When I read about wonderful people on the net doing wonderful things such as going to movies, having drinks with friends, traveling to Las Vegas, eating in a sushi restaurants, or God forbid, camping... I get all excited.

Oooooh, what a wonderful idea! I want to do that!

All we need is a baby-sitter.... blink blink.

blink.

blink.

Ah, crap. That's right, we don't have one. We don't have a babysitter and we don't have parents around to take the little tank off our hands for a night/weekend/afternoon.
And really? If we did? We don't exactly have the cash to go out and do anything with/to each other that we might as well do with/to each other right here (behind closed doors, with the stereo on, and the curtains drawn).

Because basically, us poor people can only afford to read books and have sex. Public libraries and bonking are both free. Of course, keeping overdue books and/or actually procreating another human being isn't all that free - but lets not dwell, shall we?

By the time Franklin is 5, D and I will either be really, really smart or live in a shoe with a hell of a lot of kids. Maybe both.

A long time ago, a very good friend of mine once told me that only stupid people breed. I'm here to tell you, this is not necessarily true. IUD's slip out and I tell ya, other forms of birth control aren't always cheap. If you think about it, those rich people over there? Watching the reality TV? They could actually be be breeding as well. They're just choosing to become stupid. Unless you're going to try and tell me that only poor people are stupid...

Okay, I just read over what I just wrote and it's incredibly insane.
I apologize.

My point? That I made moussaka and we all trucked over to friend of ours and looked at their pictures of India. They just got back. The pictures are amazing.

I feel like I may have at least some semblance of a social life. We may have had to leave at 8:30 to get Franklin to bed before he turned as crazy as his mother, but we went out. The three of us were in the car after dark.

There were times when D and I were even sitting on the couch together, drinking wine! We were stationary!

I am so excited by the whole experience, I knew had to come home and tell all of you. Basically, you are my other/alternate/dependable social life.

You aren't mad are you, Internet?

Yesterday I spent a wonderful portion of the afternoon watching Franklin and D sleeping side by side on our bed.

Yesterday was hot. As well, Franklin had one of those "I'm not going to nap, I'm going to sing and call out to Mom and Dad until I finally succumb to exhaustion" afternoons.
You know, those.
Those ones where you wonder if this is the apocalypse, the end of all things calm and rejuvenating, the stage in life where He Needs No Naps.

That's just not going to happen. Nope. No way. No how. Na-da.
What he hasn't come to realize yet, is that his Mother will always be more stubborn than he - always. Of course, what good is an afternoon nap if it starts at 3:30 and continues until 5pm? Especially when bedtime occurs at 7:30?
Not much good.

Yet, that kid was going to sleep for some undetermined period of time if I had anything to do with it. The sleep was necessary. He was h-y-p-e-r and is just getting over a cold - isn't he always? He wasn't going to make it all the way to bedtime in one piece, sans nap - at least, I knew I wasn't going to make it.

Jeez.

Of course, once 4:30 came around, after an hour of sleep, D thought it might be prudent to wake up our son - thinking logically about bedtime and all. This is where I start to think that Franklin has skipped his grade school years and has sprung right up to the age of 18. He does not want to go to sleep and yet, when he does, nothing on God's green earth is going to wake him up.

C-r-a-n-k-y.

The result was a beautiful sleeping boy lying next to a beautiful sleeping man.
So, so sweet.
Have you seen my husband? Very beautiful.

I can still see the two of them lying in bed together. Our room was much cooler and far less oppressive than the sauna in his bedroom. Franklin found it more comfortable to continue his nap there. The humidifier that we seem to constantly run for Franklin makes his room feel like stepping out of an air-controlled, pressurized airplane and into the deepest recesses of the Amazon rainforest.

I sat at the end of the bed reading short stories about Charles Bukowski's dream woman and Erica Jong's zipless sex. Every once and awhile, I would look up from my Drinking, Smoking & Screwing to watch the two of them sleep in some kind of minimalist, post-modern symphony - shallow and deep breathes mixed together, interspersed by the occasional whistled wheeze, sniffle and stir.

By the time bedtime came around, Franklin was not tired. We spent an entire hour in his bedroom talking about underwater subway trains, underwater houses, houses that are too strong to be blown down by wolves, fish, sharks, what green trains eat, what blue trains eat, what are the best things to dream about, how Mommy is a lady and Daddy is not, what blueberries taste like, who eats blueberries, how Daddy can carry Mommy and Franklin together, how flashlights shine in the closet... God, the list goes on.

I love my family. Can you tell I love my family? I love my family.

I wasn't picked on when I was a kid. I was very good at blending into the background. I saw what happened to the popular girls when they fell from grace (and they always fall from grace) and I saw what happened to the ones who let their freak flag fly.
You weren't allowed to let a freaky flag fly at my high-school - at least from what I saw. If you did, it didn't seem to pay off very well. So as a result, I became wallpaper - until my breasts grew. Once that happened, I was bumpy wallpaper, also known as "decoration".

This served me well and I used it to my full advantage. I didn't have to worry about going with the crowd because I didn't really have one. I didn't have to drink if I didn't want to, I didn't have to wear make-up if I didn't want to, and I certainly didn't have to kick some girl in the stomach if I didn't want to. If I was with people I didn't like, I broke up with them. It was pretty simple, because I thought they were. I also don't think I was a very likeable or interesting person back then either - other than the bumps.

For me, high-school was full of Olympic dreams. I was merely sliding by until... whatever was going to happen to me after I left, happened. I still keep in touch with a few people from back then (and for all I know, a few more are reading this right now) but it's not because we were all a part of some "crowd". It was more that they happen to have bumped into me and remembered my name.

