing. Besides, many of the jobs I just surfed were ones in both a field of economics and public sector management. I still feel I'm going in the right direction, even if I might have to constantly steer my schooling in that NGO/bleeding heart/lets-all-make-the-world-a-better-place sort of direction).

I know you're shocked.
I have always known this day would come, when I would wonder what to do next. So far, parenting has been a challenge and mighty, mighty confusing, but we always seemed to have a clear direction and well thought-out conclusions to situations.

Franklin isn't sleeping? He needs to learn to soothe himself.

Franklin prefers fruit to vegetables? He needs to eat more variety and he'll find the veggies he likes.

Franklin can't handle road blocks and gets frustrated incredibly easily? Ummmmmmm.....

This has been a problem on and off with him. The daycare will go from reporting wonderful days to basically shaking their heads and wondering if he might be "coming down with something". He's always coming down with something. He's a toddler who plays with other children. This combination of age and association will result in a perpetually runny nose. I've also come to terms with the fact that this means that D and I are strapped to the tissue box as well.
Yesterday, someone suggested that he may be going through some sort of developmental phase. I'm giving this some serious thought - because what other kind of thought am I really capable of, really...

I remember when Franklin was on the verge of crawling. He was cranky. It was as if he knew what was possible and was frustrated with his body's lack of cooperation. This happened when he was learning to walk as well. The episodes didn't last too long, but they were trying times.

Some developmental phases aren't as obvious as crawling and walking. He could be going through something emotional, intellectual or something which has to do with his fine motor skills.

Am I making excuses for him?

This "developmental stage" doesn't quite explain the complete melt down I witnessed this morning as another little guy tried to get in on his race car action at daycare. Poor little Nemesio was shut out of the only race car track in the place and even though little Nemo didn't seem to care one bit, I was disappointed.
I was disappointed because I know Franklin can be a wonderful and generous boy. I've seen it over and over again. Lately, he's been sharing his own toys with others - a small miracle among toddlers. I thought we had turned the corner.

I hated the fact that one of the women who work at the daycare seemed to be a little smug. It was as if she was thinking, "See? Your child isn't perfect."
Most likely, this wasn't what was happening, but it's how she looked at the time. Sometimes I wonder if daycare workers are like social workers. They get burnt out and need to find another line of work. Otherwise, they start to see their children/clients as people they abhor rather than people they want to help.

Am I making excuses for him again?

I've started doing some reading on toddler frustration and helping him deal with sharing and overcoming obstacles. However, I find most of it patrionizingly straight forward, containing advice that both the daycare and D and I have been doing for weeks (months?).
We aren't to run to solve his problems for him, but work with him to solve it together. We are encouraged to expose him to other children and therefore see the necessity in sharing... ummm, daycare?! We are to help him use his words to express his feelings. Trust me, he has plenty of words which describe his feelings at these particular times - many of them are "No", "Mine", "Stop That", "It's my turn", and the ever present "Heeeeelp me".

I don't know. Perhaps this is something we need to wait out and patiently help him through. This doesn't happen all the time or even most of the time, but it's hard to know that he's having a hard time even some of the time - and I'm not there to tell him it's okay.

A day spent in and out of sleep on the couch in front of the television has revealed the following personal observations:

Kelly Ripa has lost a hell of a lot of weight. Last time I saw her was during my maternity leave and I think she was breast feeding. She doesn't have any boobs now. She doesn't have any body fat what-so-ever. In fact, she has the same body I did.... when I was 12 (except for the ripped abs part). Apparently, she can do it all.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not "playa-hatta" (is that how you spell that? Do people spell that?). All I'm thinking is I want her to score me some of whatever she's got going on there because I don't seem to have enough hours in my day either.

Other than alarming weight loss shockers, daytime television needs some more... I don't know. Less crap. More chutzpah.

