This summer seems to be coming to an end all of sudden. Soon I will be taking Franklin to Grade One. A Big Kids School. A place where there will be more than 7 kids in his class. A place where there will be times that kids will be able to say things and do things and they will not be under constant surveillance by three of four teachers. A place where he could be picked on or worse… pick on others.
I’m scared.
I’m not sure that he’s all that scared though. He talks about how much he is looking forward to it most of the time. Other times he asks me if there are bullies at the school. When I tell him that schools have a No Bullies Allowed rule now I feel like I’m lying. I want to say that there will probably be some real doozies there but that I’m sure he can handle it because he’s a friendly guy who likes people.
What?
I don’t know.
I have a thing with people getting picked on. I used to hang around with kids only because they were the ones getting picked on at school. I’d have absolutely nothing in common with them and we would have nothing to say but there I would be, standing next to them… pretending to be their friend until I lost my concentration and went to join someone else to put dandelions up my nose.
I am so certain you wanted to be my friend in school, eh?
I was a freak.
Despite the worried thoughts of Franklin going to school in a few weeks, we have had a wonderful summer. I’ve taught him a few things that I think he will be grateful for in the future. Things like:
· Just because someone is mad at you, doesn’t mean they don’t like you
· People can be grumpy one minute and get over it soon afterwards, just give them some time (with their coffee and an internet connection)
· Whining about your lego house coming apart doesn’t mean anyone is going to fix it for you but you
· When someone says they are going to dunk you underwater, they mean it so take a breath and close your mouth
It has been a summer of a lot of great conversations between the two of us. Most of them taking place on long walks or over breakfast and lunch. It has also been a bit of a summer of hard knocks. I have realized lately that we rarely ever yelled at Franklin before (as in before Eliza - insert ominous music here). In fact, he hardly ever made me mad. Frustrated, yes (of course!), but I made sure that I could see his side of the situation and then understand where he was coming from in situations.
What a crock of shit.
This is not how the world works. We get tired. We get busy. We have other needs to place before him at times. We even get irrational and downright grumpy. We spent so much time being the parents we saw in our professional caregivers (the ones with a full lunch hour, two 15 minute breaks and a union) that we weren’t being human.
Welcome to human, my son.
Your mother loves you. She also gets so angry that she leaves the room and sits on the toilet with your sister so that she can calm down. And that’s all okay.
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.
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.
I’m starting this post tonight because if I don’t, I won’t write again for a few weeks. I’m not writing much. I know. There may be about a dozen reasons for this, I’m not sure, but I do know that I am not the person who started this blog so long time ago. That doesn’t matter though, what the hell. Of course I’m not the same person.
Reading old archives is horrible though.
Boooorrrring.
Speaking of archives, I’m missing a huge chunk – have you noticed? Yeah. They are missing out there in cyberspace and my host has a copy of them but won’t post them up unless I give her money because she’ll have to do it manually. So I think, jeez, finally a do-it-yourself project I can… Do. My. Self. Give me the posts. I’ll post them.
However, have I emailed her to tell her this? No.
Have I paid my tuition to the university for the last three courses I’ve taken? No.
Have I got back to the federal government about our 2007 tax return? No.
Things are crappy here in our home. My life seems to be upside down and I am not the one who is actually going through any real trauma. I’m such a pussy of a mother. Seriously.
Franklin’s best friend is moving to Japan on Friday. That is in two days. Just writing this has my stomach in knots like that time the Love of My Life At Twenty-Two told me he wanted to break-up. My heart physically hurt and for once in my life, I wasn’t fascinated with the fact that I was feeling emotion. I was just sad. Really, really sad.
Tonight, I am sad.
Really, really sad.
Franklin screamed at an adult today - his friend's mother. He was hurt. He wanted his friend to stay and she had come to pick him up earlier than he expected. He’s confused and doesn’t know what to do with how he feels right now, I know. Still, this wasn't okay. It was utter chaos and I had to keep my shit together to talk him off of hysterical mountain while getting Eliza to bed for her nap and helping his friend and his three year old sister out the door.
I want to help Franklin so much but sometimes I feel that we are so fucking connected that I am more harm to him than anything else. What I damn fine dork of a mother I make. I just want to hang out and be sad with him. I can’t think of anything else to say other than, "this sucks, man".
Yeah. I know.
I should teach parenting classes, write a book, film late night infomercials of myself talking on a stage with a face mic and a big power point projector.
Dickson is confused, I think. Strange thing is, he went through this. He moved away from his best friend at the same age that Franklin is right now. He knows what a big deal this is - five years old and watching a piece of you leave your world. Maybe he knows and therefore is aware that life can go on. He said tonight that things will get better. I know this. I do. But right now? Right now, things are horrible and I can't fix any of it. Life will go on but for me, Franklin has had one too many things change in his life and... and...