Most of the time they remember this name because of my older brother. I have always wanted to be like my brother in so many ways. I want to be as smart as he is, as driven, as successful, and most of all, as sensitive. Now, I know this statement will bring on a couple of emails and messages about how I am all of those things already, but much of this has to do with the fact that I've only recently (as in the last 4 or 5 years) started to care about what was really happening to me. Unbelievably, this has to do with some morbid obsession I used to have - that I was going to die some incredibly violent death in my twenties so I didn't care too much about what happened in my distant future. Whatever it was, in high-school I was just living until it all ended. Stupid and immature I know, but wern't we all morbid and dramatic back then?

My brother, on the other hand, has always been passionate and sensitive about his life. It's not that my other siblings are not (because they are), but I've watched and looked up to my older brother ever since I can remember so I've paid some serious attention to his life. Most of the time, we haven't got along. I would have to say that we may still not get along too well - but only because I still can't unleash myself like he can.
His sensitivity, intelligence and drive made him stand out in highschool. This was something I was deathly afraid of. He paid the price in many ways, but reaped the advantages also. He is a strong person and I admire him.

However, I also see qualities in Franklin that make me a little scared. Will I be able to teach Franklin that although being yourself no matter what people may do or say is hard, it is ultimately the right thing to do?
When I watch Franklin, I see a little boy who is very intelligent and passionate. He is not one of those toddlers who wants to play with whatever the next kid's got going on. Once he finds something he wants to investigate, he is completely absorbed. The problem is, he cannot tolerate someone disrupting this concentration bubble. The bigger problem is, there are children who know this and will purposely disturb him for the entertainment of seeing him get upset. D and I saw it happen at daycare yesterday and it immediately brought back memories. I wanted to explain to Franklin how to act like it doesn't bother him. I wanted to teach Franklin how to blend in like wallpaper - that coughs and has snot dripping from it's nose.

I am so incredibly mad at myself for thinking this way.

Yet, I wonder if Franklin will be a kid who brings out the bully in other children. My teeth are clenched even thinking about kids treating Franklin the way I watched them treat the kids in my school. Yesterday was a bit of a wake-up call... but to what? I don't want to teach Franklin my social talent for blending into the backgorund. I want him to be able to be himself and feel passionately about whatever he wants to feel passionately about. I want him to be sensitive and intelligent and corny and goofy - if that's what makes him be Franklin.

I just don't know if I have the skills to teach him these things and I'm hoping to Ratzinger and all his red-headed Cardinals that D will be able to help him.
I can't believe I'm still struggling with this. I'm 31 for God's sake.

A morning of...

pre-school pictures,
Franklin coughing,
car insurance,
more coughing,
home,
cough medicine,
making bank appointments,
cleaning the kitchen,
following very slow mercedes benz owners through the parkade while the owner checks out all the other benz vehicles - what are you doing? comparing?!?,
keeping bank appointments,
making tough decisions,
being tough with bankers,
seeing homeless people,
hearing homeless people beg for "Birthday Beer Money",
being passed racist literature on the street,
watching someone get arrested,
watching someone spit on a homeless man's dog,
hearing two women argue over paint colours,
seeing a bike accident,
returning home to a mess....

It's only 2:30. This is supposed to be my day-off.

I am frustrated and feel very short therefore, so is this.

via Tuckova

things i used to believe that i definitely do not believe anymore

1. people change
2. once you get to know me, you will hate me
3. you still think of me, even after we've parted
4. people want to see through my outer chaos and like me, for "just being me"
5. i will always be there for franklin

things that i believe but that do not usually upset me

1. you will not live up to my expectations
2. i spend a lot of time inside my own head
3. my body will deteriorate
4. i am not a genius
5. you think i'm crazy, but you call me eccentric just to be nice

things that i only rarely believe anymore

1. i will raise franklin to be a monster
2. everything would be better if only i was more... everything
3. you stay with me because of our child
4. i need you
5. i am ugly

things i still believe, even if i have evidence to the contrary

1. parents are the prime determiners of how their children feel about the world (yes)
2. i am crazy
3. people are mean because they are insecure
4. the world can be a better place
5. if i work hard enough, I can make it so

things i never believed, so never had to get over

1. my parents are perfect
2. nuns and priests are perfect
3. tooth fairy / santa claus / easter bunny....
4. i am safe
5. you need me

For the longest time, I was worried about Franklin's intolerance for guck.
By guck, I mean food on is hands or the side of his mouth, dirt between his toes, bugs crawling across his lap, play dough on his train tracks...
All this used to freak the hell out of him. He would sometimes get so worked up, he would be unable to wipe the offending "guck" off of whatever it was soiling.

Thankfully, this guck phobia has slowly diminished. D and I thought that an appropriate reaction to this attitude would be to act like it was no big deal. "

"Peanut butter on your chin? Cool, wipe it off Franklin"
"Dirt on your pants? Right on, we can do more laundry now!"
"Spider walking across your dump truck? Woooo, what nice long legs it has!"

We came to this miraculously obvious parenting conclusion as our previous stand-up, jump to attention, where's the face cloth? WHERE'S THE FLIPPIN FACE CLOTH!!!! form of reaction just wasn't helping the freak-out factor.

This weekend, I noticed a remarkable change in Franklin's attitude. Although it may be hard to believe, but I had not been documenting the change in him. Yet, yesterday, hanging out with him on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I watched as he tried to coax an ant to crawl on his hands, roll a pill bug around the pavement, pour water into his sandbox and make a gargantuan swamp of quick-sand, walk in the afore mentioned quick-sand, and even slime gucky play dough (I hadn't added enough flour to the mix, but he seemed to like it that way) over his precious Jack and Alfie... it was excellent to see.

I am so proud of my messy, little kid.

Don't worry Mom and Dad, after this shot was taken he was told to put the hay on the ground (and keep his fingers away from the goat's mouth).

Of course, that didn't stop him from trying to insert a string of grass into one of their asses.

Little monkey - he even giggled as he did it.