The only redeeming fact that I was too lazy weak to turn the thing off was the opportunity to flip channels between both George W. Bush's inaugural address and Viktor Yushchenko's speech to his supporters. The final appeal from Viktor Yanukovych has been dismissed and Yushchenko has been declared Ukraine's president. His inauguration will be held on Sunday, the 23rd of January. It was interesting to watch both speeches simultaneously. Such grand puffed up production and such determined and hopeful pride contrasting each other. Even though Bush was speaking in English, I seemed to understand Ukrainian a little more this afternoon.

... and after that deep and profound little tidbit, I'm going to bed.

Good night.

I'm taking the day off tomorrow. No work for me.
You know you're too sick to be there when getting your butt off the chair to retrieve a file which is right behind your desk becomes a monumental exertion of energy.
I should be in bed but I'm trying to do the dishes.

Because I'm super woman, that's why.
Lay off or I'll shoot snot out through the internet.
There's enough of it to get all of you, trust me.

In a way, being sick has been kind of good. After that last post of my unfabulous cooking skills and the subsequent comments it brought on, I'm at a loss for what to say.

Apparently I should tell you how fabulous I am, yet nothing comes to mind. I think it's cool you think I am though. I can fool people into thinking I'm fabulous through the internet. I have the skill down to an art form, just ask my many ex-boyfriends.

I would love to tell you how it hurts to smile because my upper lip is so chapped that any stretch will cause me to bleed.
... but that's not fabulous.

I'm raising a fabulous boy though. He just told me tonight that I was a mommy dolphin and we were in a dolphin car and we could fly all the way to the beach.
Gotta love the imagination.

It's funny, I haven't really had a chance to tell D all about the conversation. We got to the part where I was a mommy dolphin but after that dinner time, bath time, story time and sleep time got in the way.
Now he's off playing in a squash league. Every Wednesday night is squash league for D (and just to add, every Wednesday night is potential scary break-in/rapist/drunk neighbour fun for me).

The thing about having Franklin is that all the padding, dancing, passive aggressive pouting has no place in our relationship. Basically, there's no time for it. If I need a break, I ask for it. He wants to sleep in (and he asks before I do), he sleeps in. If I don't like the fact that he leaves the wet, bacteria collecting dish cloth in the sink and toothpaste sludge all over the bathroom counter, I tell him (this is me, telling you now).

I'm kidding about the "bad people" waiting outside my door by the way. I know I'm relatively safe. I'm a strong woman.
Jeez, I could take D if I really needed to - okay maybe only in scrabble. Perhaps I can vocab my way out of a tight spot. PYROLIZE for 66 points, take that.

If that fails, we've befriended a very large neighbour who we trust with our son's life. We call him "Big Johnny" - because he's big and his name is Johnny.

Now that's settled, I would like for the rain to stop please. It's getting to be a little much. Will the island be to dissolving into the sea?

No padding, no dancing around the issue, no passive aggressiveness.

Stop. Raining. Please.

I'm sick.

I'm going to bed early these days coughing and blowing my nose while cursing to the world,

I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!

We just had a friend of ours over for dinner. I offered to make the meal myself - glazed pork loin, rice, spinach salad. Everything sounds easy, right?
I had thought that the most complicated thing would be the apricot glazed pork. Surprisingly, the it was good and offered little in surprises or mishaps. This may also be because the thing was $17 dollars and there was no way I was screwing up something that costs more than my new pair of pants (I shop at thrift stores).

Nevertheless, I started my first kitchen fire with vermicelli which was meant for the rice. I have been making this dish since I was 9 years old.

The look of silent exasperation, absolutely no hint of surprise, an every day occurrence that D had on his face was what was the kicker. He even gently informed me that when heating oil on the stove, the dial doesn't need to be set on MAX.
I think his exact wording was... "That's just overkill."

The only thing I can think of right now is that I must chalk full of other wonderful qualities as he still reports to love me with no domestic skills whatsoever.

It's not that I wasn't taught theses skills. Nor is it that I skipped out on chores as a kid. Hell, I would actually make dinner for my siblings while my Mother made sure all the food groups were represented. Dinner was serious business that had to be done correctly.
Nutrition was at stake.