I'm the Mom! I'm supposed to keep everything together, right?
Wow. I sound like I'm six-bloody-teen years old.
I don’t remember having a best friend that I really connected with at Franklin’s age. To tell you the truth, until I met my friend, Joelle, I didn't connect with really anyone. I watch Franklin and this other boy and wonder how two children can any more similar. They are both so sensitive and creative and scared and amazed at the world. They worry about the same things. They are proud of the same things…
Earlier this month, Franklin wet his bed. It happens. Whatever. Franklin wasn’t concerned. His friend came over to play and about an hour in I hear,
“Hey! I wet my bed last night!”
“Yeah? Me too!”
And then returned to playing like they had just talked about the weather.
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
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.
When Franklin was born, we lived in a very large house by the ocean. We had tons of space, but very little storage. We had one amazing roommate and very large windows. It was a wonderful place to live. Steps to the ocean, 15 minute walk to downtown. The neighbours were owners of one of the best bookstores in the city and the lady who lived downstairs came up to visit me and take care of Franklin if I needed to sleep off the bazillion bouts of mastitis that I contracted.
We are living what seems to be the opposite. The home we have now is small (North American standard of small anyway), we are several kilometres from the ocean, we have very little space (tons of storage), no roommate and windows that are pretty big but that don't open upstairs and which has caused me a few sleepless nights going over fire drill scenarios.
The lack of space means we don't have a change table set up for Eliza. Big deal, right? Sure, but now that I have another child, I constantly compare experiences. I think it will be something I do until Eliza becomes more than a milk drinking blob and I quit thinking she's actually baby Franklin all over again. Those wee hours of the morning can do wonders for your mind, but that's an entirely different post.
Franklin's change table had everything an over-achieving mother is supposed to display for her child - the black and white stimulation mobile as well as a variety of fish and a stash of rattles at the ready. It's not that he was incredibly fussy and needed all of this, we just wanted him to be a genius in order to placate our own insecurities regarding our own precarious intelligence...
Eliza, however is getting a raw deal in comparison - at least until we move to the new place next month. She gets changed on the floor, the bed or the couch. Her stimulation? Well... Franklin's silhouette? The frame of my glasses? My soothing rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?
When they say you are more relaxed about the second child, I hope I don't actually fall into placing her in front of a window and letting my five year old babysit while he simultaneously cooks dinner so that I can have my beauty sleep (wow, that sounds nice...).
Actually, there is one pattern she is attracted to and it is right above the rocking chair where I feed her. A big Marimekko fabric stretched on a canvas that Dickson bought at a garage sale and is our favourite possession. I love these patterns. The one on our wall is a classic and I hope to be able to afford a few more designs in the future.
Recently, I found this clip on you tube (a slight addiction of mine, that you tube).
For some reason, and it's odd that I am even remarking on this but whatever, Franklin has been ecstatic the last couple of days.
It's not that he's a normally morose child who likes to pull the legs of spiders or anything, but lately it seems someone has been slipping him happy hyper pills and everything is
YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!!!!!!
D and I are both entertained by this and slightly curious.
Is he starting to really enjoy preschool? Has he successfully mastered the art of putting on his shoes and zipping up his zipper without a struggle? Would that actually make him such a gleeful dorknut?
Perhaps it's the lack of sugar? He has a stable system now and the lack of highs and low has given him a constant level of something higher than we are used to?
Is it the home videos that he is obsessed with watching? The romp through the snow when he was 2 years old? The day at the beach when he was 18 months? Could seeing himself back then and recognizing his growth make him proud of himself? (for example, see the photomall photo on the right)
Or is it the fact that when we were traveling in the car the other day he asked us what "to die" meant. Once we explained the concept in an abstract but somewhat realistic way, he firmly pronounced that he did not want to die.
wow.
oh wow.
ummmmmmm.
No, Franklin. You aren't going to die.
You aren't going to die.
What else do you say to that?
He seems great though. Perhaps he's living life to the fullest.
He's not going to die.
Today, or ever.
Today, he dances on his tiptoes and tells me that I'm beautiful in his best Johnny Cash impersonation. All of it is to make me laugh and hug him one more time before he goes to bed.
There is a woman who works in an area of my office that will be using the cloth diapers that Franklin soiled about a billion times. She is a woman of many hats and on top of working near me, she has also been a casual "teacher on call" for the preschool that Franklin attends.
Here comes the irony:
We were discussing the end of her contract in my office and the potential to start again at preschool. She rolled her eyes at the prospect. It isn't that she doesn't enjoy the kids; apparently it is the potty humour that she knows she will have to endure. She's up to her eyeballs in poop at home with her newborn baby and then she has to look forward to a full day of poo talk at work.
