I have a confession to make. I have a horrible obsession with gofugyourself.com and I have no idea why. Okay, I pretty much know why, but I'm still horrified.
Regardless, the most recent image of a manly looking Fergie isn't as disturbing to me as the audacity of the UK Cosmo magazine to advertise designer vaginas to women on the cover. So apparently this is hip in the world of plastic surgery? Perhaps I'm living in a cave, perhaps this is old news, but...

How. Can. This. Be. Okay?

There are dangers involved in this! Scarring, diminished sensation, loss of your soul...

I'm going to say it and I know, I know, but just think of this: how is surgical pressure to conform to society's ideal vulva that much different than the genital mutilation we are trying so hard to stop? How did we get to this?

I'm not a blogher but I tell ya, if I were I'd be starting a chant of "I love my Vagina" right about now. Everyone's vulva is unique. I've seen a good number and I don't believe any of them were even remotely the same. It may not look like the air-brushed Playboy centerfold or the porn star you are watching, but it's beautiful because it's yours. While I'm glad women are at least looking at their vulva, I wish they were in a position where they would love it as well.

If you want to know more, talk about this, or read how other women feel about their vaginas, vagina verite is a great site to start with.

I don't know what to say. It was good and a little strange. I have a much better idea of how this place, where I would do pretty much anything that wasn't degrading or harmful to my family to work for, functions.

I'm not sure what kind of impression I made.

In the span of 4 hours, and the 2 the day before, I have been told I am a nice, shy, enthusiastic, clerically experienced, shy, highly educated, enthusiastic, coherent (!), articulate, friendly, shy, promising, ambitious, shy person that could use an "edge".

That edge thing... I don't know what it means but I'm working on it.

In fact, I'm filing my teeth while writing this.

(do you honestly think I am shy?!?!)

Interview: a big bundle of nervous chatter about... crap, I don't even remember what I was babbling on about.

I'm sure I impressed the pants/skirts/capris off of them though!

Babysitter: wonderful. Wigs, I can't thank you enough. You were the first babysitter besides our mothers to stay with Franklin while he was awake and running around like a non-stop talking bat out of hell. You have shown me freedom that I have never seen before. From now on, D and I are partying every single night - every single night that we aren't too pooped to stand, that is.

Franklin: a big bundle of crazy. I mean that. He's finally feeling a bit better and you can tell he's loving that conscious, I'm A-Okay, I'm not projectile vomiting all over my Mother mood.

run run run run run run run
talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk

I tried to steal a bite of his rice crispy square this afternoon and he told me to back off because if I eat too much I will throw up all over my shirt.
Nice tactic.

Wish me luck tomorrow.
Tomorrow, they expect me to sound coherent.

I wish you, internet, were interviewing me. You guys are so nice.

My brother, the guffawing Bechara, came to visit on Monday.

Franklin woke up from his nap and projectile vomited all over himself, his crib and me, Monday afternoon.

I have my major assignment due on Friday. It's major. I'm designing a conference. I've been to conferences but I tell you, I had no idea of the amount of work it takes to get together a real-world conference, as opposed to a "wouldn't-it-be-nice" conference.
Perhaps if while planning our wedding, I had a call for papers, designed discussion seminars in coinciding separate rooms and a large wrap up for radio publicity planned, I would feel like I had more of a handle on this little doo hickey.

I spent Monday night doing the assignment and then went to sleep in our twin bed with Franklin and D. I didn't sleep well.

Today, I get a call for a job interview - tomorrow morning.

We are getting our first baby-sitter for Franklin for the two hours I will be at the interview tomorrow. Although he is much better today, must be absolutely fabulous for daycare on Thursday because I have two informal coffee-type get-to-know-you, make-sure-you-aren't-demented type interviews for people I would chew my right arm off to work for. This really means something because usually I chew off my left arm as I'm practical as well as right-handed.
I say right arm now because I will learn to write with my left if this is what it takes to work there.

Like I said, my assignment is due on Friday.
I think I may be able to get this done well. This attitude is very dangerous. Every time I feel this way, I subsequently go through a blaze of deletion, re-writing and angry hair pulling for although what I have written is all very well and good, it sucks gopher butts in terms of what was asked for.
My conference cannot suck gopher butts.