Where does he learn these things from?

Today, as the weather turned to sun, heat and all things cancerous, our family headed down to the city's most excellent hat shop to buy a protective hat for Franklin.

The criteria: a long visor, protection for the back of his neck and ears, breathable, light-weight, and most of all absolutely treasured by the wearer.

With articles like this and this, the availability of hats which follow the first two rules are easy. Surprisingly, the second two are a little more difficult. Roberta's Hat's has a pretty good selection though - but get there soon if you're looking. I find that the variety of stock diminishes quickly and it takes time for more to come in.

D and I found about 3 hats which we thought would be suitable. The nice thing about Franklin getting older is that we don't have to worry about his hat falling off all the time. He's fully capable of putting it back on if he needs to. Therefore, no under the chin strings. I hated those things.

Of course, nothing is that simple. Giving Franklin the choice between these 3 hats was another thing altogether. He knew the toy shop (aka "The THOMAS SHOP") was next door. He wasn't interested in a hat when there were trains to be coveted.

I tried to make trying on hats fun,

"Look Franklin! A Dr. Suess hat! Cat in the Hat!"
"Wow, Franklin! A Big Pink Furry Hat! I'm a Big Pink Pussy!"
"Franklin!!!! A Birthday Cake Hat!!!!"

Nothing would change his mind. He did not want a hat. Well, more accurately, he wanted his lobster ball cap, the one which fit him last year but now just sits on the top of his head like a yarmulke.

Finally, the store was closing. The door was now locked to prevent more customers from entering the store and my "Franklin, choose-a-hat-and-then-we-can-leave" ultimatum started to carry a little more weight. He relented.
What parenting skills I have, eh?

Thank Abraham, a closer inspection of a particular foreign legion, winnie the pooh hat was deemed acceptable, if not utterly fantastic - especially once a beautiful, tall, nice smelling woman enlarged it to make room for his curls..

In fact, it was hard to get it off of him this evening
Cutie.

Yesterday I found out I was not accepted into the full-time grad program I was counting on. I am not surprised, but still, I am sad. The news made me instantly tired because I know that there is now four more semesters, one entire year, of working all day, being with Franklin and D all evening, and studying all night. I was hoping to cut out the working all day part of the equation.

Yet, this last semester went well. I'm starting to get more focused with my time. When I had work to do there was not much wasted energy. Part of this may have been the subject - I think I am in love with economics. Nevertheless, I will be able to do this. I have to do this.

I was feeling so bad for letting so many people down, not only myself. I was playing in the sandbox last evening with Franklin while D and I tried to have a conversation about "the future". In the middle of it all, with my eyes stinging and the two of us trying to find the silver lining in it all, Franklin raised his arms and said,

"Who's got hands?"

Point well taken, Franklin.
I do.
I have hands and that's what's really important - that and the fact that I have you in my life.

Thanks, hon.

Yesterday, I met with some webloggers from Victoria.

Man, I know absolutely nothing about blogging - at least in terms of all that gadget speak flying around the table.
While my site was inexplicabley down last night, I looked into what the hell is an RSS Feed. There was an entertaining discussion on purists and time-saving and other blah, bluh, blah bloh that I politely smiled through and hopefully laughed at the correct periods. It was fun actually. I enjoyed meeting them - and I'm not just saying that because all of you are probably stopping by at some point.

So, it seems my tart graphic diva, Sheila, takes care of everything.
I have them, I give them, yet I'm not sure if they're good or not - the RSS feed.

Jeez, it sounds like I'm talking about an STD or something.

When I first started this website, I taught myself html as a strategic procrastination technique to avoid writing a paper on transnational feminism. I was wary of learning dreamweaver or getting someone else to design my site because I wanted complete control.

After a few years though, I came to realize that the coding and the design isn't really what it's all about for me. Of course, I want to change the look of the site every once and awhile, but I'm not interested in doing anything drastic - just a different colour or picture.

It's all about the writing.
(and to be perfectly honest, not much comes to mind these days)

Well, one thing comes to mind.
Franklin has left our home and in his place is a child so hyper and giddy that 1 hour with the beast is more than 3 mornings of torturous morning jogs up the steep, steep, bloody steep hill by my house.

What on earth is with the hyper?

By all means, Franklin is not a calm person, but he does have a smidgen of D in him. The levelheaded gene that I bred with should save him. However, lately, this gene has been malfunctioning.
We are wondering if it has to do to with the time change. My boss has a daughter who is couple of months younger than Franklin. She (my boss) told me yesterday that things are as chaotic with her (as in her daughter) as well. She's attributing it to the extra sun.

damn sun.

Franklin slept in today though. I actually left the house before he woke. This never happens. I suppose the snot; the pink-eye (yes, it has come full circle) and the lack of sleep have finally caught up to him.

A hilarious aspect of a child with clear speech, yet absolutely no reason, is the dramatics that can ensue when he doesn't want to do something. When I got home last night, D told me about his adventures of putting the ointment for the pink-eye in Franklin's eyes.

To be fair, this is a serious, 2 adult activity. One to hold the child down and the other to expertly drop the ointment into the eye. These players must work as a team for if the holder neglects to hold properly, then the dropper cannot drop properly. If the dropper doesn't drop properly, then the holder must hold for that much longer.
(Dr. Suess anyone?)

Miraculously, D has been doing this on his own. Yesterday evening (with a stiff drink in his hand) he recounted a tale of hysterics in which he was trying to calmly explain to Franklin that he is his Father, he would never do anything ot hurt him, that the medicine will stop his eye from hurting, and that everything will be over in a second...
Unfortunately, Franklin was not able to hear these reassurances because he was screaming at the top of his lungs,

"HEEEEELLLLP!"
" I CAN NOT SEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! "

"Franklin, you're eyes are closed, honey"

You know those times when you just have to take a step back and breathe? When you realize that everything around you is just so fcuking amazing that you can't hold it inside and you pick up your son and squeeze him like the cuddly little ball of absolute amazement that he is?
You know when this ball of amazement decides that he doesn't actually want to be taken away from his intricate train project in order to satiate the overflow of happy energy coming from his emotional slob of a mother?