She is right. There seems to be nothing more fascinating to a three year old than poo. From the time we get there in the morning, the lunch hours and the afternoon pickup, there is poo flying everywhere – you know what I mean.
Nanana Poo Poo!
You eat POO!
You are a Poo Poo head!
I'm going to poop on you!
Pssbbsssssst!
Do you eat POO?
How about PEE? Do you drink PEE?
Hahahahahahahha, YES YOU DO!
YOU EAT POO AND PEE!
I suggested that when her son grows to the curious age of three, she might find it cute and interesting – and then I laughed nervously. She just looked at me blankly.
Clearly, my plan of endearing her to my child's most certain and imminent poo talk wasn't working very well.
The reason being, although he is currently enamored with trains and more so with all things space, he is obsessed with poo and pee - like the rest of his peers.
(Well, not all of his peers. There are a couple of older children who have passed the poo developmental stage and will only revert back if things get out of hand silly. I have a feeling this will happen to Franklin when he becomes…oh…say, 16 and trying to be somewhat cool. Then he’ll come back to his childhood when he’s 20 and stay there.)
D was farting the other day in the bathroom* and Franklin was laughing so hard he was having a hard time standing. All bodily functions are funny. All of them. So, as we are a bodily function kind of family, there is a lot of laughter in this house. There is also a lot of poo talk.
* (Heh heh... sorry, hon. For the record everybody, I fart too)
However, I have drawn the line with the subject of poo while we are eating. Although I am perfectly at ease talking about bowel movements at the dinner table, the ramifications of Franklin mentioning that he had a “big POO and he spattered EVERYWHERE!” while sitting with my in-laws fills me with such horror that I need to switch hats from "ALMIGHTLY POO MASTER" to plain ol' Mother.
Mother says, "No poo or pee talk at the table, please."
Just when I thought my coal tender was reaching it's limit of Thomas the Train, Franklin seems to have switched gears - if only temporarily.
This is the danger of feeding a child's obsession for they are fickle playmates. Now the stupendously impressive collection of train paraphernalia lies in precious balance. What is on the other side, slowly weighing down its side of the scale?
Space.
Franklin has become obsessed with space. We read about the solar system every night. We read about space aliens, flying saucers, asteroids, planets, robots... and on and on. D and I are now fielding questions such as,
"Can birds go to outer space?"
"Where is the universe?"
"Can Captain Gork come to visit me?"
Franklin has also started to ask people if they have ever been to space before. He hasn't had anyone try to tell them they have. I think that because he asks with such serious interest, they are afraid to respond with anything other than the honest truth.
So, in the spirit of a parent who will do anything to feed her child with knowledge and entertainment in the hopes that he will be occupied on one task for more than 5 minutes, I bought him a small collection of astronauts and space ships. The set came with a monkey in a space suit.
I know.
Imagine the questions that brought on.
Anyway, these little guys/gals (because I tend to annoyingly remind him that there are also girl astronauts) have been everywhere.
The squash court
The sand box
The bathtub
All reach-able windowsills
Bed
Preschool
The car
Various coat pockets
Franklin is upstairs having a bath with D. I swear these last couple days have been incredible. The child is possessed. I was telling my mother how D and I have decided to cut out all white, processed sugar from his (our) diet in order to help him cope more with the normal trials of being three. And then she laughed.
She laughed and told me to find his "off switch".
Yes. It's that simple, folks!
This is the advice I received from a woman who brought up 5 children in the isolated north while her husband was an over-worked doctor. My mother is tough. She has coping mechanisms that no one has ever heard of. If she landed herself a spot in Survivor the other cast mates would just surrender. She is both physically and mentally hard as nails.
Find his "off switch".
I'm laughing - on the inside.
You know what though? I asked him - of course I asked him. I will try everything once. It was my motto in my twenties and still holds strong to this day. He immediately pointed to his chest and pressed it. He was silent for about 1 and half seconds and then started singing.
Thanks.
Anyway, for more sane news...
I have a community garden plot! It isn't the community garden I was working on with a bunch of people in the downtown area. I wouldn't actually qualify for that one, as we don't live in that district. I was just working with them in order to see what it would take to set up my own. I don't think I will live here long enough to do this. Working with city hall is a different kind of frustrating than a three year old - but not that much different. There is definitely no "off switch" and they not only sing while you are trying to talk to them but they sing and put their fingers in their ears while dancing in front of a camera.
No, my garden plot is on the university campus. I was on the waiting list and they found room for me! I am so very happy. I can't believe how happy I am. I was jumping for joy. The plot is in a good location as it is out of the way on the edge of the property and due to get plenty of sun. It also has some well-established strawberry boxes. I've put up some photos on flickr. Just click on the picture above for this entry.
Now you can look forward to a ton of garden related posts that may bore the concrete socks off of you. However, if you've got a plot of your own, I welcome any advice. I've never done the community garden thing.