It's funny. I used to think how nice it would be to be able to sit down after Franklin went to bed and just "hang" instead of do homework. Now I think it would be nice to sit down after Franklin goes to bed and just do my homework instead of research for job interviews and worry about vomiting toddlers.

Really, what a way to go – potentially, but nothing is ever definite in my world.

People telling me I have responsibilities to my readers.
People telling me that they'd start a magazine for me to write in.
People whining and complaining...

Of course, this is all on top of the fact that my brother is visiting and told me his writer friend read my blog. I immediately got all, "whatever-the-hell-for-I'm-not-a-writer-and-I-would-be-embarrased-if-someone-thought-I-thought-I-was" and I asked all casual-like if she had a blog herself and he guffawed (yes, he does that) and spit out,

"NO! HA!"

Yup.
Obekaybey then!

Now quick! Let me distract you from my shame and point you toward a photo from a Luminara filled Saturday afternoon in which God appears to be blessing my family with joy and airplane rides (that incidentally cause dislocated joints, but I didn’t say anything).

.

Franklin is sporting a black eye delivered to him by another all too preoccupied shadow-watching child at daycare. I find we have to remind Franklin to look where he is going every time we go out on a walk with him.

Too many things to do, too many experiments to try, too many sites to see...

This will be the first of many, I suppose. Although, I hope it isn't too many.

It doesn't seem to bother him much - or rather, it doesn't bother him at all. He asked for ice right after it happened but got back to playing pretty quickly. Of course, that's what I know from the daycare.
Can you tell I've had a recent slew of negativity come my way for my audacity to support daycare for my child?
MY child.

Sigh. (I'm writing "sigh" a hell of a lot on this blog lately)

So I'm still writing here - obviously.
Yet, I should warn you that things may come to a halt soon. This has absolutely nothing to do with trolls, nasty emails or whiny posting. This has more to do with real life future opportunities that may make it unwise to have such a public life.

I find it funny how once I realized that this may all come to an end, I was sad. I suppose the blog isn't pissing me off that much. I'll definitely miss writing. Does anyone want to hire me to do a weekly column? Does anyone want to not hire me, but let me publish my thoughts about parenting for free? Therefore making this obession hobby more "legitimate" and less "extraverted" and "reckless"?

Back to the black eye.
Shudder.
I get a nauseous feeling in my stomach and my heart beats a little faster every time I see it. I don't think mothers ever get over seeing their children hurt - emotionally or physically.
Well, maybe mothers of WWE (formerly WWF) wrestlers* - but that's just acting, right?

*I did I quick search of WWE wrestlers and their moms and it turns out, even the hardened mothers of entertainment have a hard time stomaching black eyes and such.
We can all band together in our horror.

Last night, after I came in from my run and finished watering what I stubbornly still call a garden and what the neighbourhood cats stubbornly call their litter box, I came to a revelation.

This blog.
It's pissing me off.

Actually, I have wanted to mention this for a while but haven't really had the guts. I appreciate everyone who reads this - especially the ones who communicate. Even more especially, the ones who communicate nicely.
However, it's still pissing me off.

I have things to say everyday, but I find it's becoming more of a whine than anything else. Add the whine to the fact that this blog is primarily about my son and you get a whole lot of complaining about... my son.
I don't usually complain about my son in the non-internet world. In fact, it's a problem I have with some parents.

The parents who talk about their children's challenges when their child is right there makes me see red.
I mean, seriously, you don't think your child is listening? Let me tell you, the child can hear and internalize everything you say - from a younger age than you might think.

This is also something I need to talk to daycare about - this talking about Franklin and his problems and successes at daycare - especially in terms of toilet training. He had an accident of the poop variety yesterday and it seems that he's been less willing to do sit on the toilet for either number. I know toilet training has set-backs at times but I wonder if the constant talk of accidents - one teacher telling another teacher that they are going to be busy because Franklin has pooped his pants, teacher telling Mother that Franklin pooped his pants, Mother telling Father that Franklin has pooped his pants... See?

I know that everything isn't supposed to be coming out roses - especially when it comes to my garden - but learning to pee and poop in the toilet is a big thing! Think about it, this is re-learning a basic bodily function placement.
Can you imagine if you had to learn how to sleep hanging upside down instead of horizontally - and every time you got it wrong your clothes got soiled and had to be removed and everyone talked about it for the rest of the evening and even the next day?

