I had such high hopes this year for my beautiful little garden. We’ve moved about a block away from the site and I thought that nothing could prevent me from caring for it each and every day – almost like it was in my back yard.

Well, “nothing” turned out to be entertaining two children, miles apart in age and activity, for the summer.

First, there was the winter kale:

I wasn’t sure what it was so I asked anyone on flickr for identification. I couldn’t see the little buggers moving so I thought it was indeed Cabbage Worms and since my kale had basically been stripped in the span on one week, out they came.

A tad too dramatic? Perhaps.
However, gardening has become quite emotional for me. The community garden and my little backyard spot are my favourite places to be. When I come home from the garden, even if the trip has been a gong show of simultaneous breast-feeding, watering, weeding and thinning with a whole lot of “Can we go NOW?” thrown in, I still feel refreshed and calm.

This doesn't even begin to explain just how much gardening affects me. It’s not enough that it is a hobby. I want to study it for the rest of my life. I want to place community gardens everywhere possible. I want people to know how special it is to grow their own tomatoes, carrots, beans… I want children to understand how much water it takes to grow food. I want society to realize how important bees are to our existence.

I want
I want
I want

I want the Wooley Aphids to stop eating my brussel sprouts!

and how about my sad artichokes!

This is The Summer of Aphids.

I wonder if I was able to get there on a daily basis, if I would still be having this problem. Who knows. Swimming lessons have taken precedent over our morning walk to the garden. Sometimes I try to go after dark but this hardly happens. I am, as they say, on a short leash. The last few times I've left the house to the garden while there was still light outside, I was called back to a screaming baby.

The end of the day spells almost constant breastfeeding. Bring on the solids!

Ah, it's all good. If we still lived across the city, I would have had to give up on this garden so I'm happy with what I have been able to do. We ate endive salad tonight. Our squash is growing well. Carrots are plentiful. We have a bell pepper or two. The yellow beans are turning... yellow. The pole beans are climbing. The strawberries were excellent.

I’m going back there tomorrow armed with a spray bottle of dish detergent and water and I hope to make those brussel sprouts too slippery for those guys.

Wish me luck!
If anyone else has any more advice on how to get rid of these aphids, please let me know. Until then, it’s the ladybugs, the yellow jackets and me.

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.

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.

See?
Really, really sad.

Forgot the grid meeting this month. I set it up, made sure the meeting place was open, near the month’s grid and wasn’t to be overcrowded at the designated time. Then, life happened and I didn’t make it.

Actually, I may have made it in a somewhat late fashion had I not been strapped to a baby under a pile of boxes and plants. Yes, it’s an excuse. I am calling uncle. I have too much on my plate.


List of things I have tried to keep on top of this month:

· Newborn (gotta be on the top of the list, right?)
· Moving abodes (within the same city but still a sweet sort of hell)
· Grid Project (with that comes a website and gallery showing)
· Childcare Subsidy argument (I lost)
· Taxes (what? I can’t hear you)
· Baptism for Eliza (had to find a church that wouldn't make Franklin break out in hives, don't ask)
· Bills (Telus and BC Hydro can suck my balls)
· House Guests (most of it a help, some of it not – no, I’m not telling you which was which)
· Selling of furniture (anyone want a vanity?)
· Buying of furniture (we are officially adults)
· Handling utility and address notice
· This blog (had to sneak it in here somewhere, don’t feel bad)
· Making of meals (Lordy, I made a Martha recipe the other night)
· Garden (we will supply the island with brussel sprouts this year)
· School (AEG grades rock my world)
· Keeping up on emails (everyone seems to afraid of bloody flickr)
· Thank-you notes (I can’t find them!)
· Baby announcements (still trying to correct those mofos)

Jesus and Mary Chain! Looking at that list makes me feel super human. Okay, I can officially cut myself a little slack. Last time I pushed out a human just making it through the night was an accomplishment.

And it’s not that Dickson is a low down dirty lay about either. He was finishing school and now he’s in MUST FIND JOB mode. Yes, he must because my maternity top-up ends in July and then, my dears, we are poor.

Not living on the street trying to find a cardboard box poor or trying to fight our way to get a cup of rice poor but we will be scrapping. On the bright side, there will be no more private school to pay for – except for the money we already owe them…

Fuck.

I’ve never watched as much television as I have while breastfeeding (I find it hard to juggle a book and feed because I'm uncoordinated in terms of breast sports). In fact, I was talking to a few friends the other day about this and how it can affect your state of mind. A good friend of mine had a son 9 days after September 11th, 2001. Her entire first few months with her baby were spent watching coverage of the twin towers over and over and over again. She will always remember how much she analyzed that tragedy and how she followed all the coverage – the conspiracy theories, the falling man, and the hunt for Bin Laden.