When Franklin first started to talk there was a lot of imitation and pronunciation of every word under the sun. Everything was "What's that?" What's that?" What's that?"
It was entertaining at first and normal routine by the end.
"What's that?"
A squirrel
"What's that?"
A duck
"What's that?"
A tree
"What's that?"
A Shoe
"What's that?"
A pimple - look over there! A moose!
These days, it's a whole new slew of questions, but now they require more concentration:
"What does Custom mean?"
"What is a Gypsy?"
"Where are the leprechauns?"
"Why is my hair curly?"
"What are genes?"
It's a funny feeling, being my son's main lexicographer. I'm beginning to feel like Dr. William Charles Minor. His definitions will forever be tainted with our feelings about the environment, manipulative consumption and society's treatment of the mentally ill as we answer his questions as to where the garbage goes, why commercials seem louder in the movie theatre than the actually movie and the reason for the man walking down the street yelling and punching the air (ironically).
I know this is part of parenting, showing your children your views of the world, but isn't another large part of parenting the ability to let them think for themselves? My parents were good at that. I say this because I always thought they were wrong (har). Perhaps, in time, Franklin will understand that D and I don't know all the answers and that we are doing the best that we can with what we know. Perhaps I'm just jumping ahead of myself.
However, this absolute trust in our definitions of things can be hard. The other night, Franklin asked me the following question:
"What is an army tank for, Mom?"
That's such a loaded question.
It's one that I know will bring on so much more,
"What's war?"
"What do soldiers do?"
"What do they do fight / kill / destroy?"
I have a choice here. I can be obscure and evade the question with a vaguely true definition, or I can face it head on.
I evaded.
"Army tanks are big vehicles with strong treads so they can drive over a lot of rubble and dirt"
"What's rubble?"
See, that line I can handle.
rubble n. 1. A loose mass of angular fragments of rock or masonry crumbled by natural or human forces. 2.
a. Irregular fragments or pieces of rock used in masonry. b. The masonry made with such rocks.
Except that my "masonry" was brinks and bits of building. However, I forgot that I was talking to the patron saint of all things inanimate.
"Why do the buildings fall down?"
(worried)
"Oh, some building fall down, Franklin. It's a good thing. This means construction workers can come in and build new buildings."
"oh"
"Are there army tanks downtown, Mom?"
(There is a lot of condo construction going on in our city)
"No, Franklin. Not yet. We don't have that kind of rubble."
(worried)
Ironic that just the other day I posted about Franklin's ease of affection and today I am shown the horror of rejection directly caused by my seemingly sweet little boy.
On the weekend, Franklin was playing with one of his best-est friends. They were on his friend's new "big boy bed" and “frolicking”. I don't know how else to describe it because they weren't really doing much of anything other than twisting and bouncing and giggling.
So, isn't frolicking the best way to describe this behavior?
At one point, Franklin must have become overwhelmed with emotion because he scooted up behind his friend and with a grin from ear to ear, planted a big hug. Franklin's a bit bigger than this guy as well so he really engulfed him. It was sweet.
His friend's mother looked at me and I knew exactly what she was thinking - in fact, we went to the movie together.
It seems we are to be in-laws as well as good friends.
Excellent.
Really? I wouldn't want it any other way. Edit: For the cusiously concerned. I didn't think this needed to be said, but a few emails, comments and a friend's different intrpretation of my post makes me feel that I need to add the following: I do not care what sexual orientation Franklin might be. The "excellent" and "wouldn't want it any other way" statements here are meant for my potential in-law relationship with my friend. That, my friends, is all I meant by that. - Thanks.
Of course, he could swing in another direction altogether.
Or we could have a girl in the future.
Actually, there are a number of scenarios here but I’ll stop at these two…
Today, D, Franklin and I met up with a girl from his old daycare. She loves Franklin. When I say this, I mean she LURVES LURVES LURVES LURVES him.
She asks him to marry him.
She brings him flowers.
She shows him her ballet moves.
Yes, she's only three.
So is he.
Puberty starts early these days.
Franklin likes to run around and... frolic with his friends. However, showers of affection like this? He doesn't really know what to do with them. He immediately said no to the proposal of marriage and then turned to ask me what "marry" meant. I didn't have 5 or 6 hours to spend dealing with the topic so I just told him that his friend really likes to spend time with him and, and... isn't that nice?
Apparently, not really.
This afternoon, she tried to give him some flowers that her mother had given her at the end of the day. He didn't want to take them. He wanted to honk his bike horn an get his parents to the bike store to pick up "Road Star" (he's named his bike "Road Star". This will become an entirely different post some day, I'm sure).
Undaunted, little Lucy van Pelt kept thrusting them toward her Schroeder and he kept backing away. The look on her face was so traumatic. It didn't help that she was trying to honk his horn at the same time as give him this plant, but essentially she was being rejected.