Yeah. Not fun.
No wonder he's been in such a crappy mood.

I have been too.
I want to take my family on a holiday to Tofino and stay in a cabin with no phone, television, radio or internet. I want to walk on the beach, wear rubber boots and collect sand dollars when the tide goes out.

I want everything to just stop.

This Saturday is Luminara.
We are set. Ever since being pregnant and walking around searching for evergreen trees to pee under, D and I have thought about what it would be like to bring Frankster to the party.

Luminara - it's a lantern festival here in the city. They almost cancelled it due to the damage to the park (large crowds, big feet) and the precarious commercial funding, which was prohibited from displaying large-scale advertisements. Of course, we all know large scale advertising publicity is the only reason business will fund unprofitable projects (insert large sigh here). However, even though these large funding sources are still not allowed to advertise, they are still keeping the festival alive.
See? There's hope!

(Just as aside (and I know I'll get wonderful comments and emails regarding this), frankly this "all big businesses are mean and evil and want to take over our minds" crap is getting to me. Lets work with them, okay? I'm sick of the Big Brother argument creeping into every non-profit, charity, environmental cause related meeting I go to. It's not a war; we just need to change the way we think about things. Many many many many many businesses are a-okay. Even wonderful!)
Okay, good to get that out.

I wish Chair, J and Theya were here to see the festival. This year there is going to be a installation by Group Mellon. They are "inspired by the beauty of the Luminara Festival and a love of Tolkien. The centerpiece of the Mellon Installation is a rendering of the Gates of Moria from J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings”. The additional banners that spread outward from the Gates are also inspired by Tolkien’s works."

“They have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love; for we put the thought of all that we love into all that we make.”

Holy geek fest. I liked the book and the movie and all, but Wow.

I'm looking forward to seeing Gordon Roy Martin from the Freedom Erotica Art Gallery. Something about an orb. Sounds cool.

That reminds me, Briana! Perhaps you should submit your nude to the above gallery. You could do a series. You could be famous. You could be rich. You could paint all day and night. You could... you could...

Okay. I'll back down now.
Break over. Back to work.

There I was yesterday, making people puke with the display of adoration for my partner and today I am here to tell you that Franklin has a drastically different opinion.

For some reason, Franklin has decided that Dad is "un-cool". Dad's allowed to say "Good Morning!” but he's not allowed to come into the room. Dad's allowed to pour a glass of juice for Franklin, but he's not allowed to sit next to us on the couch. Dad's allowed to talk about digger and excavator and dump truck Halloween costumes on the way to daycare, but he's not allowed to hug him good-bye.

It's weird and I really don't know what to say. I can't just tell Franklin to smarten up and give his Father a hug. How does that sound?

"Hug your Father! Hug him or you'll get no dessert!"

Jeeesh.

Of course, I enjoy the fact that Franklin wants to hang out with me - but lately it feels like he wants to hang out with me only to not hang out with Dad. Personally, I wouldn't want D telling our son to give his Mother a hug. It’s supposed to be a pleasure - much like reading the comments on my site...

ahem

So... other than reading about the Oedipus complex, I've been perusing other parenting websites and this whole thing is as common as the day is long - which is a funny expression for me because the day is really never, ever long enough, is it?

Yes, this is called favoring one parent over another and I've read that it will eventually sway between the two of us as his ever-pleasant moods crash back and forth. I also know that this is only one part of the large quagmire that is a toddler's emotional development. Still, it's uncomfortable. It hurts. It sucks. I'm so eloquent.

Whatever. I'm going to go back to my little life of ranting and blathering and amusing and playing and stressing and whatever else my privileged butt can manage to do in a 24 hour day minus the 4/5 hours of sleep I get. Stages are stages. We'll get through this too. It's not like he's requiring an enema or anything - not yet, anyway. I wouldn't want to count anything out. He hasn't been doing much pooping lately - in his sleep or the toilet.

Sigh.
Sometimes writing in this thing is a pain in the ass - pardon the expression.

I love him. I really really really do.

I don't love the way he leaves all the cupboard doors open after merely walking through the bleeping kitchen.

I do love how he tries to cancel everything at the last minute if I find out my book club is on his squash league night.

I don't love how he tries to cop a feel as we're playing choo choo train with our son.

