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Monday I took my children to the dentist. Why? Well, because Franklin’s camps are over and I wanted to show him what a good time with Mom means!

Come look at Mom’s gingivitis!
Guess what you’ll look like in a dentist chair if you only floss for the two weeks prior to your appointment. Yes! That crappy!
Woooohooooooooo!

But wait! Don’t run!
Dentists are fun! Don’t be scared!

I swear, I didn’t think the cleaning was really going to happen. Nevertheless, I showed up bright and early. I was totally game. The receptionist told me that she lurved babies and that my son was oh so cute the last time he was in and really it was allgoingtobeokaysoseeyouonMondaybye!!!
So, of course, I wanted to test her.

I figure that when people tell me to bring their kids to the dentist, cocktail party, café, poetry reading, jam session, sex toy/Tupperware evening I try to take them up on it as often as possible because if I can’t have fun, I might as well act as a strong form of birth control.

So there I was, laying back in the chair while answering Star Wars questions and breastfeeding as a very talkative dental hygienist tried to scrap my teeth.

To be fair, the receptionist read Franklin Scooby-Do at the top of her lungs for about half of the visit and Eliza either sat on my stomach or did the vertical breastfeeding manoeuvre. Both kids were adequately entertained – read: they were silent. All in all, it was a good visit. I think the young lady was exhausted by the time we left but she’s a lot more knowledgeable not only about Star Wars Lego but also about our friends in Japan, how to swim in a lifejacket, and what happens with you place your bird feeder too close to your patio windows.

For our next trip, I promised to take Franklin to a more exciting place. So far, my record of outings has included opening a bank account and watching his mother get her teeth cleaned so I’m totally going to make up for it tomorrow. We’re going to Blood and Guts at Beaver Lake Regional Park.

They’ve got pointy teeth and sharp claws, and they don’t eat tofu! The predators of the forest are fascinating and beautiful. Drop by to learn more about animals that make their living by eating meat. Cougars and owls and bears – oh my

Yeah, there are about three things in that little snippet that make me cringe. It’s a horrible write up. Do people get paid to write that? Seriously?

Also, before I bugger off to sleep I just want to mention one last thing.

Eliza?
Sleeps through the night.

Yup.

(I probably just jinxed it but, whatever.)

Okay – blogs are a little like time capsule. If I had all of my archives online, mine would be one as well. The fact that a good chunk of my life that I care to share with the world-wide-web crowd is here means that I am able to go back and see where I was a certain times in my life.

Actually, even though there is A LOT that I don’t publish (even more since I’ve come back), the entries are still memory triggers. I can clearly remember writing certain things and what was happening in the background - what I wasn’t writing about.

It is for this reason that I need to record something today. This doesn’t happen all that often and the very fact that I’ve had a day like today needs to be remembered.

This morning, Franklin and I played until 9am – meaning, Eliza slept in until 9-freaking-am. If she were an only child, this would mean that I would have had an amazing amount of sleep but she’s not and instead, this means I got to spend some wonderful time with my son (who woke up at 7am).

We ate breakfast together.
Eliza woke up.
We got ready for swimming lessons and while walking to the pool we decided on the mantra (we are learning about Hinduism right now) “I can swim”. I think it is doing a good job (and by that I mean the mantra, I'm not sure he's absorbing everything about Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva but it's a start).

I find it interesting just how much of my time ski racing has come into play while I’m parenting. I’m not sure if this is a good thing but I tend to do a lot of the same things with Franklin that my coaches did with me – especially after a session with a sports psychologist.
(Please, let you not be screwed up, Franklin. I’m just going with what I know.)

After swimming lessons we went home, ate lunch and laid Eliza down for a nap. (She also napped at the pool in the wrap, which made sitting by an outdoor pool really quite relaxing).

Franklin and I then settled down and read a story.
Then we napped.
Then I woke up and for 15 minutes, I had two kids asleep. (!!!)

So, I stared out the window at our pumpkin plants and, in the process, found our first ovary!

After both children woke up we went to a swim shop and bought a new pair of shorts for Franklin – ON SALE (oooh, thrifty!). We wandered through the rest of the store and finally came home.

Eliza napped again.
Franklin played and watched me make dinner.
Dickson came home.
We ate at 6pm sharp. (!!!!)
Franklin had a bath.
I left Dix and Franklin at home while Eliza and I walked to the garden.
Eliza played on the grass and in my arms while I weeded and took photos of aphids (more on that sad story later).

I know what you're thinking; "Big Hairy Deal, Ada". Probably every single one of you reading this does this every day.

Every. Single. Day.
However, this doesn’t happen to me. I don’t work like this. We always seem to fly by the seat of our pants and I always think that jumbling to bed at night only to start the tumble the next morning is normal.

Can I do this every day?
To tell you the truth, I hope not. It seems.... what... too predictable? Nevertheless, I’m still impressed. I managed to eke out a pretty ordinary day. It’s a strange feeling, this.

Sailing isn’t going to happen. We actually didn’t make it off the wait list. I thought it was going to happen and then, crash – no sailing. I’m a little sad about this if only because I grew up in Northern BC. We didn’t sail. Our summer camps consisted of making sure we didn’t have leeches on our legs after coming from the lake and swatting the mosquitoes the size of eyeballs once they had collected enough blood to make them really SPLAT on our friend’s arms.

Sailing just seemed like so much fun. Anything that has to do with the ocean seems like such a treat for Dickson and I. Even going down for a walk on Dallas Road brings on sigh after sigh about how lucky we are to live in a place so beautiful. People come from all over the world to see our little corner and of all the places I’ve travelled to this is truly the most beautiful.

So, it’s with this appreciation that we look on Franklin’s protests.

“The O-C-E-A-N… Why do we have to go there?”

It is hard to see how good you have it when you don’t know anything different. The ocean is practically in his backyard and he thinks this is a normal everyday thing. Just recently, however, he’s been easier to get to the beach. We have moved to by a particular beach that he likes and so we only have to ask him once (okay, maybe twice) and he’s game.

Phew.

However…. What to do in place of Sailing Camp? I’m clearly going to have to find something because you know what we did today after swimming? He opened his own bank account.

Yes. The Camp of Mom is just riveting.

What is this I see before me?
An empty screen and it is not 11:45pm and I’m not trying desperately to keep my eyes open? Free moment?

Wow!

Yes, the kitchen table looks like I’m a university student studying for exams in finger painting and sand art and I have to start grilling soon or we’ll be eating at 7pm again but hell! It’s quiet! I’m gonna write something!

edit: notice that I have had to save it and finish it off later this evening because I’m wasting all this time babbling about stupid free time

So? Franklin is still sad. He refuses to let us delete any of the movies of him and his friend off of the flip so that he can watch them by himself. We have saved them to the computer but he wants the flip as he can curl up and watch it himself.
Dramatic and yet, so sad.

I also miss his friend and all the fun they had together.
I have cried “uncle” on the Entertaining a 5-year-old for Two Months fiasco. He’s bored. I blamed myself until I realized that I NEVER SAID I WAS A GOOD MOTHER and then promptly signed him up for weeklong summer camps.

This week is swimming lessons.
After that? Sailing.
And then? Pottery.

Yup, that’ll give us one week before school starts and we will love each other until we are hiding in our separate corners again.

Relax – the camps are only a couple of hours long each weekday.
He needs to run like the dickens and I can’t chase him with a wee one strapped to me – not for too long anyway (and not that I haven’t tried and Eliza doesn’t think it’s hilarious).