I wanted to sit her down, buy her a martini (or four) and let her smoke all my cigarettes while she recounted every second of that exchange until it was over-analyzed to death.
Poor girl.
First of all, I want to start out this post with a warning. I am about to puke good thoughts upon the internet. Although it seems of late that the entire blogging universe has pains far greater than I, I insist on telling this world that for some god-forsaken reason, D and I are raising a well-adjusted and... wait for it.... completely awesome kid.
Parent Units will now attack my email box telling me that they knew this and they know that I know this because if they know it, they have told me - countless times that Franklin is a knarly dude and that D and I are knarly parents.
Yes, but seriously? For women who discuss the subtle differences of Thomas the Train characters with airport attendants and other women who relish in the thought of sending plastic airplanes repeatedly in through the mail with chocolate inside that may or may not melt but who cares because it's chocolate....
You guys are a tad biased.
You know?
However, lately Franklin has done some things and reacted in certain ways in the last little while that have reassured us that yes, we aren't passing on too many of our socially inept genes.
I suppose I need to get a little specific so here goes:
Last week, he stood up to a really big kid in defense of a little friend. I wasn't there to see it but the pride in D's voice and the way he re-enacted the entire scene for me made me want to jump up and down with joy. I was worried that he was too timid to do this. I like the fact that he is sensitive and that he seems to experience his feelings bigger than many of his peers, but what if it too much? What if he was a.... pussy? So to speak?
Well, I can relax. Franklin may worry about the temperature outside for the insects, the flowers and the vehicles as well as become mortally wounded if his pants get wet, however he will also grab the back of your shirt and tell you to wait in line like everyone else.
As well, he wants everything to be okay. He was hurt the other day by another friend and when this other kid was told to get Franklin some ice (it wasn't as bad as actually needing ice but it was a way to say sorry and try to fix things), Franklin gave the other kid a hug - or at least, he tried to. He just wanted everything to be okay. I think the childcare workers found it odd that he was so accomodating but he is extremely forgiving.
When we were first told that we were having a boy this is what I promised myself; that I would raise him to know that saying "I love you" and showing affection is okay. He would also know that growing up to be a woman is just as cool as growing up to be a man. That part hasn't really been realized yet, but I'm patient.
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.
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.
It's a beautiful day. My mother in law tells me they are practically snowed in up in Edmonton and here I am planting broccoli seeds on my patio. I've become a little paranoid of my worm compost ever since hearing other's troubles keeping the little guys alive. I was told that the ideal spot for the container is inside but if you saw the size of our home you would understand why this isn't an option - unless we used it as a coffee table... but there isn't room for a coffee table in here.
I think the guys will just be a little slower right now since it's still a little breezy and when it heats up we'll move them to the front porch. Of course, this means other things from the front porch will have to be moved.
For someone who is absolutely terrified of a clutter, I certainly have my work cut out for me. What you may think is a few pieces of mail become a mountain of paper work in relation to this place. Last week, the toys seemed to be collecting too high for my unhinged minimalist brain and so I collected what I thought was a variety of things Franklin no longer plays with.
Yikes.
What a mistake.
I think I may turn my child into a pack-rat if I keep this up. It will be his ultimate form of rebellion, saving every essay and kinder surprise he has ever created. If he starts to collect the junk mail I will have to ask him to move out.
I took back the work bench. I say "took back" because we got it from Value Village (where 99% of our toys come from) and back to the big V.V. it went. He hadn't played with it for a long time. Honestly! I couldn’t remember the last time he played with it.
What did he want to play with last night?
Yes, the work bench.
He had his construction hat on, his tool belt and suspenders fastened and all the hammers, pliers, calipers and wrenches a guy could wish for stuck in all the right pockets. But where, oh where was the work bench?
Although Franklin is easily distracted like every other kid his age, once he's into something, his power of concentration is a mighty force. There was no substitution for his work bench. The work bench was essential. ESSENTIAL
Mother guilt, anyone?
Jeez.
So, I explained to him that I had made a mistake and that I thought he no longer used the work bench. I told him that I was wrong to not to ask him first and that I would never do that again. He wasn’t in hysterics but the three of us had had a sufficiently horrible enough day that this seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Poor camel.
He had the following solution though:
So Mom? You need to go to Value Village and get my work bench back.
Sigh.
So I did. I went back. I was wrong. I wanted to make it right – I wanted at least one bloody thing to go right that day. I trudged back to Value Village and asked the nice lady with a thousand scarves in her hair (just because they are there, do you have o wear them all at once?) if there was a way to retrieve something that had been dropped off last Sunday.
Apparently, this is a common thing.
Apparently, there is someone whose job is actually to deal with this.