This is when you get a big, muddy shoe print on your last pair of clean pants and you go to work anyway and you don't bother to explain to anyone why it looks like Verne Troyer just kicked you in the inner thigh.

Has anyone seen The Surreal Life? D is watching it during the afternoons these days - hey, at least it's not some soap opera like Coronation Street. Incidentally, can anyone explain to me why this is English show is so popular?

Anyway, this Surreal Life show? Crazy. Apparently, Verne Troyer (aka: "Mini-Me") is on it.
I haven't seen a full episode. I was sick, having gynecological exams and finishing assignments on the afternoon that I overheard D watching it. Apparently Mr. Troyer got loaded, started moaning and began to wander around the apartment in all his natural glory - or more accurately wheel around in some old-man chair.

How do people actually think this is a career booster? Do these pseudo-celebs actually think they are helping themselves? Is this actually a ploy for more publicity - that any publicity is good publicity? As I stared at the pixel blur of Verne's penis, I wondered if these people are really just that thirsty for attention they are actually willing to go on a pointless reality show to get their face back in the magazines. If there is a point to all of this, please let me know.

Our TV use is dangerously close being relegated to rented movies and the CBC. In fact, I've already asked the cable company to cut off the connection but apparently they need more than one request because we are still receiving everything.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not pulling one of those annoying, "better than thou", my mind is a temple crap. I really do think TV is great. I love the entertainment. I even love the one-sided, government controlled, segmented for commericals news casts. In fact, any additional data to squeeze into this news junk of a brain is sweet candy in my eyes.

Yet, come on. Coronation Street? The Surreal Life? All those plastic surgery shows? Ugh.
Crap, I have to admit it. I really hated Sex in the City too. The writing was good in the beginning, but it went downhill so, so fast.

Someone recommend something good soon. America's Next Top Model is coming close to the finale and I think Michelle is about to get the boot. Without a bi-sexual butch to cheer on, what will I do with myself?

Anyone see that housewife show? Is that any good? When's it on?

My cable company thanks you for your help in this matter.

Man, I was thinking I had nothing to write about today.
I was right.

So there's a new pope.
Franklin will be pleased. I'll have to let him know after daycare today.

Franklin actually does know about the pope - in that there is such a word as "pope".
You see, D and I have decided to blatantly ignore other, more seasoned, parental warnings about keeping the news away from the child. As a result, he will entertainingly repeat snippets of the press reports back to us during the broadcast, and then sometimes over again at the most amusing times.

This morning, on the way to daycare, we were listening to the CBC morning news. Franklin over-heard reports on both the new immigration policy in Canada and the predictions of who would be the new pope (the black smoke had not appeared on our side of the world at this point). As we started down the hill past the "Arboootis Tree", long after I had turned the radio off, Franklin told me that he wanted to go to the airport and fly on a DC10 instead of go to daycare. I asked him who would fly the plane - expecting something in the range of Daddy, Franklin, or Mommy. Instead, he has decided that the most suitable driver of our vessel should be "Pope Joe Volpe".

I think Mr. Volpe will be pleased with this new title.
Who needs the re-election of your party when you are head of the Catholic Church?
Does anyone know if he's even Catholic?
Should we tell Ratzinger?
Franklin says no.

You would think, after the whole Tsunami confusion, that I would be more conscious about what Franklin sees and hears in the media. Not to worry. I am - sorta/kinda.
Have you noticed the lack of gore in the news? These days I can be pretty sure that all Franklin will learn are words like "Gomery Inquiry", "Liberal Electioneering" and "Japanese textbooks".
Nothing too scarring I hope.

To tell you the truth, I wish there was more about land claims in South Africa. I'm interested in this.

Last night I tried to watch a documentary about Evelyn Nesbit, Stanford White and Harry Thaw in between D's thirst for "The Bachelor" (he's going to kill me for writing this because he asked me if it was okay to switch back and forth and really, I too became morbidly interested in the whole "Samantha Drama" unfolding before us - that and the fact that this "Bachelor" seems to like getting drunk all the time...).
Nevertheless, in the documentary I was taken aback at one man's account of the media back in the late 1800's. Apparently, in New York alone, there were somewhere around 15 newspapers! - not 2, not 3, but 15 newspapers. Imagine the range of opinions and information available!

I know, I know. There's this thing, Ada? It's called the Internet? You can read papers from all over the world? Incidentally, it's a hell of a lot more than 15 newspapers.

Yes, I know.
However, it's not a common activity for people to look up a few dozen news sites and check the headlines - unless you're my father. What a treat to be able to walk up to a newsstand and see 15 interpretations of the news in your city. Yum.

Yes, I know. There are also these things called weblogs - a few million trillion of them, in fact. They can also give you a couple million trillion interpretations on the news. But really, when you look up your blog links are they even talking about the news? Is that why you read them? If they do, are they informed? Do you care?

Perhaps I should call this entry Lunchtime Diarrhea. I have potty fingers. I'm spewing my thoughts everywhere, contradicting and supporting ideas over and over again. I can't control it. The crap is even spilling over into the bathtub.

What fun for you.

You are going to think I'm insane.
Just warning you.

For the past month the sentences that have been coming out of Franklin's mouth have been incredible. I have been constantly shocked at the amount of thought that goes into his communication. Gone are the days when he's constantly asking me what that's called and what's this called...Even the repetitive description of Every. Single. Minute. Detail. is starting to fall away from his repertoire.
These days he will say things like,

"What do those words say Mum?"
"When I eat too much, my tummy aches."
"I want to see the bones in my skeleton."
"I think we should move my bed over there... or there... or there."