I also blame the Kindergarten and his care for the last 4 years. They constantly kept him stimulated. Here he is now, at home with me everyday, and he’s wondering where the other children, the variety of games, puzzles, art supplies and jungle gym is…

Where’s the yoga instructor?
Where is the group to teach me how to build a cob house?
Are we going to make sushi today? – with an expert?
Art Gallery adventure?
A measly flipp’n water park?

Come On, Mom!

Two weeks ago, I was thinking, my Mom did this! With 5 kids! But then I thought… 5 kids entertain themselves. One 5-year-old and one 5 month old don’t exactly jive – yet. I’m thinking that they might at some point, right?

And really? I must stop thinking along those lines – “but my Mom did this” and “my Mom did that” because from what I remember? My Mom, as amazing as she is, wasn’t Mary Poppins. My selective comparison to my mother with a carpetbag and a spoon full of sugar are unrealistic no matter whose Mom I’m talking about.

We’ve recently met another family with 4 children - 4 glorious, beautiful children. I’ve had a few conversations now with the mother of this family and while I would freely admit to being okay with more children previously, I am even more okay with it now.

Except for a few details like… money, I’m 35 on the 8th, money, Dickson is 7 years older than I am, money, we feel still so far from family and…. Money.

Never mind that I don’t have a carpetbag.

The Act of Opening
Yourself Up
So that Another Being Can
Pass Down the Channel
And out of You
Takes a Woman All the Way
Down
To the Very Deep of Living

- Judy Grahn

The fourth trimester is finished. Eliza is becoming a responsive, smiling, gurgling baby with a personality and a definite presence in our home. Franklin told me the other day that he loves her more than he loves me or Dickson. There are many ways to take that but aside from the curious need to place people in a hierarchy, I’m overwhelmed by his love for her.

My sadness over of the the end of an important stage of her life is shocking. These emotions coming from a person who wanted to adopt children (read: not babies), if have any at all? I suppose I can conclude that the birth of Eliza has made a deep impression on me. Perhaps I have less anxiety and more confidence? I’m not sure. From the moment she was born, I have felt a strong connection – something I didn’t feel with Franklin until he was at least 6 months old.

There could be so many reasons for this – breastfeeding, second child experience, help from relatives, a partner who isn’t freaked out either, a beautiful son to remind us that we can be confident parents. It could be all of these combined. All I know is that the first three months, while hard, are now done and they cannot be re-done. I can’t press rewind. I know there will be more and more wonderful things to come but the newborn experience is over.

I’m sad. I do truly wish we could have more children. I wish it were a responsible thing for us to do but it is not. I’m sad about this. I find it hard to believe that this is how I feel but there it is.

Weekends are definitely more difficult than the weekdays.

I have to constantly remind myself how wonderful Franklin is. When we ask him to prepare for swimming lessons and he says “No” I have to remind myself that if this is the extent of his “rebellion” then we are extremely fortunate.

And it is - the extent of his rebellion. For a child who has been the centre of my life for 5 years, his entire life, he is doing remarkable well with this whole "new sibling" thing.

I have to remind myself that after I put Eliza down and Franklin yells across the room about some random shark fact (did you know that Shark Water is out on video finally? FINALLY?) and she wakes up again that it wasn’t intentional. The fact that he forgets she’s here isn’t his fault and really, it’s nice that he isn’t worried about her all the time.

I have to remind myself that my reminder of hugging her gently was actually followed through and that his leap onto the bed before that and narrowly missing her head is only enthusiasm and not malice. We are lucky he is so enamoured with her.

I have to remind myself that we have a wonderful boy who is trying so hard. Having a sibling this late in the game will take getting used to. My brother (18 months older) didn’t really know any different. I probably always seemed like I was there. Franklin, on the other hand, can remember before Eliza was born. He remembers what it was like.

I had a friend come over for a visit today. Her children are spread 4 years apart. Her son reminds her of what things were like before his little brother came along – “Mommy and Me Time”. It breaks her heart. I wonder if Franklin thinks about this. He seems good about it all. He tells Eliza he loves her (even when he thinks we aren’t listening) but I hope he’s also happy. He’s such a pleaser (inherited from his mother) that I wonder if he believes this is how he’s supposed to act.

I’ve tried to talk to him about it but we weren’t alone and I think he needs some time to think about what we talked about. His responses were very “No big deal, Mum”.

Of course, I may also be over thinking this entire thing. He may truly feel that things are “No big deal”. Perhaps he has inherited the ability to take things in stride from… not me.

Dickson? Perhaps….
or maybe when you are born on the west coast it seeps into your genes.

Motherhood the second time around is funny. In many, many, MANY respects, it is easier. The breastfeeding went smoothly. The recovery time went smoothly. Even the inevitable haemorrhoid has been better. You know what to expect and when it does, you know the solution before it gets worse. When it doesn’t happen, you are pleasantly surprised.

I am also fortunate to have a loving family. My mother came for a few weeks and then my mother-in-law came for a few weeks after that. They cooked, cleaned, rocked and shhhh’d their way into Eliza’s heart. As well, they learned all about aliens, dinosaurs and sharks from Franklin and there is no boy on earth that has had a baby sister be born and be lavished with so much attention at the same time.

My mother-in-law has left tonight. It was a little odd to have no company in the house after 6 weeks of in and out relatives. Of course, there was still her meatloaf ready for dinner on the kitchen counter but other than that; I was actually left to my own devices. While Dickson was at the airport and then off to school to finish a final project I ate dinner with Franklin (with Eliza feeding away), got him ready for bed and brushed his teeth (while burping Eliza) and then read him stories and put him to bed (while she fell asleep).

It feels like the same kind of system we’ve always had with one added difficulty level – Eliza. However, I think we’ll be fine. In fact, I think we’ll be wonderful.

I have a feeling that my mother and mother-in-law are worried about us. In a way, this hurts, as I know the two of them did it on their own with three or more children. They didn’t have automatic washers or supportive families like I do. They did it anyway. They were tough. They persevered.

I’m tough. I’m game. I can do this too. I think I’ll just have to show them that we are going to be okay. Of course, we are also moving in less than a month and I have to pack this house up tout suite (yes, moving mid-May!) but I’m competitive that way. They’re ringer washer and language barrier difficulty levels have to be matched somehow, right?

So I find that if I log on to the laptop at home, one version of my weblog universe comes up - the one I normally see at work (on my break of course). Then, if I log on to the main computer with the gorgeously large screen we received for Christmas, I see the original version, the one with the majority of the comments and the one I think most people are seeing - but I'm not sure because by golly people just don't comment anymore...

Oh man.
Franklin is upstairs crying and it's breaking my heart not to come to his aid.

I've found I have to step back a bit more these days. Franklin needs to know that Dad can handle the messy moments just as well as Mom. For awhile there, it was nothing but me. Then I stepped back and it was back to normal. Now, since returning from Pender Island, it's been a little clingy again. Most of the folks at the wedding, D went to high school with so he was a bit preoccupied most of the time. This left me and a three year old doing the crab walk down the boardwalk and discussing the rules of Crazy Eights by the fire.
We had a great time, and basically, I told D to bugger off and hang with friends he probably won't see again until someone's funeral... but still, it was a Mom and Franklin all request weekend.