I'm so happy I’m not the only tool in the work bench (groan). However, I have to return during the day (later today) and I'm sure this person will be expecting me to ask for a watch, or a leather jacket, or an appliance - not a plastic work bench that has all of its parts missing and legs no longer extend.
This morning, I was going through the toys to find a train part and I asked Franklin if there was anything he'd like to get rid of… perhaps send to Value Village for another child to play with?
My little 45 year old man replied,
“Thanks for asking first, Mom.
We can give them Mike the Milk truck. I don't like his singing.”
This mother thing isn't getting any easier but at least he is well aware I'm not perfect.
Since declaring that I have been sitting less and less at the computer and thus blogging less and less I have had an overwhelming desire to post.
- especially once my mother and other such supportive emails congratulated me on my new life. Just to be clear everyone, I truly did/do have a life even though I tend to write to you on this here blog thing. In fact, the time it takes you to read one of these incredibly asinine posts is about the same amount of time it takes me to barf one up. So, in essence, I spend very little time with you, no matter how pathetically dedicated I may seem.
I feel ashamed.
No, not really.
Once, in the early-ish years of this blog, I emailed Heather Armstrong and asked her how long it takes for her to write each day. I included what I hoped were subtle hints of self-flagellation and a dash of something or another about Utah. I was under the impression that she would only answer me if I was of suitable wit. I now know, given the time, she will answer pretty much anyone - even the witless. Of course, this was pre-Leta.
Answer? It varies.
Wow. I would never have thought. Seriously though, sometimes it takes her 15 minutes whereas sometimes, with the bigger posts, she will rework and edit them until they are as clear as possible. I suppose when you have a hit count of 1000 per minute, you might want to make sure you are being understood.
This is where I remind you that I take very little time to write my posts and most of the time I'm the only one who gets my little jokes and passive aggressive insults. Hey, what is personal publication if not self-indulgent and crappy? You're the one logging into the slide show of my life.
Anyway, all this because I was only prepared to give you a snippet of my life this evening. In fact, lucky you got an extended bit of dribble.
Here lies the snippet:
How was his day?
Well, when I got there his nose was crusted with snot.
Man, that is SO gross.
Franklin, perhaps if I gave you a cloth to keep in your pocket?
You know, to wipe your nose when the mucus starts to run down your lip?
Ummmm, but I like tasting my snot all day.
Oh.
Oh.
Did you hear what I just heard?
Yes, I heard it.
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.
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.
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.
I don’t know what’s going on with my son but I think I may have driven him over the edge.
Lately, whenever we have looked at a picture of him somewhere he will pause, look at the picture and then turn to me in a quiet and thoughtful voice,
“Look Mother, this is your child”
I am slightly perplexed at this behaviour.
When he was small (and I mean small enough to fit into a bread box small) I would tell pretty much anybody I had the joyful chance to engage into adult conversation, that my son was really, truly a 45 year old man who had recently been reincarnated as my baby. Yet, I would add that the whole process didn’t go through as planned for his 45 year old memory was completely intact. This small infant was really a frustrated man who sucked on my bleeding nipples all night and looked at me with disappointment and horror as I tried to make him laugh/smile/DO SOMETHING, DAMMIT.
I don’t know if I had some kind of depression or baby-blues after giving birth, but I do think I went a little wacko. I can truly say that there were times when I actually believed that this was possible.
Now, as Franklin is in the habit of introducing Mother to Child, I am starting to think that perhaps the 40 year old man hasn’t really disappeared. In fact, he’s now 48 and getting pissed off that we still make him go to bed before the 11 o’clock news.
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.
I have from the moment D finally gets the child naked and in the bath to the moment his teeth are brushed to slam out this post.
So be warned.
I have a mid-term next Monday on this book. It’s an excellent book - was a tad dry in the beginning but I have begun to appreciate what it has to say. I suppose it’s like realizing your crusty co-worker isn’t all that bad and that her humor is just a little dark with a side of extra - and then finding out she runs a S&M club in her basement.
Of course, not that I know of anyone who does this… or that I even frequent such establishments.
Anyway, I digress.
Why am I digressing when I have such precious moments to spend with you? Simple, because that’s what this whole website is about, digressing the pants off my life.
Lets see, what did I not get to tell you while snot plugged up all crevasses of my brain…
Franklin had his first dentist appointment on Saturday. We go to this team of doctors who are surfers and who also happen to have gone through dentistry school. I believe they may live on the island primarily to surf. In fact, I think the whole “dentistry thing” is merely side hobby.
They all talk like surfers too - very funny.
Most importantly, they are cute, which helps when one of them is telling you about an impending root canal.
"Crown the sucker, buddy! Just keep talking to me with those blue eyes!"
Most importantly (ahem), the check-up went well. His teeth are excellent, his funky mutant tooth/teeth will most likely grow into two and he has charmed the pants off of everyone there. I think the dentist is my son’s hero.
