I'm just starting to realize what a hermit I've been. I've promised so many things to so many people. The cancelled hair appointments and book club meetings (sorry Brad) are only the tip of the ice berg.

I know all of you read this weblog once and awhile to see what I'm obsessing over for one particular week or another so I thought I would let you all know how much I miss you.

Renee: Crap, man. I've got a fringe and I'm worried about meeting you and you telling me I look like another Flintstone character. Regardless, what the hell are you up to? I'm starting to resent the fact that you no longer have a blog.

Jen: Your baby must be, what? 5 months old now? 6 even? When did I visit? When he was 6 days old? You may have a blog but your presence pales in comparison - which should be said for everyone about their weblog and their real presence, don't you think?

Sue: The woman with the itsy-bitsy tummy growing an itsy-bitsy little baby. I've emailed you but I have the gargantuan guilty feeling you have already moved to Florida Kelowna - or are you "hermitting" too?

Naomi: Happy Fricking Birthday, sister. I hope Hoops and Yo-Yo inspired you the other day. Gone are the times when I was "with it" enough to send you flowers for your celebration.

Thuraya: Are you going to show me those London photos? I haven't spoken with you since you returned, you world traveller, you.

Bish: Hi, guy. Nice belt buckle.

There's people I've missed, I know it. I'm not trying to get comprehensive here.

I'm just trying to say that I may owe about a gazillion emails but it's not that I don't care. I'm just buried in work and life. I've finally figured out the whole "priority thing" (official title) and I've had to put aside things I just don't have time for. I only now understand that I simply cannot exist on 3 hours of sleep every night. As a result, a social life which does not revolve around Franklin and D is kaput for the time being.

Kaput, I say.

Until April the 11th.
Then I'm hoping you are all still speaking to me.

Of course, I'm not expecting everyone to jump at the chance to buy one of these. I realize that they are not the most beautiful or even original things in the world. Nevertheless, I need one of each and I want to give a couple of them to some other people I love one too.

I've been inspired by some recent happenings both online and in the world around me. I'm excited to finish this pay equity paper so I can make some gifts for a couple of friends of mine.

I'm really quite excited.

They'll be simple, but to the point.

Should I tell you? Should I? Should I?
Yeah, I should.
(and really, I have no choice because I have inherited the will-power of a gopher fart from my giggling, "I-have-a-secret-surprise-for-you-but-I-can't-tell-you-but-I-will-anyway" of a mother)

I've been excited by the whole image transfer idea so I might go that route to make my idea. As well, I've discovered neighborhoodies so I might go from there (although this will be much more expensive). Of course, I can always do the neighborhoodies idea myself....  no, too flashy.

I want the idea to be simple and succinct.
I don't want there to be any other ideas crowding the message.

I went to a fantastic silk screening course awhile ago so I could do it that way - but the materials to make something that will last through constant washing will cost too much money for now.

Cafepress?
Perhaps.
Especially if anyone else would like to share the news - and help out with our cash flow (insert sheepish grin here).

Yes.
I will image press the idea for my friends and cafepress the idea for anyone who wants one for themselves and their friends.

Hell, you can alternate Melissa's momtini-wear and my dirtyolive-wear and never worry about what you're going to wear to those playdates ever again!

Eureka.

... but alas, I'm at work and don't have time during my 15 minute break to show you what I'm talking about.

Come by later - after Franklin goes to bed.
We'll snort coke off our bellies, watch ANTM4 and look at my idea together - you whores*.

*please read the previous post before you think I'm being rude and presumptuous about that last statement.

Since our weekend was a plethora of vomit and snot, Easter wasn't as picture perfect as Bernard Callebaut would have liked. The plus side of this is that I didn't eat much chocolate. The negative side is that Franklin didn't get an Easter - even in the egg hunt form.

Originally, we had planned on traveling to Salmon Arm to visit my parents. We decided to cancel our plans because April looks to be a pretty lean month - seeing as how one of us will no longer have a paycheque and employment insurance will take some time to kick in (3-5 weeks to be as exact as possible).
Alternately, we had thought about giving Franklin and his little friend (M) an Easter egg hunt at our place. The weather looked pretty bad but a hunt is a hunt is a hunt - right? They'd have fun. Hell those kids have fun eating apples, cheese and crackers next to each other.

In fact, yesterday, during a miraculously healthy couple of hours, we went to visit M and his new sandbox. The joy that is eating apples, cheese and crackers commenced with much vigor. D and I had a blast too.

I love hanging out with M's Mom. She's very laid back, interesting, well-read, intelligent, funny, and knows how to stand up for herself. She has the unbelievably rare quality of being able to tell you how go to hell when needed. I haven't been on the receiving end of this but I've heard stories - times when if I were to put myself in the same situation, I probably would have stood there, dumb-founded, and gave the middle finger - neither mature nor effective behaviour.

We were discussing the eating habits of our children and the subject of peanut butter came up. She was amazed that Franklin eats it. She was even more amazed that I think we gave it to him not long after his first birthday - if not before. M, apparently, does not eat the dreaded peanut butter.