The fact that he's thinking about something and can tell me so easily is so impressive to me. I remember the first big long talks I had with my two little brothers and how astute their observations were. I remember feeling so proud that they wanted to talk to me about the things they were seeing around them. The fact that Franklin is on the verge of telling me his thoughts and feeling makes me so excited. I want to rush out and get this so we can look at the skeleton together. I want to read Hop on Pop with him - one of the first books with which I remember really understanding words myself.

I understand he's only 2 and a half (remember, I warned you that I'm insane) but if he's asking the questions, why not explore the answers together? I don't think I'm pushing him. I'm just going with the flow.
I know every mother thinks the world of her kid so you are free to either celebrate my joy in Franklin's communication or go to some other page. However, the aggressive emails about toddler development and over-achieving parents and the passive emails about "how great it is that Franklin is doing wonderful in my eyes but perhaps I should be more concerned with his physical problems" can be left unsent. It's not that I don't appreciate feedback; I just don't think these emails have one iota of good intention in them.

You know, it constantly amazes me how women, who can be so wonderfully supportive and encouraging in any other setting, get increasingly bitchy when it comes to children. When I get asked for my opinion, I tend to think that whomever I give it to will take it as my experience and be thankful that I didn't just do the "Oh you know, everyone's different" line. I got so much of that when I was pregnant and a new Mom with Franklin. No one told me about how hard breast-feeding could be or his or her coping mechanisms for sleep deprivation. In fact, no one bothered to ask me how I was doing - really doing. Of course, many of my friends were not mothers, so I didn't expect them to understand - but those that were, were silent.

I resented that a bit. I wished I had more people to talk to about my frustrations and pain. Instead, when I wrote on this site about my incredible fear of something happening to Franklin I got someone telling me that they thought I was being dramatic. After months of thinking I was going insane, I have realized that this anxiety is completely normal.

So, I had decided to be different. When a new Mom (or Mom to be) asks me what I think about something I tell them everything I can remember. I even go back in my private journal and this weblog to refresh my memory. I tell them everything - the good and the bad. I never want them to think that they are the only ones to feel the way they are feeling or that they are alone in their struggles. If I haven't gone through what they are dealing with I can usually find someone I know who has gone through something similar and look into it for them. I assume they realize that this is my expereince and I'm just trying to give them alternatives.

However, I think I might stop.

You see, I'm wondering if I go overboard - that I tell them too much. I think that when someone asks me my opinion, they don’t actually want to know all the gory details and the stuff that could go wrong. Sometimes, they just want reassurance. Although I feel I had too much reassurance and too little empathy, it seems I might be going too far the other way - which isn't the answer.

It certainly isn't the answer when you go out of your way to help someone and the experiences you share are shoved back in your face with a big, impersonal stamp of "Go to Hell" all over it.

The park directly out our back porch provides us with a beautiful view. I am thankful for this view.

Unfortunately, it is also a view in which I get to watch the horrific soap opera that wrecks havoc on one's life at about junior high age. I watch kids get excluded from games, sisters make fun of brothers, 14 year old boys sneaking around in pot fogs to visit the resident "I just want someone to love me" girl in the unit down the way...

Jeez, you'd think I was some kind of little old lady hanging around by my window all day, spying on the neighbours. I swear this isn't what I do. I have a life. I shudder to think of what I would witness if I actually paid attention instead of get the occasional eye-full.

Today's eye-full was a 10-year-old girl kicking the living shit out of a 7 or 8-year old boy clutching his stuffed husky dog.

My oh My, the rage that stirred up inside me was tremendous. I ran out there and started yelling like it was my own son/brother/father/friend/partner she was hurting. I'm starting to shake all over again just typing this.

She stopped just long enough to throw me a look of
"Who the fcuk are you and when were you invited to the boot stomping party?"
At least it was long enough for the kid to run away and join his other little friend who was crouched behind some bushes. She proceeded to call the kid a bunch of infantile names such as "Fraidy Cat" (I know, this is presumably because she's still a child - and apparently so, it seems, am I).

I instantly reverted back to junior high and called the girl a bully. My voice was shaking, I was shaking, Franklin was looking at me with an amused expression on his face (what's Mommy doing with the loud voice?).
Afterward, I stood there with my arms crossed... to what? Stare her down?

These kids think I'm crazy.

I got on the phone with some friends of mine in the complex. I was trying to find out whose parent she belonged to and I was hoping that the sight of me on the phone would scare her into thinking that I was calling her mother... and tattling. My friend told me that although she is from the complex, her mother will not think this is anything remotely deserving of discipline.

What?
The wrath of my mother made me piss my pants. I remember wearing make-up at a friend's house and happened to see the neighbour calling someone on her phone. I literally licked all that stuff off in 2 seconds flat! Yes, although I obviously felt that the world revolved around me, I also think we need more of my mothers in this world.

All that yelling and stomping and shaking and phone calling? Where did it get me? Those 3 kids are playing in this same park like they are the best of friends. Can someone tell me how you go from kicking a younger child in the head (I'm not exaggerating, it was violent) to playing tag - all in the span of 20 minutes?

I don't understand kids these days.

A little while ago Franklin met one of our neighbours after getting out of the car from daycare. We used to hang out with this little guy and his Mom back when I was on maternity leave, but since I've gone back to work it's been more of a "Hey, how are you doing? How's J? Growing fast, I see!" and that's about it.
Of course, it would always be followed up with a "We really must get together soon..."

The other day when J and Franklin met, it was actually light enough outside to play for awhile.
What a difference between the two kids.
They are only a month apart but developmentally it's been remarkable to watch. J has been able to climb stairs on his own before he was 12 months old. Franklin, on the other hand, was able to ask me to carry him up the stairs.
J can climb rocks and jump off 2 foot cliffs like a 6 year old. Franklin can describe how J's jumping off the rocks, how high the rocks are and what great mountain goats they make - complete with the bleating.