Speaking of the weekend, it was wonderful.
I've never been to Pender Island. My oh my! The construction that is happening all over the place! Real estate is so addictive. It made me want to join in the frenzy and fix ourselves a little hide-a-way somewhere for retirement.... you know while things are cheap?!?

Yes, that's where it the little dream popped.
Whatever. Land owners are bourgeois lay-abouts.
Yeah, that's it...

The highlight of the trip - other than, say, all of it - was the fact that a disposable camera was left in the room for Franklin. At first, the bucket and shovel were the prizes that were pounced upon. Then, the dolphin stickers found there way to everyone's hand. Somehow, the Denman Island chocolate mysteriously left the bucket...

But, after awhile, the camera got a good look over.
The first shot was of his nostrils of course, but after a short while he was priming the flash and positioning the lens like a pro. Of course, there was also the fascination of taking close up shots of my fingernail, the shells on the beach and almost an underwater excursion in the toilet bowl and the inevitable shot under the shirt. However, I'd say that a good 50% of them turned out quite well.

I'll be posting the results tomorrow on flickr.
I'm sure you are all quivering in anticipation.

Yes, an alternate universe!
Stay with me.

In this alternate universe, the "Happy Kid" post never happened.
That's right.
It neeeeeever happened.

In that alternate universe, there is a post lamenting the fact that I have lost the last three April entries. This means that this alternate universe is devoid of all things connected to dirtyolive and strawberry karma, space obsession or poop.

When I am at work, I see the post lamenting the other posts. Supa and my sister see this universe.
When I am at home, I see “A Happy Kid” and this little dribble you are currently reading – as does Barbara, Jess and Andrea.

Can someone, with more geek skill than I obviously have, explain this to me? I recently changed nameservers. Is this the problem?

Regardless, I know you are all breathing a sigh of relief that this is the side of the universe that still is privileged to read such incredibly "been there, done that" material.

The “been there, done that” is a teasing reference to a woman who may mistakenly think I am angry with her for presuming that I, with the one child, is so sufficiently fascinated with my life that I will post anecdotes on the internet about my son but which anyone who has already had a child has.... “been there, done that” and oh... yawn.
Yaaaaawwwwwn.

I’m kidding, Jess.

There is no way on earth that I would be angry with you for speaking your mind on your blog. I didn’t feel like you were slamming me - or my one child family. You were talking about what it feels like to be a family with four kids in a world where people seem to think one or two children are enough, for whatever reason.

If I were mad, I wouldn’t be talking about it on the net.
I would be marching right up to your blessed doorway and snapping my fingers like an idiot. Ha. Yeah, right. That would be funny though.

Seriously, I'm not mad.
I understand it is all part of the mother debate going on and the big hubbaloo surrounding that infamous book. To me, it's not only exclusionary because the world (including the blogosphere) seems to concentrate on the single child families - although I can see your point.

If you are going to start commenting on who is excluded in the mother who works versus the mother who stays at home, then lets open the picture to both the multi family households and the women who work because they have no other choice. You feel there is little choice to be a SAHM because of the size of your amazing family. I feel there are far more who do not have the choice to stay at home OR have more children due to simple finances.

(And here, my other friend, Charity will scoff at my constant beef with our society’s invisible classism, which seems to range from Thomas the Tank Engine tales to crappy social commentary best seller books.)

So this book, from what I've learned, is a personal account of many wonderful women and their somewhat different ways of raising their children. Apparently, even Naomi Wolfe feels it is a great representation of “real women everywhere”, which actually surprises me.

You see, the working versus SAHM debate doesn’t exist in my everywhere. However, I have a feeling that Naomi Wolfe lives in a vastly different everywhere than I.

In my everywhere, most families can’t afford to have another child - with or without childcare. There is still a face-off in my everywhere, but it is not this way because women are defending their choice, but out of frustration, insecurity and “the grass is greener” envy of ignorance.

In my everywhere (and perhaps, for Jess), the women who have more than one child do not have a choice to work or not to work. The debate is thrown completely out the window. Thrown out that same window is the feasibility of childcare for multiple children – multiple meaning two or more. Infant care, toddler care, after school care…. Yikes.

In my everywhere, some women weren’t even ready to have one child and now they are doing it alone. SAHM? According to many in society, this is the role of a “nurturing mother” (excuse me while I roll my eyes). If this is the ideal, then why are single mothers on social assistance so vilified? Why does our government try to limit this opportunity? There seems to be a narrow image of a SAHM and I object to this.
(Incidentally, I absolutely love the stupid factoid they give about mental and verbal development on that linked site. Yes, lets makes the “other side” feel like crap too. Yawn)

In my everywhere, there are families who would love to be able to adopt a beautiful child without a stable home but are stopped due to their financial status. Today, I felt like crying as I watched a thirteen-year-old girl testify against her adoptive father’s sexual, physical and mental abuse. SAHM? Working Moms? Who cares! There are children out there who just need a loving home.

What about the Dads who want to stay at home? I have one. I’m sure there is a hell of a lot more. Is that even a question? Nowhere in literature or on the internet do I see this debate. Dads? Stay at home? They don’t bond with their children! They do sporty stuff! They are adoringly removed! They pat heads and straighten collars!
They don’t wake up in the middle of the night! They don’t wipe the noses, bums and tears! They don’t worry about food groups and chemicals and if Jimmy knows how to share.
If I make more than my partner, why is it odd that I would be the one at work? What if I (gasp) enjoyed working and knew my partner would prefer to stay at home? From my experiences, I find it hard to believe those who try to tell me that there is a wire inside mothers that isn’t present in fathers that make staying at home more of a desire for women.

In my everywhere, we are all doing the best we can and yet, everyone thinks that everyone else is doing a less thoughtful, less stimulating and less nutritious job of raising their children.

To me (in both universes) the “right choice” isn’t really much of a choice – either way.

There are a few little boys in Franklin's life right now whose parents feel they are old enough to watch Star Wars. That's not a problem for me. I don't seriously think that what these other little guys watch is going to turn them into terrible adults. Every family is different.

D and I don't want Franklin to watch Star Wars. I mentioned that among a group of more experienced mothers today. Immediately, I was told by a woman in the group that her kids played with guns (water guns, lego guns and I'm not sure if there were plastic look-a-likes but she wasn't counting them out). But (and there's always a "but"), she had a "friend" who didn't want her kids exposed to violence and now this other woman's non-violent, "sheltered" children are out of control and are "the worst out of everyone’s kids".

Why do mothers do this?

Why does one family's decision mean that they are judged mercilessly? Perhaps the kids are "the worst" in the neighbourhood. It may or may not have to do with the amount of violence exposed. Why do I constantly hear stories about how "this" mother did "this" and look how much she screwed up.
Thank-God we're all so supportive.
To tell you the truth, there are people I know who claim to be my friends but I know that any success I have or parenting decision D and I make, is judged with scorn.
I'm sick of worrying how my actions are going to upset them.

D and are trying to take sugar out of Franklin's diet - because we feel it might help Franklin.
D and I don't want Franklin to watch Star Wars because we feel that guns and war is not a game to be acted out.
D and are against Franklin watching too much television, especially commercials, because we are worried that young children Franklin's age might not be able to think critically enough to understand how they are being manipulated - hell, sometimes we aren't mature enough and we're adults!