Yet, I just suck at it now. I suck at both the dinner thing and nutrition. Franklin eats like a king, however I can subsist on bread and margarine for weeks.... weeks.
Don't test me, I'm serious.

I can't blame Franklin or how distracted I was. I was horrible at this before baby and marriage came anywhere near me.

I just thought that this domesticity talent/gene/persona would come with age. You know, naturally... like breast-feeding, or perspective... a hem.

When I joke with D about it he is very polite. I think his exact words were... "Hey, it's just not something you're interested in."

My other qualities must be pretty good, eh?

How do all of you do it? I salute you, all parents who make dinners for your families, representing all the food groups and managing to wait until everything is served before feeding yourself. You are all made of stronger and more efficient stock than I.

Congratulations.

First of all, Franklin would like to thank all of you for your kind words of encouragement during this "touch and go" phase of toilet training. It hasn't happened since Wednesday so I'm sure we're not on the fast track to "big boy underwear" but I'm more than okay with that. I suppose if Franklin were home everyday he might have the whole thing down pat. The fact that he goes to daycare will slow the process down a bit. All the SAHMs don't have to email me anymore. I understand. Thanks.
Then again, he might learn from all the other kids. Nothing's ever black and white. Let's leave the fact that I enjoy going to work out of the diaper issue for a little while.

To tell you the truth, I would rather do the diaper thing for a bit longer. It would be nice to wait until he is so ready he can bring the stool over to the toilet and take off his diaper on his own. The continuous pee interrogation I hear from my friends seems a little strenuous,

"Zebidiah, do you need to pee?"
"No"
"Zebby, sweetie, you need to go pee pee, you're crossing your legs"
"No pee"
"Okay Zeb-boy, let me know when you have to pee"
"Mom! I havtagopee!!!"

All of a sudden, a perfectly good (and full) $7.00 Starbucks coffee goes flying over my shoulder as ole Zeb-a-do-da gets whisked off to the bathroom.

See? I don't want to do that. It seems like a hell of a lot more energy than just slapping a diaper on and off again. You can bring diapers and wipes and plastic bags wherever you go. Bathrooms can be scarce.

To tell you the truth, a large part of my insistence to breast feed was laziness as well. The whole formula thing seemed like waaay too much fuss. Breasts are there, ready and willing. Well, mine weren't too willing... or ready for that matter.... So I suppose, the whole quadruple mastitis was a little more energy than formula....
There's that hindsight thing again.

Of course, you don't get mastitis from diapers or toilet training.

Franklin will learn to go to the toilet. I'll join the Peepee Gestapo.
We'll all become functioning members of society.

A long time ago I cut a roommate's hair. It was naturally curly and she just wanted it to be a haphazard head of different lengths with no actual "style". It looked like... well, like her roommate had cut her hair while keeping her entire attention on the X-files and more specifically, David Duchovny.
She looked quite good, but I don't think I can take any credit. I think she would have looked good if we had shaved her head and tattooed the word "HAIR" on her scalp.

I'm broke.

I'm so sorry Renee, I can't handle this anymore.

When D comes home from squash tonight he will be cutting my hair. Nothing drastic, but this stringy stuff has to go.
I'd cut it myself but after seeing the Flintstones cut I gave myself the last time I tried to do it, I promised you I wouldn't do it again.
However, I didn't promise D wouldn't do it.

The only problem is that D takes hours to cut my hair. Seriously, hours.
He then will improve on the cut for about a month after that - making little corrections and improvements. It's the cut that knows no end.

This is what has been happening to both his hair and the recent cut he gave Franklin. I suppose I'm about to jump on the hair cut express - more like the slow boat to hair-dom. I'll be getting daily trims until spring. I'll be finding little pieces of hair in my bra until the little bunnies start multiplying on campus.

Forget about me and my vain hair dilemma.

Do you want to know something cool?

Franklin decided to pee in the potty tonight!
ON HIS OWN!!!
He got out the seat and told D he had to go. I was downstairs writing about my hair and D was upstairs teaching our son how to navigate successfully through life without a diaper.
Franklin will grow up with memories of his father spending "quality time" with him and his urine and every time he hears the sound of typing he'll think of his mother, picking hair out of her bra.