I do love how he tries to cop a feel as we're playing choo choo train with our son.

I don't love how every time I make dinner he eats before I've got anything on the table.

I do love that he prefers to make dinner.

I don't love how nuts he makes me feel.

I do love how nuts he makes me feel.

I don't really know why I'm writing this, I just am. I know it's completely uncool to blather on about one's partner. However, if I ever decide to get another one, I want one just like this one. Seriously. This man is not only hot and sexy, intelligent and wise, crazy and goofy, but he's also a completely giving person who thinks before he speaks and listens to more than what you say.

I love him.

I also love how, while looking for baby pictures of him in our old photo albums, I came across the bill in which I wrote my phone number the first night we laid eyes on each other.

You can hardly see the printing anymore. You can see my shaky handwriting, not because of the drinking, but because I was nervous and excited... and the door was ajar, and it was December 28 in Edmonton, and his friends were trying to get him in the taxi as the bar had closed loooong ago, and he wouldn't go because he was trying to tell me that something huge had just happened... but he couldn't get it out.

Of course, his speechless demeanor may have had to do with the 12 martinis he "sampled" that evening, rather than shyness or being love struck...

Whatever. I'm still love struck. The man is beautiful - and he looks good too.

So there were poops in the toilet this weekend!
I know, I know, It sounds impossible, but I tell ya, POOPS IN THE TOILET were happening THIS WEEKEND.

Now all of you know. The grandparents certainly know. I think that whole issue about calling someone to brag about the pooping and the peeing is more for the parents than the child. He could have cared less that Taita and Grandma knew about his toilet achievements. D and I, on the other hand, were ecstatic.

The only thing is that Franklin's a pretty regular night-time/nap pooper and he still sleeps in his crib. You think I was hesitant about starting the whole toilet thing; the big boy bed is even lower on the priority list. Alas, I understand that this needs to be done.

In our storage locker we have my older brother's bed, which used to belong to my Aunt Mona. It's a cute little bed with EXTREMELY sharp corners and if one's head were to accidentally fall against a corner of this bed, I don't think anything would be bouncing off. Meaning, it would stick there, impaled by the dagger of those edges.

I figure if I am walking around with this image in my mind, so should you.

I asked my mother what she did when my brother first used the bed, to prevent him from impaling himself, and she said she didn't really give it much thought. I don't know what this says, that she was too busy raising two children 18 months apart while undergoing major do-it-yourself house renovations to worry about what could-but-probably-won't happen, or that I need to calm the fcuk down. I believe both are quite likely.

I swear, Franklin's going to be lathered in sunscreen and wearing elbow and kneepads complete with a helmet on his first day of school. I'm also thinking of sending a bodyguard with him to ward off any would-be bullies.

Regardless, because we think about accidents too much, D is going to get some styrofoam-type padding for the bed corners and I'm going to get fabric and quilting material to even out the rest of the space.

When we're through with it, he's going to have a psychiatrically safe, practically round bed that, if the tsunami EVER comes, we can use it as a floatation device to paddle over to the mainland. Perhaps we should attach paddles to the underside of the whole thing? Life jackets?

You're Catch-22!
by Joseph Heller
Incredibly witty and funny, you have a taste for irony in all that you see. It seems that life has put you in perpetually untenable situations, and your sense of humor is all that gets you through them. These experiences have also made you an ardent pacifist, though you present your message with tongue sewn into cheek. You could coin a phrase that replaces the word "paradox" for millions of people.
Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.

Thanks Briana.

My paperwork on project coordination is in the trunk of the car. D is upstairs reading stories to our holy terror so I'm using the excuse of "where's my homework?" to write a post I really don't have the time for.

I had planned on posting a photo of the three of us in Franklin Sandwich Formation and be through with it. It's not that I don't lurve the blog, it's just that I want to get my paper done a day early so that on the day it's due, I'm not.

Alas, the papers are in the car.
I'm 31 years old and still an expert procrastinator.
Live the Dream.

Onward and upward:
Franklin's on a poop strike. I don't know what's going on. Why is it that boys are harder to let go of the poop, anyway? I really haven't found many people agreeing with the entire toilet training phenomenon that the books refer to - boys being all that later than girls - however, the poop seems to have a general consensus.
Poop is holding us back.