M does eat Nutra-grain bars - which I find over processed and a little bit like junk food, not far off from pop tarts and jelly donuts.

The coolest thing was that she could look at me and tell me I could have given my son a lethal allergy and that I was the most careless, crack addicted whore of a mother she had ever laid eyes on.
I, in turn, was able to look at her Nutra-farts and tell her she was feeding her child crap because she was a lazy, reality TV obsessed whore of a mother.

Friendship.
I need more crack addicted, reality TV obsessed whores in my life.

I'm still officially on holidays - which isn't really holidays when you are trying to study the economics of labour markets and write a coherent paper on pay equity. As well, both Franklin and D have taken turns throwing up their dinner all night. I'm the only one under this roof (besides the cat) who hasn't chucked up her pizza and orange juice.

So, while I was looking at D with a silent stare of

"Okay, the show's over, you can be better now, I don't want to do this all by myself while you lay on the couch"

he was staring me down with

"Why aren't you sick? Are you poisoning us with your stellar cooking experimentation?"

Yay. What fun!

Happy Easter.

On the bright side, I took this picture last weekend. The parsley's been there all year, but the radishes will be ready soon - and I can't screw up raw food. I promise.

Okay Lucinda. Here goes...

1. Total number of music files on your computer.

You know, I married a man who owns over 1000 CDs. I own about 25. I love music, but prefer it live. When I'm at the computer, I prefer absolute quiet (because I'm writing a paper) or the CBC radio. Every once and awhile I'll listen to D's player, but not often and always the same couple of CDs.

What I'm trying to say is, I have no idea, this is not my area of interest. Music clutters my mind more than entertains it. Either it has my complete attention, or I can't stand it.

2. The last CD you bought was?

I can empathize with the not listening to a lot of adult music anymore. Life is very busy and extra commotion in the background annoys me more than anything. Regardless, I think the last CD I bought, for myself and not for Franklin, was Pergolesi's Stabat Mater.

I can officially state that I. am. not. hip.

3. What is the last song you listened to before reading this message?

Franklin singing "I've Been Working on the Railroad" while playing with the neighbour's train set. Chaos all around him and he's sitting there, content as can be, singing quietly to himself.
Precious.

4. Name five songs you often listen to or which mean a lot to you.

This is so hard - not because there are all that many to choose from, but because I know that what people listen to says a lot about them and I basically listen to... nothing.
I enjoy the songs around me, like the guy next door mowing the lawn, or the birds fighting with a squirrel over a feeder, or the kids throwing water balloons at each other.

However, there are a few songs which stand out for me, now that I'm thinking about it.

1. "I Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl" by Nina Simone was the song D and I danced to at our wedding. She was such a beautiful singer, so full of expression and meaning. The songs she wrote came from somewhere real. The lyrics are poetry.

2. The movie soundtrack to Bleu from Krzysztof Kieslowski's Trois Couleurs: Bleu, Blanc, Rouge makes me weak in the knees and I want to close my eyes and imagine I'm walking through some beautiful European city in the rain - and I'm single, and twenty and mysterious...

3. Dr. Lonnie Smith's "Move Your Hand" I absolutely love. It's sexy and makes you move - and not only your hand. It makes me smile.

4. I also love Miles Davis' "Kind of Blue". When I was first getting into music I had a long talk with a guy in a music shop downtown. He gave me the CD and told me to play it over and over again, until I found the parts I liked the most. Then I was instructed to come back and we would talk some more.
When I came back, the store had closed and the man had passed away. I suppose we'll have that conversation at a later date.

5. Lastly, Chet Baker's "My Funny Valentine". This was the first song I ever played for D. It meant a lot to me.

Finished!

Now,

5. Which 3 people are you going to pass this stick to and why?

Laura-Jane - because she's the newest blog I've started to read and I think she's hilarious.

Domin8trix - because she's just so damn interesting.

Kinga - now I expect some uplifting eighties tunes on your list!

You know when you're sick? And you don't want to move a muscle? And you just want to lay your incredibly heavy head on your pillow and sleep sleep sleep the pain away?

AND THEN YOU CAN'T BECAUSE YOU HAVE A TWO YEAR OLD CHILD IN YOUR FACE SAYING

WAKE UP PERCY WAKE UP RUBY WAKE UP MOOOOMMMMMMMMMIIIIEEE!!!

Yeah, when that happens, survival mode kicks in.
I know I made reference to the first few months after giving birth yesterday. I'm going to do it again. These last couple of days have been quite nostalgic. Being sick and having a toddler is one of the best methods of birth control EVER.
(That, and the look on my neighbour's face - the one with two boys' 13 months apart. She's turned over to the dark side and she's never coming back.)

Survival mode two years ago subsisted of me rocking back and forth in front of a roaring fire with a breast pump attached to my boob, watching CNN at 2,3,4 and 5 in the morning. I remotely remember something about snipers. What the hell, my breasts were on fire and I was too tired to form any more thought than the temperature of my body and whether Franklin was getting enough milk.