Hell, whatever.
FRANKLIN ASKED TO PEE IN THE POTTY!
I gave him a race car sticker to celebrate. I didn't do this because of any research I had done. I just remember reading a weblog that mentioned something about stickers involved in potty training and I am pretty sure they don't have to do with aim. I'm not positive, but I think it's the cheerios that have to do with the aiming thing.

Here's proof of the sticker thing and here's proof of the cheerios thing.

Potty Training research here we come.

Ever since I started to wear glasses I have found that I am starting to participate in a certain activity I thought I had long lost the thirst for. I'm drawing.

I used to be Ada the Artist when I was growing up. Well... this is how I thought of myself anyway. I won every competition in my school from Grade One to Grade Eight.
Of course, this was a small Catholic school with predominantly native children from the nearby reserve and judges who weren't native. I'm not completely sure that made any difference in the judging of course, but if you saw and heard some of the things I have you might be suspicious of adults in native schools too (but that's another post, one for a time when I feel like getting a whole lot of people really angry at me...).

For now I'm just letting you know, I'm drawing again.
I can see the grooves from my pencil on the paper. I can imagine what I want to create and my hand will do it. Things look pretty damn nice once I'm done.
Of course, a lot of things don't look very nice at all, but they are fun in the making.

I know that most people don't know this about me - that I draw. I don't think even my oldest friends know this about me. I stopped drawing when I became Ada the Skier Racer and extended my leave from this artist position while I continued on to be Ada the Strange Girl Who Works in the Martini Bar and Dates Crazy People.
Recently, I've been ambitious enough to be Ada the Girl Who Snagged the Most Knarly Dude (D) and Ada the Mother of Franklin. Of course, I'm Ada the Dirtyolive and Ada the Person Who Puts too Much on Her Plate and Thinks Too Much. Occasionally I get to be Ada Who Has Her Nose in a Book, but not too often anymore.

I'm so glad to be Ada the Artist again - even if it's only in my own mind.

comment if you like...

I subscribe to a couple of children websites. When I was pregnant and on maternity leave I welcomed every email they sent:

"Your baby is 4 months old today!"
"How to encourage your baby's early speech development."
"Can you predict your baby's temperament?"

Most of it was pretty interesting - taken with a grain of salt, of course. When I was on maternity leave, I had the time to suck every last piece of information into my otherwise sleep-deprived brain.
These days I still get the emails, but I rarely click on the links to read anything. A lot of them deal with things I'm not interested in right now such as time-outs, sibling rivalry, kicking and biting or how to handle questions about my genitals. The other day, a well timed email landed in my inbox which posed the question,

"How do you talk to your preschooler about disaster?"

I breathed a sigh of relief as I right-clicked that sucker into the trash. Of course, Franklin's far too young to be affected by the news, right? He doesn't know that there was a tsunami that killed more children than he will meet in his entire grade school life. He doesn't know the complete devastation that has occurred over there.
I know, D knows, but we hardly watch any television with Franklin around. We avoid the news casts not only for the scenes that are shown, but for the way it makes me zone out and gaze into the distance while completely forgetting that I have an amazing life here which needs love and attention.

Apparently, Franklin is a little more astute than we give him credit for and in the last couple of days D and I have been surprised by little comments that we are slowly piecing together.

When Franklin woke up from his nap yesterday, D asked him if he had a good sleep. Franklin told him he had a dream about sticks and houses in the water.

Today, as I was playing with him at his train table, Franklin started to take down the houses that are pegged into the table top. He made them fall down and spill over into the painted lakes and over the edge of the table. He kept saying how the houses have crashed and are swimming in the water.

I know we have been careful about the news. There is no television at daycare. The only time the tsunami could have made an impression on him is when we have tried to quickly listen to the latest event. We have been careful to change the channel before any suffering or violence appears. Apparently, this wasn't good enough.

I don't think he's scared, but I am pretty positive he is confused and very curious.