Nevertheless, Franklin is having a blast as two more of his friends are also toilet learning. As they began the process his teachers would take the kids to the toilet every thirty minutes or so to give them the experience of peeing in the toilet. The problem with this can come when you ask a toddler to leave what he or she is doing to sit still for longer than a millisecond. Thankfully, they didn't have to extricate anyone from their playtime; they just moved playtime over to the toilets.

"Weeeeee! Let's go to the potty!!!!!!! Take you cars, take your friends, take your friend's cars! Let's Go!"

Such fun.

However, all three boys are holding onto their poop like it's made out of gold. This results is poop that's decidedly harder than gold. As a matter of fact, Franklin cheerfully announced (when he actually manage to squeeze out a poop in his underwear) that it looked,

"Just like the boulders at Mount Doug Park!"

Really now, what's a teacher to say to that?
Validate validate validate.

"Why yes, Franklin, your poop resembles great boulders on the beach. Congratulations. Next time, lets poop those rocks in the toilet."

I should probably get my keys from my vest.
Enough poop stories for me.

Here's the picture of the sandwich anyway.

D looks like he's pooping out rocks, himself.

Part of the bribery of toilet learning (not training, not training, I can get this straight) is the excellent opportunity to get strange and obscene rewards for Franklin when he tells us he has to go - instead of us reminding him.

Yesterday and today have been full of
"Mom, I have to go pee"

and none of the
"Franklin, do you have to go pee? Are you sure? Perhaps you have to go pee. Do you have to pee now? How about now? Now?"

(The entire house thanks him for learning this quickly and putting a stop to my incessant badgering.)

First reward for successful urination?

A rubber chicken:

That, logically, gives birth to a transparent, rubber egg:

Just try and tell me this pee bribery thing isn't the most fun you've ever seen. Just try it.

I swear, one of the best parts of teaching your kid to pee in the toilet* is the "pee-pee dance", much like the pee-pee fidget I do when I'm working on the computer or reading a great book.

*seriously here, I never thought I'd be writing such a sentence: "...the BEST part of toilet training"? Obviously, someone has been slipping e in my coffee. (Thank-you.)

Franklin (who, from here on end, has disowned me and denies ever being born from my womb) does this GREAT dance in which he crouches down and performs a little pee-pee inspirational number. It's mostly frantically running around in circles and desperately trying to convince us that he most emphatically does NOT need to go pee, but it's a dance nonetheless.
It's a dance that he has taken from toilet training learning and translated the particular feelings and emotions, human conditions, situations, or fantasies of bodily functions as it applies to Raffi's "Banana Phone" song.
As a result, although he has a diaper on before bedtime, has just had a pee, and his potty is two feet away... he crouches down, grabs the balls and run in circles yelling, "Banana Phone! ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, Banana Phoooonnnnne!"

(Yes, of course I join in.)

Unexpected odd confession #1:

I am loving this.
I'm loving every single minute of this potty training learning adventure. Perhaps it's weird, but I feel a little closer to him since we began all of this. He's been so insistent on being independent all the time that I've really had to be mindful about stepping back and letting him try things out for himself. The fact that I get to be involved in teaching him this skill makes me feel like he still needs me for something, if only to boost him up onto the toilet and back down again.

Odd confession #2:
I thought about getting those funnel thingies so that I can participate in the great urinal lesson as well, but there are some issues that should be left to D alone.
Nevertheless, I'm thinking of getting one anyway.

One of my younger brothers snapped this picture of my other younger brother's apartment in Toronto. Funny enough, this is exactly how I remember his apartment in Vancouver.

How much does this photo look like a spread from House and Home - circa 1972? Hilarious.

We always had a gazillion plants growing around our house when we were kids.
Big plants with big big windows and a ton of light.
However, as I try and gather an acceptable amount of land for a community garden in the inner city of Victoria (as "inner city" as it gets here anyway), my brother creates a virtual greenhouse jungle in his urban apartment.

It must be cool to see, as a parent, how the life you led as you raised your children has impacted their way of life as adults.

You almost want to have more than one purely for the experiment. Almost.

Okay, you totally want more than one because children are just that gorgeous and inspiring. Of course, we can't just willy nilly procreate all over the place so sometimes patience is good.

Patience, moola, time, and a couple of other things that don't come to mind at the moment.