Now, I'm pretty sure Franklin's getting food. Whether it's nutritious or not, I couldn't tell you. I do know that at 9:48 in the morning two days ago, the postman rang the door bell and gave me the sweetest present since that time D came home and told me he thought about buying me flowers...
(I take what I can get - romantic turd)

My mother sent her only grandson a fire truck Easter basket filled with chocolates, playdoh and that stringy, plastic straw stuff that gets everywhere and tangles the wheel of your vacuum cleaner - except I didn't care that it was going to get into everything. I was busy Thanking the Lord that he died and rose again this weekend because this present meant that Franklin would be occupied for 10 entire minutes as he described what was in it, played with the playdoh and stringy bits and collected all his fire trucks to put into the basket.
My Mom is now the official patron saint of distraction through Easter presents.

(Incidentally, I took out the chocolate before he dug in. I figured he was hyper enough; being cooped up inside with Mother of the Living Dead.)

I made it through the day and D came home. I slept for a couple of hours and D left again. I felt a bit better and actually thought I was able to take it to the finish line in one piece.

Franklin had a better idea.

During the day, I had the brilliant idea that we should call everyone I could think of and leave darling little messages on their answering machines. I thought this was brilliant because it required Franklin to sit still for more than 3 minutes. He's in this "aerobics stage" where jumping up and down with Mum is the "most funnest thing everest" (yes, this is the child of an English major).

The phone idea was a hit and the fun continued while I was washing the dishes that evening. Apparently, it continued as he called "911" and hung up. Then this "hit" extended it's stay while they called back, he answered and then hung up while running away from me with glee.

Let me tell you, big hits all around when the nice looking police officers came to my door and I thought, "What the hell have the neighbours done now" only to find out that it was my son's emergency call that dragged them, pointlessly, out to our house.

The largest hit of all was when my son, with a freshly soiled diaper, tells the police officer,

"Policeman, my house is broken, Policeman"

and the man proceeds to take down my name and number.

You know, just in case you were wondering.
I'm still hacking and coughing and snotting my way through the day.

Yesterday was hard.
Actually, "hard" can't begin to describe it. In fact, the ability to get up this morning without tears coming to my eyes due to the pressure in my head made me think I could make it in to work today. I'm such an idiot. However, we have a long weekend coming up because this part of the world still celebrates one religion. I can rest tomorrow. (HA! Rest! With a toddler! HA!)

However, at least I'm able to walk.

Yesterday, while D was at work, I stayed home with a snotty, coughing and yet incredibly hyper little boy. How is it that when he's sick sick sick, but doesn't have a fever, he seems more animated than normal?

Perhaps it's in direct relation to myself - the parent who's head is between her knees and drool is coming out of her mouth while trying to trace Thomas and his harem of coaches on the paper we've covered the floor with.

Oh God, yesterday was hard.

I might have to say, yesterday was up there with those bouts of mastitis where I was trying to take care of a screaming baby while my breasts felt like burning poison filled sacks of useless crap and I had about 3 hours of sleep for the last 4 days.

It's funny to write that now because many people will think it's an exaggeration and it wasn't. Yeah, another baby? Hmmmm, I'm not so sure. Can I have a wet-nurse the next time?

I guess now would be a funny time to congratulate Flo and Todd on their little fetus?
No worries, it's not always this bad. Sometimes breast-feeding goes okay and something else goes wrong.

Hey! Labour's a piece of cake!

(Oh, and remind me to tell you about Franklin calling 911 last night. Fun.)

The day before yesterday, Franklin took my head in his hands and said,

"I LUUUUV you, Mommy! Train Kiss!"

Then he planted a big sloppy, snotty, wet kiss on my mouth and rubbed his nose back and forth on mine.

Today the inside of my throat feels like I've run a wire brush up and down it all night, my eyes are running, my head is pounding and my body is leaking snot from everywhere - everywhere.
I'm wiping my nose with my hand and then mopping the gathered mucus onto my jeans - that's how much I just don't care anymore.

On one hand, I appreciate knowing what exactly Franklin is going through.

On the other hand, I'm sick.

I have my last assignment and paper due in two weeks. After that it's a study booklet to hand in and economics is done - for the time being.

Then it's writing a letter of intent and freshening up my fabulous resume for those infamous grad school applications.

Once this is finished, I will look into that scrumptous looking course on Information Management. Should I take it? Should I wait to see if I'm getting into grad school?

While I'm obsessing like a total nut-job, I will try some relaxing activites such as going to sleep before 1AM, running a 10 km race, and ooooh image transfers!

As well, I have been cooking (like any good procrastinator).

I know, I know, I say this and then out pops the ol' vegetable steamer and perogy stand-by. Really though, this cookbook is rocking my little world.
However, I'm searching for something else more visual.

Do any of you cook?
I understand that people who read certain weblogs are usually people who can understand the slightly odd view of the writer's world (or get oddly entertained by it), but if if I enjoy reading Loobylu and I'm not an illustrator, cook, crafter or all around stable person, someone who cooks must read dirtyolive...

right?