I have a friend who is not worried about her child's sugar intake. In fact, smarties as a reward for vital, yet unpleasant, medicine intake is shear genius in my eyes.
I know a good family who would do anything for their kids. They have watched Star Wars. Their kids play Star Wars. Star Wars, to them, is a nostalgic adventure movie they can share with their children.
I have friends who believe that watching television is not detrimental. They will deal with each consumerist request as it comes because television is a good way to offer some downtime in the middle of the day for a non-napping toddler.

Are we sheltering Franklin? I don't think so. He's THREE for God's sake. I feel he's allowed to be a kid for a bit longer and I'm allowed to have a child for a few more minutes. Of course, these are my thoughts.

We're just doing our best here.
How you decide to screw your own kids up is your business.

Okay, that title is embarrassing.

Whatever. I write a blog. It's a mommy blog. It's about nothing but the amount of snot in my son's nose and my disasterous ability to convince everyone that I want my son to be gay. I should be BEYOND embarrassed by this point.

Anyway, Easter is coming. My family has always decorated Easter eggs for this holiday. It was always a treat for me, not just for the opportunity to be creative but to spend time with my family in an environment where they are all concentrated on an activity yet still felt the need to talk talk talk.

My family talks. It's especially funny because when they are concentrating, be it on a puzzle, an oversized Christmas colouring book, or Easter eggs, the conversation is really odd. It's a distracting conversation that results in all of us actually thinking a bit longer than normal before we speak - which is an interesting phenomenon for us.

I have always enjoyed this dialogue. In fact, now that I think about it, I should have brought over a few more boyfriends in these situations. The first time D met my family was at Easter time and although I believe he spoke about 5 words (Nice, To, Meet, You, Good-bye) he at least felt safe enough to stay around for the long haul.

Anyway, my point is that Easter is coming and I thought I'd post some easily-found-elsewhere methods of dying your eggs naturally - just in case you don't think of looking for it yourself (now, how holier than thou is THAT?)



Add tap water to come at least one inch above the dyestuff. This will be about 1 cup of water for each handful of dyestuff. Bring the water just to a boil, and then reduce the heat to low. Let simmer about 15 minutes or up to an hour until you like the color obtained.

Pour mixture into a liquid measuring cup. Add 2 to 3 teaspoons of white vinegar for each cup of strained dye liquid. Pour the mixture into a bowl or jar that is deep enough to completely cover the eggs you want to dye. Allow the egg to sit in the dye water overnight if you want the colour to be really deep - but make sure you store the soaking eggs in the refrigerator.

You need to use your own judgment about exactly how much of each dyestuff to use. Except for spices, place a handful (or two or three) into the saucepan.

Eggs colored with natural dyes have a dull finish and are not glossy. After they are dry, you can rub the eggs with cooking oil or mineral oil to give them a soft sheen. Rubber bands and waxed crayon are good for making designs, as are sponging the colour before it has dried.

Blue: canned blueberries, red cabbage leaves (boiled), grape juice

Brown Gold: dill seeds

Brown Orange: chili powder

Green: spinach leaves (boiled)

Greenish Yellow: yellow delicious apple peels (boiled)

Grey: purple or red grape juice o beet juice

Lavender: small quantity of purple grape juice, violet blossoms plus 2 tsp of lemon juice, red zinger tea

Orange: yellow onion skins (boiled), carrots, paprika

Pink: beets, cranberries or juice, raspberries, red grape juice, juice from pickled beets

Red: lots of red onion skins (boiled), pomegranate juice, canned cherries (with syrup), raspberries

Violet or Purple: violet blossoms, hibiscus tea, small quantity of red onion sins (boiled), red wine

Yellow: orange or lemon peels (boiled), carrot tops (boiled), chamomile tea, celery seed (boiled), green tea, ground cumin (boiled), ground turmeric (boiled), saffron


What kinds of methods have you guys used?
Any other ideas?

I can hardly wait to get everything ready only to start with a gusto and then see Franklin get preoccupied with a vehicle and leave me to do it all by myself.

Yippee.

I've started writing this post over and over again and I figure if I just start typing whatever comes to mind I may actually come away with something. So here I am - writing.

The problem I am having is I'm working out more. I know! I'm one of those "glass half empty" people who seem to find the crappy consequences in whatever I do. You see I get introspective when I exercise and even though there are five television sets in front of the bloody trainers, I still find myself wandering into my life and analyzing the shit out of it.

Even when they are filming the underwater pictures of the Queen of the North.
Even when they are reporting on the daily happenings of TomKat.
Even when old re-runs of Sex in the City are on.

I know!

Lately, it's all been about D.
Last weekend we sat down to watch Sex Traffic. If you haven't seen it, please do - but I should warn you, it's heavy and will stay with you for days and days. I watched it on a Saturday but D went to bed early on in the film. That night, without going into any detail, I dreamt horrible, terrifying things. In the morning I was grumpy and quiet and all I could feel was anger mixed with a strange sense of relief. It was confusing and I didn't talk much all Sunday.

What a movie endorsement, eh?

I'm babbling.

What I'm trying to say was, I was a moody dork with D and Franklin and I should have been celebrating. I have an amazing son and partner and I live in an amazing place in the world. D is one of the smartest and most honest people I know. He is understanding and respectful and we have an amazing life together.
So I'm sorry, D.

Early last week, Franklin and I (okay, mostly I) got so excited about worms and dirt that we (okay, that was also primarily me, again) thought it would be cool to make Compost Art.

We saw this sort of thing while perusing other compost photos on flickr and Franklin (really, it was him!) wanted to make the same picture. I wish I could find it again so I could give credit where credit is due. Really, we didn’t think this up on our own. It was a teacher’s curriculum thing-a-ma-gig.

Anyway, I showed this photo set to a couple of co-workers - partly because I was proud of my budding scientist/artist and partly because the other day I was lamenting that there didn't seem to be any courses to take over the summer and too many people for my comfort told me I can now spend more time with my son.

What the...?

Really now, everyone. Do people actually picture me ignoring the little precious while I slave away at the computer or my text? These bags under my eyes are precisely because I spend every waking minute with my son – those that aren't taken up by work or preschool.

I know, I know... it wasn't meant that way and I should just say,
"Yes! Thanks for that wonderful and thoughtful insight into my personal life!”
But alas, one of those apparently concerned for the well-being of my son is my mother and when in the presence of my mother, I whine and complain. This seems to be my official role (sorry Mom, you are just such a good listener – especially when the phone cuts out and I realize that I’ve been talking to a blank void for 5 minutes).

Another part of me is all up in the,
Look!
Mothers who work do things with their children, too!
It's not all left to the preschool/childcare!
Really!
He’s not an accessory!
Look!
Attentive Mother walking!"

It’s ridiculous because there have been certain events that have taken place the last few weeks that have “Mother” written all over it. I’m clearly a Mother and I realize this. So, why do I care if you know this? I certainly don’t have to justify it to my working co-workers, do I?

Why?
Because mothers are brutal and insecure and as I have a hard time relating to the brutal and insecure, I tend to want to either stomp them with my feet or gain their complete adoration. You see, the world isn’t filled with people like this and while I really really really wish it did, I will continue the stomping and gushing.

About 4 years ago, an old friend of mine had a baby and it wasn't going well.
She mentioned uncontrolled crying (on her part) and thoughts of throwing the baby out the 3rd floor window. She knew she wouldn't throw the baby out of the 3rd floor window, but My Lord she thought about it.

I asked her what she thought it would be like, as I hadn't had a child at that point. She mentioned things like rocking in her expertly picked out antique rocking chair and gazing lovingly at her baby as the afternoon sun went down and homemade soup sat bubbling on the stove.