Yet, how do I approach the subject with him? He's certainly not old enough to ask detailed questions. I'm just thankful he has the capacity to articulate what he has seen.

At the train table this afternoon, I kept playing and let him take the houses falling in the water thing as far as he needed to. He just made them crash and then looked up at me, as if to see what I was going to do. It was like he was asking for some sort of explanation.

Jeez! How do you explain this to a two year old? I didn't think I would have to get this profound and wise until at least three.

I wish I had some beautiful and heart-warming ending to this post - how I handled the situation calmly and with such seasoned motherly competence.

Alas, I didn't.

I repeated his words about the sticks and the water and then added that Daddy, Mommy and Franklin live in a big strong house and that our house isn't going to fall into the water.
I kept saying "Daddy, Mommy and Franklin are safe, we're safe honey, our house is safe, we won't fall into the water, we're safe..."
It certainly wasn't the most eloquent of responses, but it was what I came up with at the time.

I think I ended up saying much of this for myself as well as for him. I'm also confused and scared. I would like my own reassurance that everything would be okay if, if, IF it had all happened here. I can't sleep at night unless I'm so completely exhausted, I drop out as soon as I hit the pillow. Any moment of thought while laying in bed involve "what-ifs" after "what-ifs" and imagining the emotions of a mother who wasn't able to hold on to her child is a sick kind of masochistic torture.

Franklin was off playing with his train set long before I stopped my somewhat reassuring mother/son discussion. Maybe he's okay with my response for the moment?
I have no idea and I think he has probably sensed this as well.

How bad am I screwing up this kid?

It's snowing outside.

People are freaking out over 2.5 centimetres. Schools are closing, old men are breaking their legs and people are abandoning their cars by the side of the road. We took the bus because snow + Victoria = insane people.

D and I both grew up with snow and all the treats that come with it. As a result, when we saw that snow had arrived this morning D immediately brought Franklin to the window to see the new landscape.

He was going to be excited, right?
It was going to be a wonderful new experience, right?
He was going to press his face against the glass and repeat the word "snow" over and over again, right?

No.

How could we have predicted that he would become alarmed at this radically new overnight development and worry that our car (seen from our bedroom window) was covered in this snow stuff... and, oh my god...

WE HAVE TO RESCUE THE CAR!
(I seem to be channeling dooce here, excuse me)

In retrospect (which is not unlike hindsight, which is always 20/20, you know, like pilots and correctional officers - okay, I'll stop now) I can see why he got so upset. I imagine it might be a little like looking out the window in your groggy morning state and seeing an outline of your laptop covered in snow.

Oh my god... WE HAVE TO RESCUE THE LAPTOP!
(How did dooce get possession over my cap yelling anyway?)

Franklin thinks of vehicles as I think of Labrador retrievers and children; they are real creatures, with real personalities and real needs. He puts his trains to bed at night, sings them songs, feeds them, asks if they are feeling okay... The car is just a bigger "doll".
Sure, we park the car out in the cold every night, but she seems to prefer it out there. Besides, we can't have a car and a train table in our living room. That's just logical reasoning.
However, lay a fluffy, soft, beautiful "blanket of snow" on her and WHAMMO, instant freak out.

This reaction and the constant distress over snow blowing in his face made me think we are raising our child in a pansy-assed city where an ounce of discomfort and change will bring on the tear parade.

My babysitter used to say that.
"Tear Parade"
It's such a lame thing to say.
I know I'm a mom now because I say lame things.
For instance, the time my mom called me a "nerd" when I think she meant "jerk". At least it made be forget what we were angry about - because I was laughing too hard. It wasn't that funny, but it broke the tension so hey! HA Ha HA .heh heh

"Kitty Corner"
That's another one she says.
My Mom is so cute.

Anyway, Franklin's got the snow thing down now. By the end of the day we were making snowmen and snow angels, throwing snow balls and shoveling the walkway.

Actually, I was shoveling the walkway, D was playing with Franklin.
Then we came inside and I played with Franklin while D cooked dinner.