I'm looking for a cookbook that is over the top with photos. I want to see what the food looks like halfway through the process. I want to see what the authors mean by "thinly sliced", "macerate" and "blind bake". I want to see what every recipe looks like when it's done - not just the pretty, well photographed ones.

Any ideas?

"They" say children thrive on routine.
I clung to this when Franklin was a baby.

Nap times were non-negotiable. When other mothers were carting their children around in what I saw as a desperate attempt to pretend nothing had changed in their lives, I was/am a stickler for the nap schedule.
The bedtime routine is also non-negotiable. Even if we are out of town bath time, story time and song are as constant as his midnight poop - even if that means my "hip and happening" friends will overhear me sing "Hush Little Baby" and snicker from the other side of the door.
(I realize I'm not the best singer, but Franklin thinks I have the voice of an angel so lets keep him in the dark about tone and rhythm until it's appropriate to be embarrassed by his mother, shall we? Jeeeesh.)

The daycare is fairly consistent too. There are snack times, indoor play times, outdoor play times, nap times, story times... Perhaps when your life is run by other people on a daily basis, it's nice to know what to expect when and where - and then have some choices of your own within those activities.

I have the choices within my consistencies too!

I can either take time off work or D can take time off work to care for Franklin's snot.
I can wipe Franklin's nose with a tissue, a wash cloth or suck it out with an aspirator.
So, so gross.
I can watch Bear in the Big Blue House or The Backyardigans or Blue's Clues or Thomas the Tank Engine.

One thing I can count on is that Franklin will get sick. I had just made a comment on how healthy he's been and how spring is here and how perhaps all the snot that finds it's way to Franklin's nose, and therefore my clothing, will be gone for a couple of months.

Alas, that moment is not yet upon us.

See, there IS some stability in my life.
Who needs a steady job when you've got snot?

...oh and...

I want to thank everyone for the encouragment and assurances that everything will be okay. In fact, the other night, while reading to Franklin, I thought to myself, "I could go downstairs and choke on a walnut and die, so why don't I make the most of what's going on right here and now?"

See? So even if things are not as wonderful and planned out as I wish them to be, they are better than being dead.
(or sleeping and presumed dead!)
Double Jeesh.

Perhaps you weren't able to tell.
Perhaps, I've really not strayed from my usual neurotic and obsessed persona.

I've been stressed out lately.

Today is the last day D's work receives clients. This is the beginning of the end. He will be officially out of this type of employment (which he has done for as long as I have know him) by the end of this month.

The MAN of the house will not be receiving a REGULAR PAYCHEQUE anymore.
The WOMAN of the house holds the REGULAR PAYCHEQUE and ALL HEALTH BENEFITS from here on end.
(I know, I know... but it's the automatic response - pathetic and scary as it is)

D does have a job. It's an amusing one which will eventually have an end that will satisfy it's means but... IT'S NOT REGULAR. As in it's causal, as in they call him in when they need him, as in we can't count on it.

So, I've been a little stressed out about all this role changing, bread-winning, less money, turn down the heat, food on sale only, turn off that light, TURN OFF THAT LIGHT!!!! cost cutting measures.

Franklin's feeling the crunch because he hasn't a new train in I don’t know, 2 weeks maybe? Even then, it was Grandma and Taita buying the vehicles.
His parents have let him down.

Won't be the first time kid.

Don't get me wrong. I think we'll be okay and everything turns out and I don't want to make D feel bad....

Okay, I just wrote, "I think we'll be okay and everything turns out" but I don't really mean it.
I have to come clean. The only statement there that was in any way truthful was that I don't want D to feel bad.

I think I've been doing okay with all of this until today.

Okay, that's a lie too.

Someone explain to me how people with normal jobs and lives can afford to adopt a baby?!?!!!!

The only saving grace is that D is completely and utterly calm about all of this. He's the one who's truthfully saying, "Everything’s going to be okay, it always turns out okay". In fact, this is a direct quote:

I think if I didn't have Franklin I might be affected by all this crap at work. But it just doesn't matter and I'm glad I don't care. I guess it's nice to have people tell you that you made a great difference in the community and how sad it is that the government shut down your organization. I guess it's nice. But at the same time I'm tired of people asking me what I am going to do next. I usually tell them I've worked steadily for the past 8 years ...and I might just see what the alternative gets me.

That statement right there tells me that I've married the right person. I will stress out, make plans, change plans, make more plans, stress out again, make alternative plans to the first plans, and stress out...

D will lay back and tell me to breathe.

Breathe Ada.

My old ski friend Glen and his wife, Kumi, have just acquired a wee beastie. I believe the name for this precious little jewel will be something that sounds more like Kaetlyn - but she'll always be Wee Beastie (aka WB) to me.

I think I could look at this photo for hours.

I met Glen while I was a member of the U of Alberta Ski Team. I met some incredibly cool people during my brief time with them and there are two moments I'll never forget.