Based on her expectations and how things were going for her then, I thought I could somehow get a grasp on what a newborn would be like. After Franklin was born, the not sleeping and the crying and the body that still doesn't belong to you would have all been more manageable if my breasts weren't rock-hard globes of fire and pus.

Nevertheless, I do think of those days fondly. I knew that whatever happened, I could handle it. I bit through the pain, I woke up for each feeding and I kept going on (and on and on and on). For me, this young baby was a clean slate and something I knew needed only the most basic things. I could handle that.

What I knew I would be scared of is the parenting we are at now; the less basic, more complex issues that make me feel like there is no opportunity to do anything over, there is no rewind button. Either I get it right or he is subliminally horrified for the rest of his life. Our first memories are formed at around his age. He's three, he's asking questions, he's noticing things, he's feeling so many emotions - sometimes it seems he's feeling them all at the same time. I want to create the most well-adjusted human being I can - but I worry I don't have much to give.

I'm not well adjusted.

I know I haven't jumped on the Parade of Pain bandwagon much compared to others and apparently, this pisses off a few people. It is not my thing. There are issues I deal with daily (especially these days it seems) but I choose not to write about them. Please don't think I'm criticizing people who write about their more personal trials. They are who they are and I am who I am and well… why do I have to write more about that than I already have?

Everyone has his or her issues.
Everyone thinks they are screwing up their children. I'm sure I'm not screwing up mine any more than the average over-anxious mother. I'm just saying that these days I'm hyper aware that anything D and I say or do could be one of Franklin's very first memories.

Very. First. Memories.

That's so important.
I find it hilarious that it's only now that I fully realize that yes, we are raising a human being.
He's a human being.

Hopefully, he will be fully functioning.

First off, I have no idea what has been going on with my bandwidth. My host provider seems to think I may be popular. I however, know that this is not true.

So so so very not true.

- and I'm not saying this in an annoying, "ooooh, I didn't study for this exam" and then get the bloody thing back and find an big honking A+ all over the place and then show it everyone and repeat my lack of preparation and obvious mental genius...

Yes, Tamara - that means you - you grade 7 exam fibber, you.

You know, this post was not meant to happen. In fact, I am supposed to be drinking horrible coffemate coffee in a hotel by the Vancouver airport while Franklin falls asleep/jumps on the bed.
We had intended to actually l-e-a-v-e the island and experience big city mainland life for the weekend. My parents were going to Vancouver and we were going to hop along for the free hotel room and visit.

Everyone was asking what we were going to do in Vancouver.
Last week, an uber-cool co-worker went over and came back looking all worn out and tired in an I-partied-all-night-and-I-don't-know-what-time-it-is sort of way. I believe she took part in some vintage shopping as well for she has been sporting some extra nice stuff ever since.

Ah, the life.

I started to tell all these single, unencumbered young'ins that we were planning a trip to
The Science Centre!
The Sky Train!
Stanley Park!

I watched their eyes start to glaze over at "Centre"...

Lame-o, Ada.
(Okay, don't tell me it's not lame. For parents yes, it's awesome when you see your child's mouth drop open and drool come out because he's so astounded that he's riding inside a REAL LIFE TRAIN, but to 26 year old uber-chicks, the skytrain isn't where it's at, okay?)

However, the trip was not meant to be.
Snow, and my father's instance on never flying unless he is required to traverse a large section of ocean water, got in the way. The Coquihalla highway was too dangerous.
I'm actually impressed with my parents. Usually, their sense of immortality is not unlike a teenager's. They will drive through anything, in any weather and with no sleep while blaring whatever's playing on the CBC.
(Okay, this is usually only my father's sense of immortality. My mother sits next to him because I think she thinks if she's there, when they crash and they are trapped in an upside down vehicle, she can punch him until the paramedics arrive.)

I was watching the web cam all morning until I got the thankful call that the trip was off.

So now all we had to do was tell Franklin.
All week long we had told Franklin about the beluga whale, the science centre, the sky train, Taita and Jido....
All week long he had asked us about the hotel room...

On Thursday night we turned off the TV, the computer and the stereo so that we could have his full attention. We sat him on a stool in the living room and began:

"Franklin, do you remember our plan for the weekend? Do you remember how we were going to go to Vancouver to visit Taita and Jido... in the hotel room?"

"Yes.... let's play with the Tonka puzzle!"

"Okay Franklin, but we need to tell you something. We are not going to Vancouver this weekend. There is too much snow over the mountains and it's not safe for Taita and Jido to travel on the roads to come and see us."

D and I were prepared to show him the web cam of the highway and get my parents on the phone so that he could deal with his expected disappointment. So, what did our child say to this?

"Okay... lets play logs with the crayons!"

"Yes we will play, Franklin. But, is there anything you want to ask us?"

"Yes"

What is it, honey"

"Can we play now?"

Such trauma.
Sometimes I think the only ones who have trouble with change in this house are the parents.

So... Valentine's Day...

Franklin and I arrive at preschool and there are little paper bag mailboxes for little valentines all around the library.

Crap.

I felt like that time I brought him to Sporty Tots in his rubber boots. Get. It. Together. Mother.

Seriously though? There was some kind of notice sent around with all the kids names on a list so that parents could choose to participate in Valentine's Day.
We didn't get this.
How could I miss this?
I didn't miss it.
It wasn't there.

But you know if it was, I'm betting D and I would have thought, "Nah, it won't be a big deal. This is preschool for God's sake. Who does this kind of thing at preschool?"

Apparently, everyone.

We're both pretty down on this whole exchanging Valentine's cards thing. The cheap Scooby-Do commercials to drop in every box sounds down right insane. They get enough of this crap in the media everywhere we go, do we have to buy it for them/succumb to it too? I want to avoid the pleading store requests to buy cheap merchandising just to "be like everyone else" argument for at least 2 more years...

However, a few of the children made their own Valentine's cards and wow, some were really sweet.

So, when I was called at my office to pick him up, I thought we could just make Valentine's Day cards that afternoon and bring them the next day. However, Franklin was pretty sick - fever, throwing up sick - so there was no wax crayon shaving going on.

Instead, I demonstrated what I was doing and he watched me and directed me as to the colours and shapes.

It was a group project. We're pretty proud of them.

P.S. If you try this at home, it's just the ol' wax crayon shavings between wax paper and iron it all to melt. We learned that a little shavings go a long way. Too many and the shapes are hard to cut out.

It's quiet.
All I can hear is the trickle of the fish tank, the hum of the computer and my typing.

There is no child upstairs "singing my life with his words" at the top of his lungs.*
There is no television playing behind me.
There are no dishes washing and no music playing ever so quietly through headphones that I'm not supposed to hear.

Only the blissful sound of silence.

I love this.
I can write 500 assignments on geo-economy and local governments in this atmosphere.

I remember sitting in the front seat on a ski trip one winter. The rest of the team was quiet and it was only my coach and I traveling down a small highway with snow shooting straight at the windshield in small white pins. The rest of the world was completely blank and void of life. It was so peaceful. I remember telling my coach that night that I didn't really want to be a racer but that I prefered to live in a cabin, in the middle of a forest, totally isolated.
My coach was surprised at this - not that I didn’t want to be a racer (he had mentioned a year earlier that I analyzed things too much to really let my skies go), but that I wanted to live in silence.