The thing I noticed was that J's Mom isn't a big talker. I'm a BIG talker. I'm talk talk talk talking to Franklin ALL THE TIME. In fact, I think when he was younger and I was nervous, I talked in order to get over my fear of being a new Mom. To be honest, I haven't stopped - being nervous or talking.
J's Mom is also completely at ease watching her son climb up a hill with jagged rocks sticking out everywhere waiting to reach up and trip her son. I'm more of a "Watch out! Be Careful! Not too high! Do you need help?" kind of a freak.

As a result, J has a calm and physically confident demeanor and Franklin is a jabbering, nervous twitch.

No, I'm kidding.

I did admire J's confidence with his body, though. He was very capable of climbing pretty much everything. He was also good at setting his own limits. I worry that Franklin looks to me for those limits too often. I also worry that he depends on me for help with the physically challenging activities. He's not one to charge ahead in a playground but he's definitely a charge ahead kind of guy in other situations.

I wonder sometimes if this is just his personality or have I created a fear in his own physical ability. I know I tend to be a little timid myself. I don't think I failed at my glorious ski racing career because of physical limitations, but rather that I would constantly imagine what could go wrong if I caught an edge going 120 kilometres an hour. There are a lot of scenarios and many of them are not very good - painful even. As a result, I could never really let go and fly. My coach told me I thought too much.

Ya think?

So, I'm going to try to not think too much in terms of Franklin. I'm going to be more supportive and less protective - in the climbing rock and ladders and slides sense anyway. Of course, I'm still going to be right next to him to make sure he doesn't harm himself in any of the gazillion things I constantly imagine him doing as he tries something even remotely dangerous... but I'll try not to help him or limit him.

(you can take the Mom out of the nervous wreck, but you can't take the nervous wreck out of the Mom)

Only on a weblog can I moan about my gaping vacuous hole of a cervix only to receive a message from the sister-in-law of an OB/GYN who specializes in "vaginal/uterine reconstruction using state of the art laproscopic techniques".

I love this little hobby of mine.

I will mention this to the doctor I am seeing next month and see what she says. We saw our family doctor yesterday afternoon so she could tell us that Franklin's eczema was.... eczema. The daycare wanted to make sure his skin wasn't contagious - much like impetigo or leprosy. Thankfully, Franklin's not participating in a reality show to become Canada's Next Top Baby Model or wondering why his body parts are falling off.

Incidentally, if anyone else has super dry skin, try Glaxal Base. Very Effective.
Never say I don't give back to the internet.

I have more to write about later, but for now I am awash in my letter of intention and desperately trying to make the resume look like I am working toward a career.

Stop laughing.

Relax.

Yeah... I don't think my doctor knows me very well.

Cervix:
The opening between the uterus and the vagina. The cervical mucus plugs the cervical canal and normally prevents foreign materials from entering the reproductive tract. The cervix remains closed during pregnancy and dilates during labor and delivery to allow the baby to be born.
 
Cervix, Incompetent:
A weakened cervix, which opens up prematurely during pregnancy and can cause the loss of the fetus. A Cervical Cerclage is a procedure in which a stitch or two is put around the cervix to prevent its opening until removed when the pregnancy is to term.

Cervical Stenosis:
A blockage of the cervical canal from a congenital defect or from complications of surgical procedures.

As well, I've been reading articles named, Cerclage and cervical insufficiency: An evidence-based analysis with more concentration than the application procedure page for grad school - and that's concentration, people.

I've also learned that many people find the term, "incompetent cervix", offensive, as it sounds judgmental. Anne Frye suggests the term, "loose cervix", which is perhaps more accurate but has some judgmental potential of its own - but that I'm totally okay with, perhaps even entertained by. 
Many websites feel that the term, "incontinent cervix" is more accurate, reflecting the fact that the cervix is not containing the fetus.  One midwife suggests an alternative term - "Undecided Cervix or Cervical Expansion".
Say that three times fast.

Of course, this Cervical Cerclage thingamagig may not be the "simple solution" my doctor just casually mentioned to fix the LARGE GAPING HOLE in my vagina... I know, I'm trying to find the humor, it's lame. The BBC always seems to bring me bad news - the death of Lady Diana and now this.

I have so many wonderful stories to document about Franklin. I also have so many more things to say about how absolutely amazingly D is when faced with looking for work, taking care of Franklin and washing the kitchen floor. Yes, I came home from work yesterday and he had washed the kitchen floor.

However, this is what I'm doing on my break at work.

We weren't planning on a child right now, but it was something we have been thinking about more and more. The reality is that adoption is not for the people who make a living wage - which is something D and I make. We are not the kind of people who thrive for two SUVs, air-conditioning, and a vacation in Figi every summer - first class all the way.
I know it's all relative and there are a lot of people we respect and love who want or have these kind of things, but we just don't find them as important as having a job we can leave behind when we come home.

However, this means that adoption is not in the picture. Now, when there's a potential of not having a child through simple breeding, I'm starting to wonder if money, more success, more money, more ambition, and more money might be something I need to work a hell of a lot harder for.

The other day I received an email from a friend who lives in London, England. Her email briefly mentioned the fact that a mutual friend of ours is there for a visit and as a result, her liver hurt.
I wistfully emailed back that I wished our livers were hurting together.
My liver hasn't hurt in a very long time. It's hard to do those things when you are trying to examine the pros and cons of the income tax system and poverty in British Columbia.

Yet, it appears that the gods of disease and pickled organs took pity upon me.

No, I didn't actually get to drink any dirty olive martinis but I did bow down to worship the porcelain throne. Not only that my friends, but I had an assignment due on Monday and a gynecological exam scheduled in the middle of the day. If D wasn't there to take care of Franklin, I might have given up.
I suppose my entry yesterday makes more sense now. Sorry, I didn't have the energy to explain myself - although the seat debate was funny.