1) When designing T-shirts for the team, Glen (who was the t-shirt god at the time and passing the torch to me) looked me straight in the eye after I showed him all of my "hip" designs and said, "These are no good, you're thinking like a store, like everybody else. You have to get creative."
I had spent a total of 30 minutes on those designs and I thought they were stupendous. I also thought 30 minutes was an acceptable time to spend on anything - including a 15 page paper on William Faulkner’s "As I Lay Dying".
It was a good lesson.

2) Deciding in my slightly inebriated state that all the women on the team should strip down and jump in the pool naked. Incredibly, all the women decided this was the best idea ever and joined me in my naked parade.
Of course, all the men were the safest, most trust-worthy guys around and really, it was like swimming in the bath tub with your brother - if your brother was a drunk pervert and kept asking you questions about how long it took you to shave your public hair...

Good Times.

I hope Franklin gets naked with your Wee Beastie some day, Glen.
I'll drink a jagermeister shot off a ski to that one.

The other day, I ran into an old co-worker I hadn't seen for about 3 years. She was present for the whole "I'm Pregnant" announcement, which was announced more like a swiftly moving fire of gossip in a dry and flamable workplace than the regular happy declaration of an impending birth - but that's another story.

The co-worker and I exchanged niceties and all the obligatory stuff (family, friends, housing market, school, careers...) and then we dished a bit of information about how certain mutual acquaintances were doing (all nice news, really!).

All the time we were having this conversation she kept looking down at my mid-section. I thought she might have noticed a stain so I, in turn, kept checking out my shirt, my pants, my shoes, my hands...
It became a little uncomfortable.

Then she asked me if I was pregnant.

doh.

Just to be clear - I don't think I look pregnant. However, asking a woman who is CLEARLY not in some obviously gargantuan pregnant body if she is pregnant just starts off a month's worth of carrot sticks and water.

I'm not pregnant.

- but I'm still nauseous.

The thing about sitting in a toilet stall wondering if you're going to hurl the nonexistent breakfast or keep sending it out the other side while splashing toilet water everywhere is..

You get to see everyone in your office through their shoes.

How I could think about playing the "Match the Shoes to the Co-worker" game while feeling the way I was this morning, I have no idea.

I still feel like crap but definitely less crappy since eating a bun from the cafeteria.

I'll keep you posted.

D cut Franklin's hair over the weekend. I say "over the weekend" because really, it's still going on - the marathon haircut.

I think I've mentioned this before - not too long ago in fact.
My my, I'm just so damn exciting.

Franklin's hair is pretty.
I was going to say that his hair is pretty curly but really? I can confidently stop at pretty. It is pretty. I'm envious.
D also has this pretty (curly) hair - as you can see from the flickr photos. My hair isn't this curly - as you can also see from the flickr photos.

It's strange to me that all of you now know what I look like.
Just so you know, if you see me walking down the street, I would love for you to stop and say hello. Pointing and saying the word "dirtyolive" to your husband sitting next to you in the coffee shop isn't as friendly.
I can see you, you know.
I don't bite.
I'm really quite friendly - especially if you feed me.

Anyway, I digress.

When you have a child, most of your family, friends and transit bus drivers tend to play "genetic counselor" and attempt to piece Franklin's DNA together using D, me and our other, somewhat immediate, family members.

It turns out that the freakishly curly hair is a dominant gene. No matter what happens, if a child squeezes out of my vagina, it will have curly hair. This means that if I ever decide to "stray from our marriage", I've got to choose wisely - you know, just in case.

Now my prospective lover(s) must be laid-back, intelligent, funny, nice, discrete, patient AND have course, wiry, curly hair.
It's never going to happen.

Has anyone applied to grad school and totally covered all the bases, so much so that the graduate advisor of the department and the graduate admissions and records office is sick of hearing your voice and reading your email and seeing your face?

Has anyone thought back to that time in university when your ex-boyfriend's friends were so nice to you that you thought very seriously about inviting them to your wedding with your new partner only to realize that it's not that they actually liked you, but were afraid of your delicate nature and thought you were crazy?

Has anyone raised a child to the ripe age of two years and just realized now that perhaps getting all your "ducks in order" before having a child is actually a wise thing to do?

Has anyone thought about the fourth dimension of time and how incredibly easy it is to dull our senses into thinking that we are all existing at the same time, in the present and moving together - when really, we are so not?

Has anyone thought about how incredibly naive many pleasant looking, white males are regarding what it's like to work their way up the "corporate ladder" when you are not pleasant looking, white and/or male?

Has anyone thought of a way to bottle time, so we can store up all those wasted years before the children came and then use it during those moments when your son and your husband are climbing rocks on the beach together and you want the day to last F-O-R-E-V-E-R?

Has anyone found a way for a woman to work, study, raise a child and be a sexy partner all at the same time - without going insane?

I'm just asking.

I'm neck deep in all things husband and child. I'm just going to post a picture from last weekend, on top of Mount Tolmie. I present to you, "Franklin the Mountain Goat".