People who meet me assume that I like action. I suppose, when placed in a hectic situation, I tend to get excited like the rest of the adrenalin junkies out there. However, silence is heaven. Silence gives me the space to think the thoughts that are yelling at me on the inside. It also gives me the focus to get things done. Silence is… golden.

This is why you will get emails from me at 3 in the morning and comments on your blog at 4. I need silence.

This isn't a Mom thing.


* I've been singing a little Roberta Flack to him before bed these days. "Hush Little Baby" was gettin to me, man. There are only so many mocking birds and dogs that don't bark that I can take in a lifetime.

Back when I was a blogger held hostage by my own ignorance, I had a ton of things to write. There were epiphanies of parenthood, epiphanies of growth and epiphanies of housework.
All incredibly boring things now that I type them out here - well, at least that last one.

This morning the only thing I could remember was an epiphany of the dynamics of an old relationship and my behaviour during the first few years of university. You don't want to hear about it. It is truly dreadful and too self-absorbed even for a personal website.

Really. It's that bad.
Why do these thoughts just appear out of thin air?
I'm masachistic.

Franklin's doing well though. Sporty Tots on Saturday morning is hilarious.
Would it be terrible to admit that we actually practiced before going there this time?

I know, I know. It's the perfectionist, my son is and angel, what do you mean he's not an angel, we must practice at being an angel so we can show you he is an angel... in me.

It's pathetic.

However! He stayed with the group, followed direction and played Go go go go go go go go STOP! like a professional Gogogogogogogostopper.
In actual fact, I believe he had a better time once he got the hang of listening to the group leader rather than flying around the room and wondering what the hell the rest of the kids were doing.

I seem to be determined to beat whatever sense of individualness he has right out of him.
Yay Mom.

Actually, most of the kids were pretty good. I think the people running the show gave up on the Frozen Tag and obstacle course sets and have settled with Go Stop and basic ball practice. Of course, this is far less entertainment for the parents on the sidelines.
Today was some sort of toddler version of Lacrosse. Franklin had a scoop and ball and once he understood the mechanics of throwing the ball out of the scoop, he'd chuck it forward and then prance (and boy, does he prance) after it with his legs high in the air.

In a gymnasium with soccer for 3-4 years on one side and Sporty Tots for 2-3 year olds on the other, D and I could still hear the high pitched squeals from Franklin every time his ball went flying.
Just like his Dad.

I have tried over and over again to edit that last entry. There are a number of things I've tried to change - word order, spelling mistakes, profanity (I'm a good Catholic girl) and nothing is working. The version in MT looks the way I want it to but this doesn't seem to translate to the actual webpage. I've even rebuilt the entire site and nothing seems to work.

So, I have to live with it.
It's killing me.
You have no idea.

Thanks for all the help with the sewing machine and income funds. The acid taste is still there but I think it may have a bit to do with stress. There's a bit of stress in the job these days. It's nothing that can't be managed but as my co-worker so aptly put it, "We're up as far as we can get and we're slowly slipping backward". It's a matter of too much work for too few people - half of which have no idea what they're doing (I'm one of these clueless ones).
All I think about these days is the job. It’s quite funny, really. I have a job that, for most people, would be great. It does not really require overtime and isn't very stressful - there are no dying babies in our vicinity. As a result, many of my co-workers find it perfect. It's moderately well paying and allows one to go home to a family and not be thinking of your day all that much.

Cripes. If I'm thinking this way with such a la-dee-da job, I might as well become a surgeon.
(Dad, I'm kidding. Don't get your hopes up. Your medical magazines made me nauseous and all those years of saying I wanted to be a ophthalmologist was only to get your approval).

Okay, enough of the childhood confession, what about Franklin?

This weekend, we went to Franklin's first organized weekend sport "thingy". D and I have both been very athletic. Well, D is still athletic. I am not. We had always assumed that our children would be coordinated and athletic as well. It's not that I'm dying to become a soccer Mom but aren't kids who are invested in their bodies supposed to stay away from drugs?

Sometimes D and I wonder if Franklin may be more of a "stay at home and read books/play with my trains" sort of kid. It’s not that we're disappointed; it's more that we're a little surprised. Of course, we haven't given him a whole lot of opportunities. Well, no longer! He is now enrolled in a program that is supposed to introduce him to a variety of sports. From this, we figure, he can decide what he wants to do in the future and we'll just follow his lead.

I'll wait until all of you older, more experienced parents stop laughing before I proceed.

Still waiting.

Done?
Okay.

Our first Saturday was entertaining. Franklin has a cough that sounds like a ferryboat crashing through the docks. As a result, we slept in and leisurely made our way to the rec centre where we were to meet his friend and commence with the "You will do a sport instead of play Warcraft all day in our fictitious basement" training.
So we were horribly late.

Also, he was in his rubber boots. I'm such an idiot.
No wonder he doesn't do sports, he has inherited some drastically faulty equipment - his parents.

The most entertaining part of it all? His complete lack of concentration. There were two year olds that were able to follow direction better than our child.

I was thinking back when I was ski racing and what held me back. I was as strong, if not stronger than most of my competitors. Yet, I would screw myself up somehow. A sport psychologist came to talk to each member of our team and he told me I had a fear of success. Now that I can look back on those years, I know what was the problem. It was my lack of concentration. If I had the concentration that yoga, maturity and desperation gave me during labour, I would have been I racing champion. Of course, I think I wanted to have the labour over and done with more than I wanted a gold medal so perhaps it was a combination of success and concentration...

What all this navel gazing is supposed to point out is that Franklin's apple is most definitely short on concentration. I'm about to go search out books and websites that will help me help him - if this problem continues in later years.

Someone tell me it's just a three-year-old thing because I will believe this.
My attention deficit disorder may be completely unrelated, right?

Three year olds.
You talk to them, and they utterly ignore you. You ask them to do something, and they do the opposite.
I don't care if he is 30 some odd pounds. I'm willing to stretch open my vagina and suck him right back in there.

... and you were speechless .... and I was giddy
.... and you drank too much ... and I was tipped too much.

I love you , D.

We had such a wonderful Christmas.
I hope all of you did as well.

My increasingly geeky sister and her partner came for a visit and introduced my son (and me) to the world of Warcraft. I have pictures of Franklin making a troll (or something) jump up and down.
He thought it was hilarious.
For the first time in my life (and hopefully the last because I have no willpower) I killed a bunch of wild boars. What a dangerously addicting game. It's a good thing this big beast of a computer can't load that game.

I notice I haven't been much of a blogger lately. I am starting to resent that little calendar in the top right side of my margin.
School was crazy.
I learned a lot though. I learned that as a control freak who just-wants-everyone-to-get-along, group work takes a lot more work than just doing it yourself. That, and you can't trust anyone that says they are a professional writer to be a good writer, and sometimes when you are editing someone else's work, you have to be brutal. You don't get good marks by worrying about ego.

I'm babbling.
Perhaps because I've had more than 6 hours of sleep for about 4 days in a row.

Anyway, one of my papers was phenomenal - both in the writing and the marks. I thought I could have got a better mark, but what I thought was a good thing (getting more outside sources than just the class readings) was essentially a bad idea. Different profs, different tastes. What can you do?

I writing this just to get something out online. I can't believe I'm still going over last semester. Especially when I have school work to think about come January. I'm trying to take a break but it's difficult. Especially when I can't play Warcraft...

Anyway, I dropped my sister off at the airport after witnessing a virtual orgasm in a comic book store.
Thanks for coming you guys. I miss you already - especially the laptop that played Warcraft.