Take that all you greedy pig farmer, hockey playing, good-looking.... nerds.

We have a lot of books. I am a little fanatical about them. In fact, I keep a list in my wallet at all times of what I would like to read and first editions I would like to own. Luckily, the first list is always longer than the second.
Working in a bookstore was a little like hanging out in a wine gum and chocolate factory when I was pregnant. Starting a new job is probably the best thing in terms of my bank account and schooling. Now I limit myself to microeconomics and public sector management. It's not as exciting, but probably better for me at the moment.

However, I haven't stopped shopping for books. I consider them excusable now that they are meant for Franklin...

The other night I left my homework and headed to Value Village. I was ecstatic to find this and this and this and this and this and this. All in amazing condition and each were less than a dollar.
I was also happy to find "Just Go to Bed" and "Just For Yu You". They aren't my favorite bedtime stories but he seems to like them and since they are "officially" for him...

D and I were discussing Franklin's bedtime stories tonight. Separately, we have each been editing of the content or the dialogue of many of his tales as we read. On our respective turns to read with Franklin, we take out the sexist, sizist, appearance orientated, blah blah blah section of the story line that tends to sneak into too many seemingly innocent children's books.
We aren't the politically correct police. In fact, if anything, we tend to spend much of our time making fun of people who take themselves so seriously. I think we are both aware that world is made up of all kinds of people and acting superior to any of them won't change a thing.

However... when we both come across a comment like, "girls don't play hockey", or "greedy pigs" or "Dad said I couldn't play in my sister's dollhouse", we change the words around to reflect a different way of looking at the situation.
(If you try to tell me Franklin's not paying such close attention to the story then you don't have a toddler, or don't remember when they were that young. Seriously, he remembers, repeats and corrects, man)

When Mr. Matteau tells Anita that "girls don't play hockey" I have been adding, "but he was wrong".

The farmer doesn't feed greedy pigs, they're hungry.

Mr and Mrs Bunny may have some traditionally assigned gender roles but damned if I'm going to let an angel give them a baby bunny and have the cow worry about who has the best looking kid.

Even the dollhouse thing gets my goat. That little guy doesn't get to play with his sister's dollhouse only because "she's not finished yet" and not because there's anything wrong with little guys playing with dollhouses.

I know that there are at least a dozen more books (maybe more) that we consciously alter the dialogue to reflect our own values. Typing all this out makes me feel a little controlling and paranoid.
Perhaps if I weren't myself, I'd be making fun of me...

I think my mother was the one who told me we have about 5 years to instill our values and beliefs into Franklin before the rest of the world bombarded him with alternate ways to screw up his life. I say alternate because there is no way that I can tell if D and I are doing this right. It's called winging it and hoping everything comes out okay in the end.
A friend told me we have about 8 or 9 years.
I think my brother told me we have about 3 years.
A woman in my old baby group said we had 1 measly year.

Whatever. I believe I get the picture.
We have a finite amount of time to be the most controlling acquisition copyeditors in his little world. By the time he is able to choose and read his own books, I hope we will have given him the skills to notice the crap and see it for what it is.

I also hope that if he decides he wants to become a right-wing fundamentalist farmer with greedy pigs and pretty cows who all play sexually respective hockey and dollhouse games, I won't blame myself too much.

When I first met D I marveled at how free he was - especially when it came to complete relaxation. He was able to sit on a beach and watch the ocean for hours. This was something I wasn't able to do and never thought I could. My mind always seemed to be going too fast to be able to sit in one spot and let it wander in any direction that it chose.
Perhaps I was afraid of where it would take me. Who knows.

What I do know is that through the 8 years or so I have known him this has changed. I am perfectly comfortable on a beach, under the stars, or looking out a window and letting my mind wander. In fact, sometimes I wonder if that's all I do these days.
I suppose I can give some credit to the perspective life gives as one matures, but I would also have to acknowledge that D is always able to remind me of what is really important and how insignificant we all are in the grand, grand scheme of things.

I'm sure many of you have noticed that I have a tendency to get caught in the details. This might be a life long battle - this perspective, forest through the trees thing D does so well.