(This is my first post using Flickr.)

I also wanted to post a link to this article, An Open Letter to US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice from the Winnipeg Free Press.

Your article has impressed me, Lloyd. You are now on my Christmas list. I only have two more Loobylu cards left and I'm going to save one for you.

This morning Franklin decided to bring a couple of books along for the ride to work and daycare. One of these books was a pop-up version of "There was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly".

Seeing as how I am not legally allowed to drive a car and read a story at the same time, I sang the song instead.

Have you ever heard the lyrics to this song?

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.
I dunno why she swallowed that fly,
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider,
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll DIE.

There was an old lady who swallowed a bird;
How absurd, to swallow a bird!
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly -
Perhaps she'll DIE

There was an old lady who swallowed a cat.
Imagine that, she swallowed a cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll DIE

There was an old lady who swallowed a dog.
What a hog! To swallow a dog!
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat...
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll DIE.

There was an old lady who swallowed a goat.
Just opened her throat and swallowed a goat!
She swallowed the goat to catch the dog ...
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll DIE.

There was an old lady who swallowed a cow.
I don't know how she swallowed a cow!
She swallowed the cow to catch the goat...
She swallowed the goat to catch the dog...
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat...
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird ...
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her.
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.
But I dunno why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll DIE.

There was an old lady who swallowed a horse -
She's dead, of course.

DEAD!

Charming little ditty.

There was nothing wrong with this song when I was growing up. In fact, I never gave the whole morbid theme any thought. It was someone else who was dead, not anyone I knew.

Now, while singing it in the car to Franklin, I couldn't bring myself to sing that part of the song.

So I tried to improvise - but what the hell rhymes with "fly"?

"Lie"?
That's no good.

"Cry"?
A little better, perhaps.

"Sigh"?
That's just lame lame lame.

So this is my line:

"I don't know why she swallowed that fly
I don't ask why"

Now I'm left asking myself, why do I even care?
Why is it so hard to mention death around Franklin?
He's doesn't understand the concept.
Am I afraid of a potential explanation?
Perhaps I'm the one afraid of death.

Never one to over-analyze a situation, am I?

I saw this on freak girl's pew.

This is a Bell advertisement.
Ironically, it was International Woman's Day two days ago.

I find this so incredibly offensive that I wrote to the following:

complaints@adstandards.com
bell.direct@bell.ca
executive.office@bell.ca

If you feel the same, please do.

Throughout my time with the Vagina Monologues I listened to story after story of women who were either afraid of or angry at their vaginas - for being VAGINAS.
I feel like punching the person who thought of this.

fcuking hell.

This weblog is supposed to be about Franklin.
I've given a couple of interviews lately and most of the questions have had to do with Franklin and me writing about him.

Yet, I've been writing about myself for the last couple of days - more like whining... and lets see if I can bring it back around to Franklin, shall we?

So, the insomnia's back.

Yeah, but this time, this time... I'm going to turn it around. I just can't continue on like this. Three hours of sleep on a daily basis make me write all sorts of strange dribble on this website and I wouldn't want to give you the wrong impression - I'm not strange.

You see, usually I can't sleep at night and I end up hanging around downstairs, pounding away on the computer until about 2 or 3 in the morning. This is when I finally drag my ass to bed and when my head hits the pillow it will only take about half an hour of tossing and turning to fall asleep instead of the usual 3 or 4.
(seriously, I'm not exaggerating here)

It's not that I don't get tired. In fact, I get amazingly tired at about 5pm - right when I'm to be the most on the ball in terms of Franklin.

I remember the days after work meant going for a long and refreshing run, stopping in at the bar with a couple of friends, finishing a couple of errands, or working a bit later to complete a project.

HA!
That's not happening now.

Now it's getting to daycare before 4:45pm so I can gather Franklin's lunch, dirty clothing, the kid himself, and talk to the daycare provider about his day.

Then it's saying goodbye to our friends,

"Bye Bye Obedemigo, Bye Bye Obedemigo's Mom, Bye Bye Gertie, Bye Bye Gertie's Dad, Bye Bye... "
Sigh, he's so social, it kills me.

Then there's the fond and loving farewell to the guppies in the fish tank - which can take a while if they are not in full view. (I have been known to knock rather forcefully on the glass to stir them up a bit.)

Then it's off to the front door where he will say goodbye to the director of the daycare for about 5 minutes while he strums his fingers up and down the register and tell me he's playing music.
Beautiful Franklin!

We wait until there is no one opening and closing the main front doors (which can take awhile, it being peak pick-up time) so we can press the handicap door opener together.
Whoopee.

We discuss the sticker that has been on the large cement pillar for about two months now - it's a truck hitched to a trailer and there's a person driving it and a dog looking out the window and it's high up the pillar and it's starting to lose all it's colour.
Fascinating stuff.