Anyway, I've got to get to work.

By the way,
I still can't figure out the whole comment problem so it seems unusally silent over here in dirtyoliveland. I will try to get a call of distress out to Sheila (from the wonderful tartgraphics) as soon as I find her email address.

Something is wrong with my comments. I don't know what it is.

I'm sorry. I'm trying to figure it out.

You can always email me if you get really itchy.

Thanks for being so patient.

It's official.
I have become one of the mothers I used to make fun of.
I think this must happen to everyone at one point or another - humor me if this isn't the case though.

I may ask Franklin if he "feels a pee pee" about five times a minute these days. I'm not sure if that's even an exaggeration but I'm really hoping it is.

Potty training is going well. He has got into the smartie, sticker, and little prize incentive (bribery) thing we've got going on. Ha! When I was somewhere around nine years old, I remember cheekily telling my father that bribery was "in no way appropriate" when raising a child.
I believe I owe him an apology.

Notice here that I'm the only one who has set a "toilet training" tag on flickr:

This shocks me. However, there are tags for potty training so my hope for humanity is restored.

Okay, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about anymore.

When it comes to teaching your child how to pee in the porcelain, bribery is where it's at - for us. I should add that last part, in case someone has gone, or will go through this type of parenting later only to email me that she actually didn't have to revert to bribery because she and her baby are both genetically superior or somehow grounded to nature and the ultimate pee-goddess-of-motherhood. It's working for us because we're genetically stunted and only understand a reward system to change our behavior patterns - sort of like the absence of chocolate in my diet is rewarded by not investing heavily in Monistat or Canesten.

Reward/bribe... tomato/tomatoe.

It also helps that we followed the daycare idea by insisting that he take off his own wet underwear when there was an accident. It isn't perceived as a punishment, but more of an annoying consequence of deciding that playing in with his trains for that litle bit longer is easier than taking a potty break.

Interestingly, while we are on the subject of trains, we have had to take the train out of toilet training. The phrase was confusing Franklin. He thought he was supposed to be holding his pee for something somewhat train-related. I'm not quite sure what for, but he voiced his confusion last night as D was putting him down for the night. You'd think, with our home so train obsessed, we would have clued in on this language coincidence earlier.
No, we didn't.
We're genetically stunted, remember?

So, now we're "learning how to pee and poo in the toilet", we are not toilet training.
Trains don't belong in the toilet, we don't pee on trains, and there will be no trains coming to our home to pee on the toilet to get a smartie.

- because, logically, trains have their own toilets.

I'm only in the beginning stages of "Keys to Toilet Training", by Meg Zweiback R.N. C.P.N.P. M.P.H. (jeez, enough letters, lady?), but already I'm seeing some potential bumps.

Training a two year old can also be easier for parents because even though his attention span is longer, his activities are still probably short and simple. Interrupting him to take a potty break is not as hard at this age as it will be as he matures.

Have you seen my two-year-old in the throws of blissful train play? He is the billboard model for intense concentration.

In addition, as a two-year-old's year progresses, his natural toddler negativity and oppositional behavior to whatever a parents ask tends to lessen. Nevertheless, once toilet training has begun it still works better to announce "Time to go" rather than "Do you want to go?"

Yeah, I tried that this morning,

"Time to go, Franklin"

"NOOOOOOOO"

"Smartie time"

"I DON"T WANT A SMARTIE"

"Hmmmmm, Mom does."

A three year old is verbal enough to argue and negotiate with parents about why she doesn't want use the potty. A younger child is dependent enough on parents to be "trained" by a combination of parent involvement and routine that then becomes the child's habit. A three-year-old will have to be self-motivated in order to be trained, as some parents have found to their dismay.

Yes, our deep and utter dismay.

Whether you start your child at age one, two or three will depend on what you know about your child. However, don't wait for your child to decide for you. Even though you hear about some children who announce that they are done with diapers and are then fully trained by the next afternoon, these children are the exception. If you wait until your child is old enough to decide for himself to use the toilet, you may be waiting for a long, long time.

Dammit. That was EXACTLY what we were waiting for.

Oops.