It could be worse.
It could be the exterminator.
We also went to the Royal BC museum – D’s Mom, D, Franklin and I. Quite frankly, I’m surprised we saw anything other than “Manfred the Mammoth” in the Natural History Gallery. At one point, two very official looking men in suits were discussing something most terribly important in front of his beloved mammoth and Franklin gleefully skipped up and spoke in his super fast information chatter,
“This (mummer mummer)... Mammoth (mummer mummer)… is from the (mummer mummer)… Ice Age”
Both suits turned to me and nodded approvingly like I had taught my little wonder child all about the Mesozoic Era and prehistoric life when, in actual fact, he watched a cartoon while I drank coffee and tried to remember what Portugal looked like.
I should have been a teacher.
Clearly, I have skills.
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.
Lately there has been much talk about having second children. For a variety of reasons, this isn't happening for us at the moment. However, this hasn't stopped the talk, suggestion, pointing and round belly rubbing while singing lullabies under your breath.... ARGH!
This evening I think I finally clued in on why my mother will spontaneously blurt out, "He needs a sibling" while on the island for a visit. I took me long enough. I get it, Mother.
I. am. his. sibling.
Of course, I'm also the bad-cop, the Mommy, the Mom and the parent with nipples that are entertaining tickle/play toys. Nevertheless, there was a distinct feeling tonight as we soared through the air with our magnetic airplanes, that I am also his playmate. In fact, the other night he told me I was his best-friend - along with a string of other kids who are willing to humour his tyranny of fun.
Those with younger toddlers may think this is cute, beautiful and a time to be treasured. Although I have never really been one to call a gift-horse in the mouth when it comes to my "perfect angel", the role as the sole playmate to this three year old is HARD. I'm sure I'll look back on this time as cute, beautiful and treasured in my "later" years but, he brings out the seriously deranged dork-nut in me and do you know how difficult that is to turn off?
Practice makes perfect and perfect makes anal-retentive Mothers
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.
Yes, I watched that last night. What a warm Christmas flick, I tell ya.
It was a gallant attempt at facing some of my more irrational fears
- a bit of a New Years quest, if you will.
So the film ended at about 11:30pm.
D watched the casting and the genesis of the movie with me as I tried to convince my over-active brain that although it was based on a true story, it wasn't based on the future of my true story - or Franklin's, or D's.
D went to bed at midnight.
I was up until 2am.
I'm not even studying - honest.
I'm really that freaked out by these unscary Hollywood courtroom Catchecism class seminars.
This morning, once I examined everyone for signs of demonic possession, we started the official Franklin Boot Camp of Independence.
Now, this would make a good horror story.
Ask me how long it took to get dressed this morning with not a finger lifted by either Mother or Father.
Answer: 45 minutes.
Actually, I think it's going not too badly - considering.
The week of slow transition to the preschool has the little guy seeing things a little differently. As well, it has me seeing how much I shelter him and, as a result, hold him back.
Yes Ada! Your child can put on his own slippers, coat, boats, mittens shirts, pants, underwear and socks. Amazing!
The socks shocked the shit out of me.
(Say that 5 times fast)
But, you know? It's not so much that he can't do these things, it is that he gets so easily distracted. I do believe he has an abnormally fickle brain for concentration on one task. Watching this distraction in action (5 times), I am frightened for him and his scholastic ability.
Was it the scotch I drank on New Years? He was conceived on January the 8th - thereabouts.
Perhaps it was more like December the 28th?
I remember my math teacher in Grade 12 realizing I had a serious concentration problem. In an effort to help, he told me that whenever my mind started to wander I had to say, "NO!" out loud and get back to my studies. The only problem was there were many times when it took me 45 minutes to realize I was actually wandering. By then, I was drawing a sketch or examining my pimples and couldn't possibly be interrupted to do 15 calculus questions that were essentially the same anyway.
Right?
I mean, weren't they all the same?
I wouldn't know.
I was drawing my right big toe.
Yeah.
I'm scared for the guy.
Clearly, his father would have been the more suitable gene parent to choose from.
There's a portion of the Christmas Grinch, a dab of my crazy assignment, a cup of blog ennui and a whole lot of "Franklin! Would you Puuuleeeease!" in my eggnog these days.
There is no alcohol due to the afore mentioned dab of crazy and that's really too bad because the mornings before work seem to require a hefty dose of rum.
Good News:
Franklin will be moving on to a new centre soon. He is to join many of his old friends and other older kids and will be able to model after them. At the moment he is in the world of toddler and his long-awaited leap to pre-school has finally come. This is good because intellectually, I think he was a little bored in the centre he's in now. Of course more challenge is good but it also brings with it the....