Once we leave the gate and have examined all the bikes and the bike trailers, I have to convince him that we must walk along the sidewalk. Thankfully, he has recently understood that running out into the parking lot is dangerous and that if a car ran over him, he would be, in his words, "flat".
Last week, we discussed how being flat would not be fun and that our bumps are nice - like the bump that makes out nose and the bump that makes our shoulders and the bump than makes our ears...
All good bumps.

The walk along the sidewalk always takes us past a patch of moss which we have to stop and stroke. We marvel at how soft and green (like Henry) it is and by this time I start to really want to get home...

So we hunt for the car.
Franklin! Where's the car? What colour is the car? Do we drive a car or a double-decker bus?
Yes, a car.
Yes, Mommy is silly.

Mommy is also tired. We have to get home so Daddy and I can make you dinner, give you a bath, read you stories and sing you songs.

I love singing the songs.

So, by the time all this fun is over (it is actually a hell of a lot of fun), I'm wide-awake. I'm on my second wind. I'm rejoicing at the hours I have to D and myself.

However! Last night I went to bed at 10:30pm and stayed there. I tossed and turned and thought about horrible disasters and homelessness and impending grad school applications... but I stayed in bed.

I don't know when I fell asleep but I do know that I got up at 5:45am in the morning and went for a run. It wasn't a spectacular run, I'm not running in any marathons any time soon, but it was a run.

I feel good today.
I have no idea what amount of sleep I'm working on, but I feel good.

I just need to work in the studying somewhere now.

I wonder how I'll sleep tonight.

Crapola

I feel I should apologize.

I've been feeling a little overwhelmed lately with all the working full time, studying, being a "perfect" mom, and a loving partner thing.

I've also been beating myself up over the fact that I don't have a career. I mean, if I'm not into the whole singing birds, flying over rainbows, stay-at-home momming in all that baking and crafty goodness, then shouldn't I have some marvelous career that is compensating me for all that wonderful calmness?

I do mean wonderful, by the way. Of course, not so much of the calm, but I do think being a stay-at-home Mom is really amazing. It's not for me, not in our situation and not with Franklin gaining so much from daycare.

Sigh.
I make a crack about not wanting to home-school because I don't like teaching anything and I get emails asking me why I am so hostile against staying at home.

I could go on and on about my childhood, what a sense of accomplishment means to me and how it has nothing to do with you, but I won't.
I won't mostly because I got the most amazing email and phone call from my mother tonight telling me to believe in myself and I can have the world.
I don't feel like bringing in my childhood to make my own mother wonder if she did anything wrong.

If I made any stay-at-home mom who home schools feel like I was slagging them, I sincerely apologize. That would suck to come here and read that. I don't feel this way. I think stay at home mothers are tough and extraordinary and extremely patient.

I also envy those people who understand the concept of working to live and not living to work. I'm not one of those people either.

I know what I want to do but I feel like I've been working toward it for sooooooooooo long. When does this all begin to happen? Is this it? If life is for living and not for making plans then when the hell do we make the plans? I NEED TO MAKE PLANS. Plans are necessary, people.

Jerry Mother of Bob, I'm going to bed.

If you were to tell me I'm beautiful I'd think to myself,
"I've got to hang around this person less, or they'll start to notice the flaws"

If you were to tell me I write well I'd think,
"You've got to read more"

If you were to tell me I'm intelligent I'd worry,
"Have you been speaking to my parents?"

If you were to tell me I'm funny I'd be highly doubtful.
Especially today.

Yet, I hate it when someone can't take a compliment. A person who makes excuses or explains away flattery becomes weak and unattractive in my eyes. Of all the things I am frustrated with, this has got to be one of the hardest. I don't want to show Franklin this side of me. This side that says,
"I don't think I'm really all that and if you think I'm actually terrific in any way, you suck too."

I realize motherhood isn't about being perfect, but can't it be about improving the next generation? All the kisses and hugs, encouragement and celebrations D and I give Franklin are so deeply heartfelt. I can see the pride in Franklin's eyes when he shows me something he's created.

I never, ever, ever, ever want him to lose this.

I hope and pray that he will always have people around him that love him and respect him as much as his family does. This is a hard thing about being a parent - seeing your heart walking around making snakes and pizza out of play dough.

When I first met my friend Laura we decided to put each other through what we termed as "Bitch Training".
We treated each other horrendously. I don't know why we specifically picked each other to do this with - we had just met. In fact, that time I told her she looked like a squeezed pimple off a fat circus clown's ass? I'm just lucky that it didn't hit some deep, buried memory of hers - like that her father was a circus clown, had a big, pimply ass and she was forced to attend to these... ugh, I'm grossing myself out.

Whatever the reason, even though "Bitch Training" may have made the people around us amazingly uncomfortable, it cemented our friendship.
When she tells me I'm beautiful, or smart, or a good writer I actually think she believes it.
Really and Truly.
(of course, whether I think she's correct in all her adoration is another matter altogether)

I think she's phenomenal herself. I wish I told her more often.

So I'm telling you now, Bitch.

I can't find a decent, free, online graphing program so I've been distracting myself with
100 years of Illustration and Design.

It has been so wonderfully soothing.