I think I have a problem.
Seriously, I'm not kidding.
har.

I will never do this again. Do you hear me Internet?
I am making you responsible to personally chew me out because I don't think I trust myself NOT to take two courses and work full time while being a mother and partner - again.

I had almost convinced myself that I can do this for one more semester.
However, I re-evaluated tonight as every little thing Franklin did seemed to intentionally piss me off.
Upon further reflection and inquiry with D, there is no toddler conspiracy to make The Mother insane. He's just being a regular three year old and I'm being a regular cranky bitch that can't handle a child head butting me in the ass as I bend over to pick up his coat he just tossed oh-so-casually onto the floor behind him.

I have a large post in mind regarding why I am doing this, where this ambitious drive is coming from and how I will provide a reputation for myself as "The Crazy lady on the Internet Who Thinks the Sky is Falling", but now is not the time to do it.

Now is the time for writing about New Urbanism and Walkable Suburbs, Edmonton neighbourhoods and Design Charrettes, the economics of Road Diets and community involvement. These are all things I want to bury my head into and concentrate on for the next few days until I can finally lift out of the fog and turn in something of which I am immensely proud.
However, I know this will not happen. It's not possible.

Instead, I will do the best I can "under the circumstances" while I simultaneously write Christmas cards, go to Truck Light Parades and visit Santa Claus in the mall.
(Oh, and I’ll try and show up for work on time and stick my tongue down my partner's throat for a bit so he’ll remember who I am)

You know, I don’t think I’d want this any other way – except for one less course, please.

Holy Moses.
Why the hell am I writing right now?!?!?!

If there was ever a time when I thought that my mother-in-law might think I'm strange for writing on a somewhat daily basis about the somewhat more entertaining parts of my life, I am no longer worried. The following are parts of an email sent to me the other night (the emphasis is mine):

next Sat. our choir at church is putting on a high tea-- should that be capitalized--at this moment I don't think so. This thing was not my idea, but agreed to go along with it so now I am baking up a storm--fancy baking. I'd rather be on the computer.

and:

We need to take linen, crystal, bone china cups and saucers, silver etc etc to the church by next Fri. to set up. It goes on and on - I'd rather be on the computer...

I think my husband may have married his mother.

This is parenthood: the banality of life punctuated by moments of sheer terror far greater than any you feel when it's just a matter of your own existence. We teeter on the edge of disaster constantly, and then return just as quickly to the normality of denial that allows us to function without thinking about all the things that can kill our kids in a day.

Yes.

My back is killing me.
I slept with Franklin last night and man, I'm glad we've bought him a new mattress because even though the sleeper in the middle has a nice, cozy dip to burrow into, the unlucky dork that gets squeezed along the edge is in trouble.
OUCH.

- or maybe I'm just old.

I have no idea what happened last night. I went to bed exhausted and woke up (Lord knows when) to the sound of Franklin talking very calmly, but loudly. When I got to his room, he was having an animated conversation with his lamp. He then turned to me and said, "Come on in, Mom" and patted his bed.

It was all very Twin Peaks.

I think I may have mumbled something about being really tired and how I was going to fall asleep right away so I wouldn't be able to talk. I wonder if he was even awake at the time though because I got one sleepy kiss from him before he plopped right down into a deep sleep himself.

The child, he is odd.
The apple, it does not fall far.

D remembers quite clearly when he was a child that he was most comfortable in his parent's bed. It wasn't that he was scared of sleeping alone, but that he had the most comfortable sleeps inbetween his mother and father. He seems pretty sensitive to this memory - even now.
If Franklin wants us to sleep with one of us, or in our bed, there is no objection from D.

It's funny.
It's funny how the trials we go through as children can have such an affect on us as parents. D and I project so much of our experiences on Franklin.

I remember getting so worked up as a child that I thought I was going to explode inside. It was hard for me to keep it all in but I thought I was being "a good girl" by not communicating how I felt about things. I also used to feel like I couldn't do anything right.
Now, in hindsight, I see that I was more frustrated with not doing everything perfectly. To tell you the truth, although I understand that I can't do everything perfectly, I am still frustrated that I can't do the things I choose to do perfectly, perfectly.

Now, as a Mother, when I watch Franklin get frustrated and upset, I am immediately transported to those frustrating times and I want to make everything okay. I want to solve the problem, I want to fix his puzzle, and I want to put the trains back on the rails. I want everything to be perfect. I want to show him how to draw a boat, a cloud, and a flower.

I have to remember that failing is a good thing and that not doing something perfectly on the first try, teaches him (me) how to do so many more things than that one task. It's a hard lesson and these days it feels like we are going through it together.

This is a treasured photo of my little sister and I in front of our house in Vanderhoof, BC. I must be about seven years old here. That means my sister is about two. I have always adored my sister and admired her ability to horde her Halloween treats for months and months - providing me with a secret stash of goodies to pilfer from.

My sister is my shining example of how siblings can be born five years apart and still be close enough to be friends throughout their lives.

My sister is beautiful, graceful and lovely.

My sister lives too far away.

I miss my sister.

We're heading into a new stage of parenting. The "I Don't Recognize My Son" stage where he sounds like a squeaky violin scrapping across a chalk board and acts like a starving, needy kitten that hasn't slept in years.

At first, I thought he was just a little cranky because of the disjointed sleep he gets in his big boy bed - getting up to go to the bathroom and then settling back down again. Unfortunately, even when he has a great sleep, he's a cranky. He is having a couple of outbursts in daycare and it doesn't help that his best friend in the whole wide world and forever and ever into infinity is moving to an older toddler centre and leaving him behind with girls who play with dolls and toddlers who don't speak more than two or three words clearly.

However, even at home he's not all sunshine and roses. He has always had moments of frustration, but these days the emotional outbursts seem extreme. Even the daycare feels they are becoming inappropriate for his age. He's screaming at children when he's frustrated, but when told he could be taken away from the situation, he calms right down and uses his language skills to communicate his displeasure. It's almost that he knows the right response, but he's choosing the more effective route, which elicits an immediate response from everyone within a 2-mile vicinity.

Could he be a late bloomer - emotionally? Perhaps he just doesn't actually have the capability to handle frustration without first getting so worked up he explodes.
Could he only now be starting the "terrible twos"? He's still awesome to hang around with, but the whining, OH GOD THE WHINING.

Actually, the whining is making all the rest of the typical challenges harder for me. I'm trying to be understanding, but now the usual bossy directions of "Mom, you hold this car, you put your car here, you drive your car over to my car, your car says this and now it goes away, go away Mom, goawaygoaway, come here come here" have become playtimes I resent a bit. I know this is normal toddler play but since he doesn't seem willing to play with D in this way I'm his little playmate ALL THE TIME.
In fact, I find myself breathing deeply and counting to ten about 5 to 6 times a day.
I also find myself wanting to jump D and start making another baby so that I get a little reprieve from the tyrant - you know, create a little sacrificial lamb so-to-speak...

Even D, the emergent "Good Cop" in our household is losing patience.

A part of me thinks he needs me more than ever right now and that just when he seems the most challenging, he needs to be shown that I love him and that I want to be with him... but Lordy Lordy it's difficult.
Another part of me feels like he's gotten it too good lately. D and I are among the most laid-back parents we know and what if this isn't a good thing? I certainly don't intend to become a hard-ass, but maybe things need to get a little stricter?