Needless to say, I didn't sleep a wink on Sunday - I probably nodded off once and awhile (evidence of drool on my keyboard) but nothing you could call substantial.
Wandering around on Monday, dragging myself to doctor appointments, handing in assignments and puking was probably the closest I will get to partying like a rock star for a long time.

Other than the fact that my cervix is TWICE the size of a normal woman who has given birth, everything is fine. I want to talk about this, but I don't have the time right now. Does anyone else have a gaping cervix? Apparently, I can get pregnant very easily, my IUD can also drop out very easily, but my chances of keeping my baby are not so great - not without trying to stitch me up and plug the... hole.

What strange news, eh?
We aren't trying to get pregnant, but I want the door to remain open please.

Nevertheless, my doctor told me to relax, so I am going to relax. I suppose if my cervix is relaxed, I should be too.

The course is done.
We are having dinner with good friends on Saturday.
I even slept last night.

Stupid cervix.

Ha Ha!

So, because the paper from the course (which shall not be named, but which I am still constantly mentioning) is finally done:

I can get down to what's really most important (and frankly, a hell of a lot more fun):

I'm wondering if I accidently banned anyone who has ever commented on here.
(Yes, yes, I'm an idiot)

Could someone please try to comment - someone who has never left anything for me?

If nothing happens, could you email me to let me know I haven't actually holed myself in an internet ivory tower after all?

dirtygreenolive@hotmail.com

Thanks.

I just got an email telling me I should write a book. This would be the second suggestion I've about this in this many months.
What the hell are people thinking?

I am so absolutely sure I am one of the least qualified people to write a book that I feel I can make fun of the idea in public. Normally, if I thought this was even remotely possible, I would store it up in my brain as one more thing that I was going to do "when I grow up".

I really do think that way. It's like my self-awareness stopped at 12. I still believe I'm growing up in the sense that I still have a gazillion choices as to what I can do with my life. Of course, the nun thing is out of the question but if you ask my former roommates about that they would say the Catholic church is probably better off.

Of course, I love writing. Why else would I do what I do now if I didn't enjoy writing? I've just recently come to this conclusion, by the way. I used to think that the blog was just a friendly hello to friends in Edmonton. When I discovered that other people read it, I freaked out a bit. Now, it's fun. I love meeting other people through this weblog. I'm hoping I can get together with a certain "Andrea in Canada" once this "course which shall not be named" is over.

However, this desire to do "something that involves writing"?
I'm kind-of doing it - you know?
I'm a woman who has a child. I know all about jobs in which one receives no monetary benefit.

Sure a gig like Bringing Up Ben and Birdy looks like fun, but then again, writing for a website like that might mean that I wouldn't be able to talk about licking things and diamonds coming out of my asshole.
Where's the fun in that?

Then again, D's parents are on the verge of joining the internet community so I wonder how much this will affect my writing. The other night my mother-in-law mentioned Franklin's 911 call, which she learned about through D's cousin. So really, everything's pretty much already out in the open.
When I first discovered that my niece and nephew read this I was a little worried that I would be setting a bad example. I'm over it now (don't do drugs) though, they can read (don't do drugs) whatever their parents (don't do drugs) allow them to read. I'm actually flattered (don't do drugs) that they read this (don't do drugs).

The funny thing is, I've noticed that the people in my family (excluding my Mother) tend to draw a pretty firm line between what they read online and what we talk about in person. I'm not sure if they feel guilty about reading this weblog or have some sort of a weblog etiquette in which one does not just strike up a conversation about my life that I haven't verbalized to them myself -- or perhaps they are just embarrassed for me.

Whatever, at least I'm not writing a book and then going on Oprah to talk about my nipples.

So, I was a little crazy yesterday.
At least, more of a "crazy" than my "normal crazy".

Last night, I finished the assignment - once again. Never get into a debate with me regarding labour market econoomics. I will crush you.
I'm hoping to head into home base with the paper by this evening.

After this morning's post, I refuse to talk about my economic assignments.

I'm being reminded of the constant nipple whine during the Great Breast Feeding Depression after Franklin was born. I had promised not to mention them anymore too. However, nipples are mean and spiteful and I ended up spending many more precious moments talking about my nipples, my breasts and low and behold... anal fissures.

I would link to these wonderful posts but I'm not sure if I've even uploaded them - and really? do you want to read about that?

My God, do you see what I'm doing? I'm STILL talking about my nipples.

Thankfully, an elusive paper on pay equity and provincial tax credits is just a silent, mocking and passive aggressive form of torture.

I can handle passive aggressive.

Just as an aside, I saw a student wearing these shoes yesterday:

It was the first time I wanted to actually lick something that wasn't food or a baby.

No.... wait...

I lost all my work

seriously

I understand that this is the equivalent of "the dog ate my homework" but everything is gone.

I have emailed my professor and I tried to start over again but everytime I look at the only old draft I could recover, I start to hyperventilate.

This professor is supposed to be writing a reference letter for grad school for me.

I'm trying to keep this all in perspective, but it's getting hard to do.

Words cannot express my frustration.

My last paper is going slowly.

Why so slow, you ask?

Well, first of all, let me thank-you for being so interested. Then I will tell you how stupid I am. I have written my paper from three different perspectives so far.

Why? because I can't make up my bloody mind. I can't decide whether equity for women is best served through tax subsidy initiatives and poverty supplements or whether the solution to the problem is to remove the subsidy from the tax system and deliver it in another manner.

I know, it's boring your panties off.

It's frustrating the hell out of me.

It's only a short paper and I can't get it onto the computer. I would post my progress like Laura-Jane but I keep deleting all the schizophrenic crap so essentially, I am going backwards.