Bad News:
Franklin is persistent, Franklin is intelligent, Franklin has self-confidence and loves to smile and laugh. However, what Franklin seems to lack is that stage of insistence that all toddlers seem to go through at one point or another - the "Let-Me-Do-It-Myself!" stage. Of course, this passive quality has helped us immensely when we need to get somewhere quickly. Children are slow - at everything. However, a child that is willing to talk (and talk and talk and talk) while I slip on the shoes, the hat, the coat and the gloves is handy when time is short.
However, at preschool, this passive distraction is not an indulgence he can enjoy. Self-motivation and independence is key. It's a good lesson to learn; just not one I think he's actually ready for, unfortunately.
We're working on it though. Last night he took off all his clothes and put on his pajamas ALL BY HIMSELF!
This brought tears to my eyes, not just because of raging pre-menstrual hormones, but because watching him do all this without my help both scared and delighted me. We are raising a fully functioning human being!
Okay, the jury is still out on this, but I'm optimistic.
Why was it so easy last night and not this morning?
Let me tell you.
Franklin is in love with himself.
Of course, I love that he loves himself but the reason he was so willing to do everything on his own last night was because he was watching his reflection in the full length mirror throughout the entire process - with a little Mona Lisa smile the whole time. You could tell he was impressed with his capabilities but do you think he would remember this ability this morning?
No no nonononon.
This morning was full of "I can't dooooooo it" and "Mommmmmy, Heeeeeeeeeelp Meee" and "Nooooooo" and "Whaaaaa" and...
Okay I'll stop now; I'm stressing myself out all over again.
Because I am extremely, insanely and almost destroyingly busy (destroyingly?! not a word, Ada!), I am prepared to throw out the most embarrassing story I can think of that my dear partner D has already charmingly related to my Father-in-law and my brother-in-law - so I can't be embarrassed by this anymore, ever.
Having a child of three is a hell of lot like being pregnant; you become intimately familiar with every bathroom in every store, cafe and restaurant that you frequent. In fact, it becomes a bit of a pre-requisite of sorts - if you don't have a public bathroom, whatever I need from your store just isn't worth the gamble. Although I should add that a dirty, crusty bathroom will not a return customer make me... unless of course it's London Drugs where cute Quebecois employees let me use their men's staff bathroom and wait outside to make sure no one else enters while talking to co-workers in unbelievably cute accents....
So nice.
I should really talk to his manager.
Anyway, the bathroom in Zeller's, Hillside? It isn't very clean. It's the restaurant bathroom by the pharmacy and although it was the end of the work day, there has to be some sort of senior's rush for a 5:30 supper hour that would require them to clean up the stalls and fix the leaking faucets, non?
See what Quebecois men do to me? I start talking in crappy French.
Nevertheless, Franklin and I were toilet bound because toys do to his pipes what books do to mine - empty themselves.
I don't know why.
Everytime I'm in a bookstore, I have to go to the bathroom. It's gotta be that I can finally relax... yes, everything.
I can only think that this is the same for him as he tends lets out the smelliest farts when we hang out, obsessively adding to his Santa checklist.
Oh, and talking about this Santa thing?
I'm not so sure I'm comfortable with this lie. I'm not so sure I want to be filling his head with Santa crap. I can't remember a time I actually believed in Santa myself. I'm not sure this has to do with an overly obnoxious big brother or that my parents weren't big on the "better be good" thing and were more in favour of the "Jesus was born in a manger and you live in a house with electricity" thing.
I'm thinking I'd like to come to some middle ground in a Jesus was born in straw and so are a lot of other children who have no concept of free gifts on some particular time of year so lets appreciate it and give something to the community so we can stop talking about what you want every 5 seconds kind of way.
You know?
Of course, this is just me.
Okay, back to the original story. We're in the bathroom, I’ve hoisted Franklin a couple of inches off the seat, he’s done his thing and it's my turn. I’ve never been particularly shy around Franklin with my body. In fact, I’ve really tried to be proud of my body in a Herculean effort to avoid any hint of a bad body image. I tell him that he's beautiful, I tell him that I’m beautiful, I tell him that his Dad is beautiful (and Lordy, he is) and I try to relate that although beauty is more than skin-deep, I like myself the way I am and so should he. So with all that affirmation and non-shyness in the naked department, I didn’t think twice that he was standing behind me as I tried to pee in the stall without touching the grimy seat.
There he was, wedged by the flusher with a full view of… everything.
Ev.Re.Thing.
So what does my body appreciating, self-confident, out-spoken son say in a loud voice to me and the rest of the women trying not to touch their ass to the toilet seat?
“Wow, Mom! You have a Big Round Bum!
And there’s a Vagina in there too!!!?
Ah, motherhood.
It’s humbling in oh, so many ways.
Happy Birthday D.
- and I promise not to spoil Santa Claus for our son.
At least, I promise to talk to you about it first.