Something else I remember was how D did not give a rat's ass what others thought of him. People say this about themselves all the time but D is the only person I know who really meant it.

I'm speaking in the past tense but I shouldn't.
He still doesn't give a rat's ass what people think of him.

He once told me about a work related shopping trip with a co-worker in which the two of them did a flailing competitive gorilla dance down the aisles of the market. I remember thinking to myself that

1.) He was wonderful
2.) He was crazy
3.) He was going to need some wacky friends other than me because I certainly wasn't going to be able to match that kind of behaviour in public.

Today, the daycare called to say that the happy little boy I dropped off this morning was crying inconsolably. I got there as fast as I could and drove to the nearest medical clinic. Franklin wasn't doing very well and as we waited for red lights to change, all my efforts to sooth him from the front of the car were not good enough. By the time we reached the clinic, Bach was playing on the stereo and I was finding my "happy place". I let my mind wander to the nearest snow-covered mountain peak where the clouds meet the slope and it seems like you could ski across the world...

Right, where was I?

Franklin has ear infections in both ears. Both Ears
That sucks.

I've never had an ear infection but according to my mother, it's painful. Unlike the nose syringe, I'm not about to try it out to see what all the fuss is about.

While we were in the pharmacy getting the antibiotic prescription and the heroin tylenol, I became the flailing dancing gorilla. Anything I could do to distract Franklin from the obvious pain he was in, I did. We waltzed, buried our faces into the toilet paper, made funny faces in the lipstick mirror and discovered mommy's blood pressure was actually pretty good - you know, considering.
Everything worked... for about 3 seconds.

In the end, I was loudly and proudly singing, "You Can't Judge a Book by it's Cover" from a Thomas the Tank video but replacing all the lyrics (because I don't know them) with stories about Franklin and his adventures with trains/trucks/stickers/mommy/daddy/poodle dogs named Skittles.... anything.

You could say I don't give a rat's ass anymore.

You know you live on the west coast when a sunny day in the middle of winter is more of an irregular annoyance that shows off the streaks in your window than a time to go out and get that much needed vitamin D.

This has been a staple in our house for about two weeks now:

Franklin hates it, but I have to admit, I'm fascinated by it. The amount of snot that thing can suck down from one nostril is amazing. It literally buys me the time to get myself a cup of coffee and the milk in the cup before the next drip will appear.
I've tried it myself, to find out why he dreads it so much, and I can certainly understand. It's most definitely a weird feeling and a bit like what I imagine it would feel like to have your brain sucked out through your nose.
(gives you the willies)
Just in case I got a little over zealous with the instrument, I'll be checking under my bed for wandering brains with spinal cord tails waiting to attack me in the middle of the night.

See, you really don't want to get to know me. I'm a little off kilter right now.

You know what's funny though?
That syringe picture isn't exactly what we have here at home. Ours is more blunt and wild head flailing, toddler protesting friendly. I can't imagine coming at him with that sharpish, pointy thing.
I was looking all over the web for a more representing picture (because I'm sure you really care what kind of instrument I use to suck the mucus out of my son's nose) and all I found was more and more of the one I have pictured above. On the bright side, I don't think I've ever examined so many enema websites in such detail.
Fascinating.

What's with all the enemas? Well, I've been reading about alternative cancer therapy in which one can use coffee enemas to detoxify the body. Pretty interesting website - especially when you have public sector economic homework and laundry to fold.

Other than the other medical catalogue sites, I found a highly entertaining page on "medical toys" where apparently duct tape is everyone's favorite friend and you can order the huge, red rubber 26 ounce... yes! a full 26 oz. bulb syringe!
According to the website:

"It is made of heavy long lasting rubber with a narrow tapered nozzle.
It's MORE than what the Nurse ordered, but we know you'll love it... all!"

Of course, I would love to link to it so all of you can make sure your medical clinic was "fully stocked", but my niece and nephew read this website and I don't want their parents to have to answer too many questions about enemas so soon in the new year.