Just so you know - like I've never told anyone before, like I haven't been assured of my own genius through the infinite number of developmental leaps my son accomplishes everyday...

Franklin talks well.

He also pronouces well and remembers the names of our friends, Jay and Monica, from their trip to Victoria last year - when they stopped by to say hello for 15 minutes.

15 minutes.
Apparently, that's all it takes for a child to burn something into their brain forever.
Oh the scarring that can be done!
I forgot this little toddler talent when I was playing the rhyming game with Franklin on the way home from daycare yesterday. One of us will say a word and the other responds with a sound that rhymes. It doesn't have to be an actual word but...

Ah, what the hell.
I'll tell you what a terrible mother I am and how I'm only raising my son to amuse myself.

I thought it was funny to hear him discover that "fcuk" rhymes with "truck".
We said that particular group of words and everything that rhymes with "fcuk" all the way home.
Over and over and over again.

Then I asked him what rhymes with truck at dinner so that D would be able to marvel at what his clever son has learned from his irresponsible mother.
(Between you and me, it's my clever design to banish all thoughts of home-schooling from my husband's head. Would you want me teaching your child?)

Anyway..

What I was trying to say was, all that advanced talking stuff? Yeah, not so much of a help when he's in melt down mode.

It used to be so helpful when he was younger. He never got frustrated because he was able to tell me what he needed. The sign language I thought was so cool was never needed. It was incredibly easy.

Now though, it's an entirely different matter.

It's almost like he doesn't want to be understood. He just wants to be left alone to feel mad. I can understand this. I get annoyed when people tell me everything is going to be alright when really? It doesn't matter if everything will eventually be alright. It's not alright now. That's what matters. I am upset about the situation now. JUST LET ME BE UPSET!

oh, and we're talking about Franklin....

So, yes. He wants to be left alone to stamp and cry and send those big tears streaming down his angelic cheeks.
However, when it's bath time and it's already getting late... letting him cry it out doesn't seem to be an option. If we leave him alone, and as a result skip the bath, aren't we teaching him to use a temper tantrum to avoid something he doesn't want to do?

All amount of reasoning won't work (surpise surprise).
He has so much fun in the bath (except for the rinsing of hair - that's still a horrifying experience for all parties involved). Once he's in there and splashing away, he's in his naked glory. But, last night? Meltdown.

I have more fun when he's saying "fcuk".

My Mother is returning home from her rescue visit. She now officially goes down in history as the patron saint of Pinkeye, Ear Infections, Fevers over 103 degrees, Strange and Scary Rashes, Makers of Dinner and Givers of Trains.

(Mom, I don't mean to be disrespectful. This is a compliment coming from me. My entire life has been spent praying to the patron saint of expeditious solutions and against procrastination, also known as Expeditus.)

It was incredible for you to come and visit. I can't believe that by the time you are to read this you will have travelled 13 hours by bus to get back home. You are amazing - and now that I have a child, I completely understand why you would do this.

Thanks Mom.

(I didn't get her on film, but I've taken some pictures.)

Knitting: the ultimate in melatonin

I got an email a little while ago from a woman in Singapore who wrote for the Straits Times Interactive. There were a couple of questions about my weblog and a couple of questions about me and... low and behold, I'm the "Blog of the Week" in Digital Life.

You can see the article here.

You'll have to register to get access to the paper.
It'll be good for you. I think it's one of the more popular English newspapers in Singapore and shouldn't everyone read the paper from another part of the world every now and then?

Unless you're like my paranoid friend who refuses to put her name anywhere because.... shhhhhhhh.. Big Brother might be watching.
News Flash.
Big Brother has been watching for a while now and he knows you turn your underwear inside out and wear it twice in a row because you didn't do any laundry over the weekend.

Think of it as my little weblog feature (accompanied by a smashing photo of me looking suspiciously like a drag queen) as an added bonus to gaining a larger perspective on life.

Last Thursday I stayed at home with my sweet little Puss-Eye. He played in his sandbox while I snapped about a gazillion photos.
Digital cameras have saved us from bankruptcy - I swear.

I find it interesting how he likes to get soooo up close to his toys. It's such an involved endevour; talking to his diggers, explaining what he's doing... even giving his machines roles to play and cliffs to fall off.

My Mother has commented that he may need another sibling - all this talking to himself is a little strange to the woman who raised five very LOUD children.

I'd just like to state, as one of those LOUD children, I talked to myself continuously. Christ, I'm still doing it.

This behaviour may have nothing to do with "only child syndrome". In fact, talking to oneself may be a genetic thing. Perhaps all of us talked to ourselves but seeing as we were all situated so close to each other and the roar was so deafening, it was hard to tell who was communicating and who was orating.

Of course, sometimes people around you get tired of you talking to yourself. Sometimes they decide to politely, yet swiftly, vacate the seat next to you on the bus and stand next to the gaggle of gum chewing junior high kids.
Sometimes even your toys think it's a little much.

I'm just sayin'

(Oh, and Hello Singapore!)