I'm heading down to the bookstore this evening, because that's what I do when I need more information. I've also talked it over with my Mother and I think it's time to not only teach him that frustrations need to be handled differently, but that there are consequences for choosing to scream bloody murder when an 18 month old girl innocently decides she wants to see what your playing with...

However, I've been assured by the daycare that we aren't raising a psycho-killer (Qu'est-ce que c'est) so all in all, we're doing okay. Still, I'm sizing him up and wondering if I can stuff him back in somehow so that we can have a kind of "do-over"...

You know?

From now on, whenever Franklin pleads that he absolutely NEEDS another train, I will show him the following photos and then discretely hide that blasted Thomas catalogue.

Tell me, why the hell do we buy the toys when he has so much fun with his old crib sheets?

By the way, financial drainage aside, have I mentioned lately that having a toddler is fun?

Well, it is. It's absolutely amazingly fun fun fun.
Seriously, I'm not kidding.
Phun.

Franklin has diarrhea. I'm worried it's all those rhubarb oatmeal muffins he's been eating. "They" told me to eat oatmeal when I was having trouble after delivering Franklin...

I dunno. Will too much oatmeal give you the runs?

Regardless, we're at home planting stuff and painting paper mache sculptures. Not much else to say as I'm currently trying to get ready for the yard sale tomorrow.

Here's a picture of me when Franklin was a mere terrifying notion of adulthood just waiting for me one year later:

I have no idea why I was wearing it. It's not Hallowe'en. Some guy who also worked at the bar had a bunny costume he would spontaneously dress up in for his friends. I put it on. I posed. I wasn't even drunk. This is just what happens when friends let other friends dress up in rodent costumes.

Have you seen that Woody Allen movie called Shadows and Fog? This may sound crazy but although I had seen a gazillion (or at least most) Woody Allen movies before this one came out, I had no idea who he was. It wasn't until "Shadows and Fog" that I started to become interested in this sexy little creature everyone calls a pedophile.

Yes. I find Woody Allen sexy.

Okay, stop laughing now.
I'm serious.


It rained last night and this morning brought a beautiful fog to cover the campus. I'm not sure how they did it, perhaps Carlo Di Palma is on staff, but I truly believe Victoria (and Vancouver for that matter) looks so much better in the fog and rain. It's more romantic and mysterious - well it's that, or I've watched too many episodes of The X-Files.

Franklin's new bed is situated under his window for the time being. We have kept the crib in his room for the week so that he can have the option of moving back if he wants to. The toilet training, underwear, big boy bed are big steps and it's not like we're having to use the crib for anything anytime soon - although that's a whole other story I should tell you guys.

Anyway, his bed is under the window until there is more room. This means he can hear a lot more than he could hear before. He called me into his room at 1:30 in the morning because he thought someone was "walking and knocking" outside his window.
His bedroom is three stories up.
It was the rain dripping off the eaves.

Regardless, we opened up the window together and watched the rain pour down. It was nice.
Yeah.
Nice until he decided he was too excited to go back to sleep and wanted to partake in another wee hours of the morning chat. He definitely wasn't interested in going back to bed - knockers or no knockers.

I need a coffee.

I completely forgot to post yesterday.
I realize this isn't such a big thing to many of you, but to me... Whoa.

I am what you would call a regular blogger. If I'm not posting it's because I'm either extremely busy or on vacation. Even on those days I usually find time to post something. I realize I have been a little more lax lately, but to completely forget to blog.
I don't think I had even one thought about blogging all day - even when I have a son who is successfully sleeping and napping in his big boy bed (!*$#%!!!) ... crazy.

So... right. After that amazing tidbit of my incredulous brain fart...

Franklin.
He's sleeping.
No fuss.
This is a total dream.

The first night was such a novelty that D and I ended up sleeping with him if only to celebrate this new accomplishment. We are such sappy parents. It astounds us that we are parents of a child who NO LONGER SLEEPS IN A CRIB. Just the fact that we are parents of a child and not a baby blows me all the way over to Saskatchewan!
The best thing about sleeping together was the 1am chat in the dark. Franklin was telling us the most amazing things, and with such insight too. Of course, in our sleepy fog the next morning, D and I were racking our brains to try and remember what the heck he was saying.

To tell you the truth, I was dreading the "Big Boy Bed" thing. I had heard of tales of little kids, upon learning that they can wiggle themselves out of their sleeping quarters on their own, leaping from their rooms and demanding that naptime was officially over.
Never mind naptime, they were also demanding later bedtimes!
I took solace in the fact that August is a month without coursework and so the lack of sleep and increased time taken for this new stage would not be heaped on top of my regular 2am study marathons.

Turns out this whole "teaching your kids to value their sleep" is a goooood thing. Franklin understands naptime. He also understands bedtime. For a child who took 9 months 12 days and 13 hours and 23 seconds to sleep through the night, he's a champion now.

(And don't you dare call me lucky. D and I worked pretty damn hard to be consistent with Franklin's nap and bedtime sleeping. Travel plans were thwarted, food was left uneaten in restaurants, and dates were completely abandoned - never to be recovered again.)

Of course, there is still the bathroom thing.
Franklin's a little hesitant about going on his own and as he's quite the consistent nighttime pooper, we get up with him to help him do his thing.
What's making me especially happy is the fact that he gets up! He's not wetting the bed or relying on the diaper we still put on him for safe keeping at night.

(One of my co-workers gave me some pull-ups after her daughter was potty trained. He hasn't been able to fit in them until now and so we are using them until they run out and then we will just keep on with the "gaunchies" as D calls them. )

We are still alarmingly (to Franklin) deficient in Thomas the Train underpants and bedding. However, Franklin mentions it less and less. I figure since his birthday is coming up and his regular size 2 underpants are starting to cause little marks around his belly, I will cave and get these cartoon theme undies and sheets.

We'll mix a little capitalistic flare with our regular communistic house standard.

The weather was absolutely fantastic this weekend. We did go to Sidney Spit. It was marvelous. I think the British contingent in my group (meaning all adults but me) felt we should have left earlier but what can I say, sometimes I just can't get everything and everyone out the door in a timely fashion.

Regardless, it was wonderful - especially memorable for me as it was the first time Franklin peed outside, as in projectile, as in write your name in the sand, as in "guy stuff" that I have only attempted with a funnel and a rubber hose.
Of course, I have it documented in pictures just like everything else in Franklin's life.

This kid will be able to attach all his photos together in one BIG book and flip the pages in order to watch the moving biography: "My Life according to Mother". Of course, that's not including the video we have, my personal journal and obviously, this weblog.

Anyway, if any of you ever get a chance to come out this way, make sure you visit Sidney Spit on a sunny day. Nothing beats it (except perhaps, Tofino). You take a 20 minute open air boat ride to the island where long strips of soft sand and camping grounds await you.
Franklin and his friend even got to sit up in the captain's chair and steer the boat. Almost expectantly, he tried to press a button that would apparently shut off one of the propellers and send the boat careening violently off to the left. That captain has some mighty fast reflexes. He can baby-sit for us any day.

Of course, there's more that has happened...
There's the big boy bed and our adventures of self-induced sleeplessness due to cute baby little boy factors far beyond our control.
Yes, there is photo documentation for that too. We are outta control, I tell ya.

I'm just pooped. The weekend was packed and still have a zillion things to do. Also, D is coming down the stairs and I want to do obscene things to/with him.

(excuse me)

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).

.

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.