When Franklin was born I’m sure there was a lot going on in the world. I watched CBC News as it reeled its news loop over and over and over again. There isn’t much that I remember as there wasn’t anything as all encompassing as 911 but I do remember one specific news item – Michael Jackson dangling his son, Blanket, over the balcony.

I was horrified. What was even more perplexing than a sheltered superstar with no sense of reality showing off his latest acquirement was that no one in the media seemed to think it was a dangerous thing to do until the following day. It was like all the childless reporters were all, “Hey! Look at Wacko Jacko” and then those with children saw the clip and saw the reality of what was happening – a terrified child was dangled out of a balcony because his father had no sense of consequence.

This time around I’m still in front of the television while breastfeeding. I’m also in the company of a five year old boy with a dinosaur / shark / Ben 10 obsession so I watch a lot of this as well. However, there is one thing that sticks in my mind and it isn’t terrorism or child abuse. It is botox.

We were watching reality tv the other night – Hell’s Kitchen. (Wow. There is crap on telelvision, by the way, and this is one of them.) The masochistic junior chefs were cooking for a sweet sixteen party and the mother of the birthday girl was a stereotypical debutant mother – with the typical face of a person who lives in an alternate universe than mine. I suppose it was more noticeable because of the “reality” contestants and their “relaxed” faces. Her face was smooth and tight and cartoonish. I started noticing it in other television women. It was like when I started to see breast-implants as sore, engorged breasts on the verge of mastitis.

I suppose when you see this on a regular basis in your routine life, you don’t think you look all that different. Perhaps when you are used to watching women on television look this way one may think that this is just the way television looks. However, I can’t get over this now. Everywhere I look in the media… botoxed, poisoned women. I’m scared for them – and frankly, disgusted.

So, with Franklin I witnessed Wacko Jacko in a delirious fit of immaturity and with Eliza I see women walking around perpetually frozen and trying to stop time from appearing in their faces by paying people to inject botulism toxins into their bodies.

Ugh.

Community Garden:

1. sense of community


2. finally a space of land for me to do as I please


3. friendly neighbours that speak extremely fast French on one side and extremely fast Arabic on the other


4. some excellent gardeners to learn from and talk to about our climate


5. free tools and unlimited use

Private Garden Space (a.k.a. a backyard)

1. privacy to garden in your bikini


2. variety of space and design


3. ease to work whenever you please - such as at 6am when you look out the window and realize that a cat had tried to sleep on your seedlings and you need to do some rescue work


4. NO ONE STEALS YOUR PLANTS

Yes, the community garden is great - and I realize it's the only way for me to garden until we decide to live off potatoes, carrots and cheese in order to jump into mortgage hell. However, stealing my strawberry plants? That's cold.

My space was clearly occupied. I had done work on it. There is no excuse to think that no one was going to use the fruit. The only thing we concluded (me and the two equally insulted and sympathetic sisters on my right) was that perhaps the old owners came to claim them. That, and since I didn't buy them myself, they were never really mine in the first place.

My friend Missey came to the plot with me today, to help me face the scene of the crime once more, and we decided those strawberry plants are bad news. They're diseased, yes... that's it. They are going to release vermin all over your illegitimate, traitorous, underhanded crop... you.... you strawberry stealer, you!

Argh.

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.

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.

I've just been driving around listening to an interview with Peter Robertson of Chevron on the BBC World Service.

There is something about driving around and listening to talk radio that relaxes me. When I was in university.... okay, when I was of the age that is more socially expected to go to university and was distracting my way through an English degree, I would often drive around Edmonton and listen to the CBC and the BBC. I saw a lot of Edmonton this way. I saw a lot of the construction and I liked to check back once and awhile to see the changes. I even remember getting lost in what would be the neighbourhood of my future in-laws - North Edmonton is a maze to me.

My boyfriend at the time wasn't as fond of my late night exursions - not because he thought I might run into danger or that I would get into a accident on icy roads, but that as we had agreed to share my car, and therfore each pay for half of the gas, it meant that he was paying more than he used.

He was extra thoughtful that way.
Ah well, it doesn't matter.
I was stupid enough to date such a "thoughtful" guy.