ARGHHHH!!!!!

I've taken the day off to write. Franklin is at daycare. D is doing the dishes like all good house-husbands who have no job are supposed to do. Yet, I want him to leave the house so I can concentrate. Either that, or tell me everything will be okay.

He just started singing.
Leave D!

Argh, I'm a terrible person. There's nothing I wouldn't want more right now than to hole myself up in some ivory tower and not let the hair down for anyone.
Anyone.

Just call me a wannabe intellectual, dirty-olive rapunzel.

(who whines a lot)
(and is really tired)
(and can't make up her mind about provincial pay equity policies)

So, as all of you are probably tired of hearing, Franklin has this "thing" about water.
Specifically, water that comes anywhere near his face.

Last week, it got so bad he was hysterical about even setting foot in the bathtub. It became obvious to us that our sympathetic cooing and cajoling was not cutting it. I started to envision future therapy sessions in which he would confess his deep fear of drowning in chamomile and almond soap suds as the reason for his compulsive gambling and addiction to heroin.

There was a point where he would tilt his head up and the whole rinsing procedure would go off without a hitch. I don't know what happened. He's gotten wise to my seemingly logical solution.

Where did he get such an obsessive, paranoid personality from?

hmmm?

Regardless, this weekend we went down to some sports store and checked out the swim goggles. Apparently, this is a common solution. There were many to choose from however, Franklin was much more interested in the 3-way mirror than our crazy enthusiasm towards the Bathtub Mermaid/Shark Eye Protectors.

That 3-way mirror obession is definitely not a gene inherited from me.
That only leaves one other person.
I don't think I need to say anything more about that.

Once we got home, there was no toddler in our house willing to wear those damn goggles. So D wore them. Then I wore them. Then Franklin thought it might be fun to try to poke my eyes out while I was wearing them.
See? Protective!

Finally, he wore them - if only to be able to get his picture taken and therefore look at himself, again.

Alas, he has refused to wear them in the bathtub.
I think this will be a long battle.

When I was a teenager I was quite certain that I was going to be a nun. My reasons for this are very private and would be very hard to understand if I were to try and explain - even I have a hard time understanding it all.

When I was 18 I spent a large chunk of my Christmas vacation in silent retreat at a convent in Vancouver. I cannot begin to tell you how difficult those days were. I'm still not sure whether it was the silence, the introspection, the discussion during the meetings, or the emotions that everything brought out. It was an experience that I wouldn't want to take back.

The nuns there were surprised to see me. Many of them had been nuns since they were teenagers yet they hadn't seen many teenagers wanting to become nuns at the time I arrived.
I was shocked to discover that they advised me not to become a nun. I thought they were trying to tell me that I wasn't good enough to become a part of the church in this way. Of course, they didn't say this - they gave me different reasons. They said that they felt out of touch with youth and that their participation in the church at such a young age was a determent. They were not able to empathize with the people who came to see them for advice. Egotistically, I wasn't able to understand why a nun who felt that Jesus was her sexual-spiritual husband was acceptable, but I wasn't.

Perhaps they didn't see that kind of passion in me or perhaps it was a test. They told me to go to university and if I still felt the same way after I was through, that I should come back and join them. I didn't think that what they were saying was what they meant. I thought they were saying I didn't belong, but that they were touched that I had tried.

So, the day I left, one of the nuns (or perhaps a priest, I don't remember) told my Mother that they thought I had come down with the flu while I was there. I was very quiet throughout the retreat and when I left I was overcome by the whole experience. I didn't understand why they told her I was sick. I had the feeling they were trying to explain away my sadness, or that they were trying to make me feel better about the difficulty I had with silent reflection at the age 18, a time of raging hormonal puberty.

I went to university. I met D. I married. I have a son.
On the day of my marriage I wasn't nervous about committing to D, but I remember feeling a sense of loss that my door to the life I had imagined when I was a child was now to be closed forever. I felt like any test that may have been set out for me had been failed.

I remember studying Pope John Paul II in university - "Modernity versus Christianity". I remember feeling a sense of smugness that there were some people who would feel it was victory that I was not a nun and in fact, to follow that sort of life would have been narrow-minded and cowardly. I felt just smugness though, not victory.

I don't go to church. My parents wish I did. Every Sunday I think about it but wonder if it is really a place for me anymore. There are so many things that I can't understand and so many things I am not able to change. I don't want to go to a place where I feel unwanted and helpless.

I feel sad that he's dead. I admired him for many reasons. I didn't agree with many of his opinions, but he was a large figure in my life. It's hard not to feel loss.

People are giving me shock pens and I hear remote controlled farts every time one of my co-workers bend over. I can still feel the shock up my arm. I'm thinking a well-placed pen in the nipple region might be kind of a funky thing to do on a Friday night...

Yeah.

This morning, Franklin increased his protests as we headed out the door to daycare. D and I are worried that perhaps the time as come when Franklin no longer enjoys his this routine.
The care providers have assured me that it is only a transitional phase, which most little people go through. It seems that he would make these pleas whether we were going to Grandma's house, a playdate, the grocery store or the park.
Apparently moving from one activity to another is a large toddler pain in the ass.

Still, guilt abounds.

I'm going to be surfing the net for "transitional phase" today. You are welcome to join me and send anything you can find my way. Information calms my savage mind.

Later: 7:05pm

So far, I've found nothing. Then again, I've been up to my eye balls in meetings and other, work related activity so it may not be an indication of anything sinister.

Let's ponder the thought of no daycare...
Well, D is offically unemployed as of today. I've always envisioned him as an excellent stay-at-home parent. I just don't want to be the one to do it - because I'm selfish... and a whore.

Of course, once he's there he's in bliss - Franklin, not D. Sometimes it's just as difficult to get him to come home. I have a strong feeling it's not the daycare but just one of those things.

You know, those things.