Well, I suppose we have to give it more than a mere two days. Our trip out this morning to see the bunnies at the university went without a hitch - meaning he didn't pee in his pants until we got back home. Funnily enough, while we were out D and I reverted right back to "time mode" - when we were hyper aware of the time and exactly how many hours had passed since we left the house. Of course, back then it was for naps and feedings. Now it's for wet Bob the Builder underwear and a lack of available public potty seats.

Yesterday morning, as I dropped Franklin off at daycare, one of his teachers mentioned that they thought Franklin was ready to use the toilet. She asked if we encouraged this with him at home.

blink blink.... blink

OF COURSE we encourage that at home! My God, we encourage the crap (excuse the expression) out of the whole potty thing. However, last night was the first time he deigned to tell me that the ridge on the seat pinches his skin. Poor guy, with the potential psychological trauma to be inflicted around this part of parenting, the potty actually hurting him was one I thought I could avoid.

Anyway, the teacher suggested we buy underwear for Franklin and try the cold turkey diaper route this weekend. Franklin decided he wanted to do it this morning. He was too nervous to try it last night so his suggestion this morning wasn't going to be discouraged by D or me.

This morning we arrive at the daycare with 6 pairs of underwear, pants and socks. I am hoping it goes okay. He's not a big fan of getting his pants wet (understatement) but he can sit in his own excrement for hours if he has something else on the go.

At this point, and I know I'll get emails about this, I'm more than happy to pay $900 a month to have a staff of 4 help to potty train my child. Seriously.

Edit (2:38pm): I just called the daycare. He's been peeing every 20 minutes or so. I'm not sure he's physically ready for this yet - although D also tends to pee every 20-30 minutes as well so perhaps it's genetic. The problem is, Franklin's peeing every 20 minutes in his underwear, not on the toilet.

They want to give it a week. I'm worried about setting him up for continuous failure when he's just not ready. Maybe we'll go through the weekend and see. I have a BBQ with my boss on Sunday, so it's the perfect time too.

I love this.

Jane and Troy, Danielle, and that guy who wore the fedora all time when we were in Greece but who now lives in London and doesn't want his name on the internet,

I'm glad you're okay.
I'm thinking about you.

Thanks for your emails.

- Ada

Look at the time. I've been sleeping on and off since midnight.
Hmmm, could this be the reason I feel lke I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff all the time?
I see that you're nodding - me too.

After that post yesterday, I had a wonderful conversation with someone in regional planning who was very inspiring. I'm on the right track - it's a long track and will require a hell of a lot of effort on my part, but it's a track. The reality is, I need a Masters degree. I know that most people in Canada do not have one, but my profession dictates it. I can whine and stamp my feet all I want, I'm not getting around it. As well, I need more technical schooling and more volunteer work. These requirements are not so daunting when you are single and are not a parent working full time. However, I'm committed to my partner, I'm a parent and I work full time. What can I say, I certainly haven't chosen the easiest way to go about all of this.

Screw it. People go to Medical School in their mid-thirties, I can start my dream job in my mid-thirties. D and I have laid out a loose 5 year plan for the two of us and it has made me feel better - not only because he understands where I am going, but because he too is looking at starting something new.

I'm going on record to say that in 5 years we will have drastically changed our lives. We will not live in Victoria, we will not have the jobs we have and we will not be "just living". My biggest goal is not to look back in 5 years and say, "where did all that time go?" My life has to have more of a purpose than just living in the moment. Clearly, I would have never made a good hippy.

Recently, Briana has some refreshingly honest and insightful things to say about weight and her spot in life..

So so so true. Life ebbs and flows.

Unfortunately, I'm not so centered when it comes to seeing these types of things.
Fortunately, I'm married to someone who can.
Unfortunately, I can get so worked into a tizzy at times that even he can't see any forest.
Fortunately, even in the deep recesses of the emotional jungle, we are able to laugh.

For the last three years, life seems to be going backwards. Every step I take toward my goals creates another two steps further away. I used to blame the people around me, but I can't do that. A closer inspection has revealed that I wasn't even trying to move forward before that.

Serving was good money. I may have been content to do that until I was 30. Of course, where would I have been then? Actually, funny enough, I was thinking of taking up serving again. The hours are better for students.

Man, these verbal diarrhea posts are really revealing.
I'm a dork.