Nowadays, I feel quite guilty. Gas isn't cheap and radios can be listened to at home. However, there's just something about listening to the radio and wandering through the city.
I realize the irony here. I'm driving around in a car, listening to a guy talk about his responsibility to his shareholders, the remarkable "improvment" Chevron has made to the society and culture with their presence around the world and whether or not his company should have plans that span for generations, not just for the next 60 years. According to Peter, technology will save us.

I'm listening to him justify his lack of research into renewable energy while I drive around listening in order to relax. In essense, I'm showing him that I need his product as much as he's betting I do.

I need to start walking more.
I need headphones.

Usually, D and I don't celebrate Valentine's Day. I didn't get anything for him, anyway.
My work celebrates the day (and frankly, every Western holiday) in a BIG way so by the time I'm at home, I'm Valentined out. I feel like a humbug though - he got me roses.

crap.

It's not that I'm un-romantic. My work is a little too much for me though. Pink, red and chocolate everywhere. I was asked to bring red lipstick to kiss a wall so we could have red lip prints as a part of the decoration.
Do you think it's strange that I refused?
Is it odd that I don't want to bring every Western holiday up to the scale of ludicrous?

I don't mind that others get all crazy over the holiday. If they want to pick one day of the year to celebrate the people they love, that's great - but it's my workplace too, man. Let me do my work in peace.

It's not just Valentine's Day - so don't think I'm bitter about love. They celebrate (and I growl at) St. Patrick's Day, Hallowe'en, birthdays, Christmas... I want a place to go to do my work and be social - professionally. I don't want to be told what colour to wear or which day will be Goodie Day and who likes to eat what.

I've baked more times working in this place than I have in my entire life.
I've gained 10 pounds since I've started the job too - so obviously, I don't boycott the food.
Heh.

Don't get me wrong, I love working where I do. It's not the most challenging work but it has potential. I also like the people - hard-working, honest, no politics and very little gossip. My work also provides me with one of the best daycares in the city so there's that too.

There's that because today Franklin had a fever of 103 degrees and it took me less than 5 minute to pack everything up and run down to get him. There's that because I can now go back to spending my lunch hours with him - when I'm not in class at that hour (which is another huge plus).

Okay okay, I'm willing to withstand the tulle, the tiaras, the red, pink and fun fur, the valentines hearts and chocolate and a bit of weight gain to work with great people. They are a little wonky, but I like them.
However, I'm still not kissing cardboard displays with lipstick smeared on my lips. A girl has to draw the line somewhere and I require that my kissing surfaces are warm and soft... or at least smooth.

Happy Anti-Valentine's Day everyone.

Really, it figures that I make fun of people who concentrate their entire existence on celebrities and other pop culture propaganda from the US and then I get wound up in the costs of blogher and thus become ridiculous in a similar fashion.

Kudos to the somewhat snotty email to me this morning that was well-deserved:

I believe you were invited to Northern Voice last year and did not attend saying that you didn't have the time or the money. Did you think about going this year? What's so terrible about a Canadian blog conference? Do you think you're cooler? It's in Vancouver which would not be a plane ride at all.

You know, my mother reminded me about the conference a while ago but even the nanoseconds it took to rush over to the site to see about tickets wasn't fast enough. It was sold out.

Northern Voice is this weekend and I'm not there.
I would have loved to go.
I'm sorry I am missing it.
I am a gigantic idiot.

I'll bet breebop is there, and darrenbarefoot and ponzi and well, not jenandtonic or drowinginkids or chair...
Granted these afore mentioned blogs are not as close to me as the latter, I would still love to meet them - especially Briana.

I will definitely try to go next year.
It's not all about Vancouverites, right? ... and if it is, I can wear black and carry a cell-phone like the best of them.

(I'm just not sure if I can walk as fast)

You know, I have actually done this exact thing.


Blogher seems to be gaining momentum. When Chair contacted me to ask if I was going I nonchalantly replied, "I'm really not that interested". Then, when she mentioned that she thought it was in San Francisco I thought, "Blogher Schmogher, but hanging out in SF would be a most excellent time". I thought of my brother who lives there (free bed), I thought of a road trip down (alone!) and I thought of meeting people I read everyday (and not in an I read your work and analyze it academically. Therefore, you scare the living shit out of me with your big brain way). Blogher was quickly becoming an extra bonus to a mini adventure that was forming in my mind as I tried to concentrate on the Thailand Bhat and shorting stock.

I started to run up and down the Blogher site reading this and this and this and this. I started to imagine what it would be like to be in a room full of people who don't think I'm a needy exhibitionist but rather, someone who enjoys writing in a form that is conducive to such dynamic communication.