I used to work with two people who felt so horrible about themselves, that they would constantly tell me what was wrong with me and everyone else around them. This would happen daily - sometimes hourly. It was pretty demoralizing. Even though I have left that place of work, I still question every. little. thing. I. do. It's incredible.

On the surface, I know I'm a good person. I'm intelligent, I work hard and I genuinely want to have a job that challenges me. However, there are thoughts that constantly creep into my head that I'm horrid to look at, I'm silly, I'm frivolous, I'm stupid, I'm scattered, I'm unreliable and I'm basically a hard person to get to know.

These negatives are constantly re-enforced through every little mistake I make in the day. If I miss-dial a telephone number, spell a word wrong, forget to close the sun-roof, run out of time to vacuum, hand in a late paper, tell a bad joke... every. little. thing.

I need more of a breebop perspective. Even thought I understand that life ebbs and flows, I worry that perhaps mine doesn't. Perhaps mine just has a slippery slope and I have been slowly inching my family toward the sharp edge of the cliff. Any little slip up will send us hurling downward into a kind of failure of which we will not be able to climb out of.

It's egotisical, I know.
I need to stop complaining.

I've just received a wonderfully written email about a sister's experience with her brother and the Scientology of treating depression. Her brother is not longer living.
She wanted me to put this on my weblog so that other people, who think that perhaps Tommy is somewhat correct, take a break to think.

She's right. Even if you think your medication isn't working and you were better off before, consult your doctor. If you don't like your doctor, consult another one. Tom may have read "all about it", but he still isn't qualified to tell you how to handle your mental stability.

- and if you think Tom needs to be reined in a bit, you might want to try writing to his agent:

Tom Cruise c/o Rick Nicita
Creative Artists Agency
9830 Wilshire Blvd., Beverly Hills, CA,
90212-1825, USA

When people ask me how the hell do I work a full time job, raise a toddler, participate in a marriage, and go to school at the same time I usually shrug and mention something about the bags under my eyes and my dehydrated, coffee saturated skin.

What I have finally realized, as I sit here and become increasing annoyed, is that those little moments when you finally get a silent period in the day, when you don't have a child to play with, a husband to talk to, a distracting golf game on the television (not my form of entertainment, this is D's), or a job to be competent for.. these ARE VERY VERY PRECIOUS MOMENTS.

This is why, when you finally have those moments - the child is sleeping, the husband is playing squash, the job is on a sick day/vacation/weekend, you guard them with more ferocity than a fanatical celebrity and his own personal, religious, judgmental agenda (take a look at this link, it is brillant).
This is why, when even the ear plugs cannot drown out the constant basketball dribble of the 12 year old girl behind my home, I must use all my will power to resist the urge to TAKE A PICKAXE TO THE HORRID THING (the ball, not the girl).

She's lucky I sold that pickaxe.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP ALREADY!

Yesterday, while my head was in the clouds thinking about minimizing the barriers to volunteerism, we made our weekly pilgrimage to Value Village. We go there often. We don't leave with something every time, but it's worth it to go because we have a list of things we are always on the lookout for. People drop off the nicest stuff sometimes.

Sometimes, things like this are 3 bucks:

I want one in an adult size.
Shit Almighty does it look like fun. I love the marbleized, Sesame Street, 70's retro look it has to it. He still needs help getting on it though. Short legs - those are from me, child.

Later that afternoon, we watched the Live8 concerts around the world from the sorry comfort of our living room. In richer days perhaps... Alas, we have daycare, tuition and rent to pay for. Someone wrote a helpful email once to tell me that if we made it a priority, D and I could travel, see concerts and camp every weekend. Sure, if we made travelling, concerts and camping trips a higher priority than Franklin, food and shelter, we could probably do it.

We're just lazy.

I realize this is a sorry excuse for a post. I'm pretty engrossed in the paper. There have been a few snags so I am a little worried about it. I'm always worried about my papers though. We had dinner with some friends last night and one of them just finished his thesis. He's still walking around in a daze, worried that he's missed something big and can't remember what it is.

Sigh, if I could be so lucky one day.

If anything, this kid is entertaining.

Personally, I think he gets his dancing feet from my parents. They can cut a rug like Fred and Ginger, those two. D and I? Well, lets just say that the sudden interuption of our wedding dance by my drunk brothers was a God-send.

Oh, and Happy Canada Day. Please don't erase your eyebrows with the fireworks.