Then I kept thinking of this post and thinking... I might actually like blogging.
Blogher might actually be a large experience for me.
Blogher was not only on the same continent as I was, but on the same coast.

This was no good. This meant I wanted to go.
You can see where this is heading.

I bought a ticket.
I'm a university student, work full time and have a family.
What was I thinking about? - that I was a university student and therefore, score!
Student Discount!

I wasn't thinking about that potentially free bed moving to the East Coast in the Spring, or that D was heading back to full time school in September. I also didn't think of my marvelous talent that consists of immediately turning people off on first impression ("cold, snobby bitch" is a phrase I hear often).

I can't go.
Crippling bitchiness aside, the money just isn't there.

Of course, there's always Gocco cards to print. The Birth Invitations sailed out in a flash...
- but to raise the $800.00 to get there without having to camp out in the nearby airport each night?

Yeah, not bloody likely.

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.

I am rewriting a paper for publication. The first version was dismal.
D.I.S.M.A.L.
I'm hoping this second draft will be acceptable because the process may just give me the last set of gray hairs and extra sallow skin that will make my transition from good-looking woman to tired looking... complete.

I'm not sure I resemble a woman anymore so I can't tack that onto the last phrase.

This will teach me to hand in a piece of writing with my eye shut and fingers crossed. That almost never works. I think the last time it worked, the person looking it over had malaria.
Clearly, we need more malaria in North America.

Seriously, I'm not kidding.
Har. I love writing that.

If I were to make a list of things I dislike doing, analyzing a paper of mine would be right up near the top. Clustered around it would be mastitis, arguments with my older brother and cleaning the bathroom after a balding man (or woman in my case, it seems).

The only thing that's making it palatable is the Check Your Head, Beastie Boys album I'm listening to.
Dr. Boot-ay.

Crap.
D just took back his headphone to do the dishes.
Bastard.

Sigh.
Le Sigh.
Someone give me another way to say,

"The main strategy of industry groups has been to suggest that recycling of plastics is best accomplished by what industry figures call waste-to-energy recycling".

There's too much "recycling" in that sentence.
It sounds dumb.

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?!?!?!

Recently, I have come to learn that many people in the northern areas of British Columbia and Alberta have had their first snowfall of the year.

I know that, to many people, the fact that we ran in the the sunshine, on green grass and without mittens last weekend is some sort an "enviable" weather situation.
However, it's not to me.
Really.

Basically, you are not going to get any pity from me with sad stories of early snowfall. In fact, when you say the word "snow", I’ve already stopped listening and have started to plan (again) on how to get myself off this wet and warm fantasy island and into some real weather pattern. All the years have blended together into one big rainy cloud so that it seems like it was just yesterday D and I were walking downtown (in the rain), he was asking me to marry him and I was throwing up my first steak in 5 years.

.
.

It is hard for me to believe that Franklin is growing up without snow. Can/should a child of mine grow up without snow? If you had told me this would happen when I was 16, I would have stuck a ski pole up your ass.

<------ This is what my son calls "playing in the snow".

Growing up, my favorite season was autumn as it meant that snow was on it's way (I liked the smell of this). My worst season was spring because... well, the snow was melting.
Green grass wasn't welcome in my world.
Green grass meant no snow.

So, how can I be a mother of a child who has no idea what it's like to feel your nostrils stick together or hear your shoes squeak on the way to school? In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that I am most likely the mother of a child who would actually get upset that his nostrils were sticking together.
What. Have. I. Done??

.
.

This is what I saw when I was 3 years old --->

To be honest, I have no idea if I actually looked forward to this. One of my first memories is of Bonhomme crowding his great smiling face into mine.
I have a feeling I was horrified.

Ah well, 3 year olds.
What can you do?

.

I should never be allowed to go near fish. Some people aren't good with plants, others aren't good with kids, and I'm not good with fish.

It was only with Herculean effort did I manage to sum up the courage to net that fish and put him in another bowl in order to deal with the sludge that had accumulated in the tank. I only did this because D is golfing and as we've already lost one fish, Johniford*, to who knows what, exhaustion most likely**, I wanted to give the remaining fish, Quack, a happy place to roam.

*Franklin named both fish. He actually put a lot of thought into Johniford's name. Quack was most likely named this because this was what Franklin predominately said around the time that we got him.

**Johniford, being the second child, would tend to try and stand out in the crowd. He did this by eating too much food and thus caused his stomach to take on too much air. As a result, his bottom side would become a pocket of air and he'd float upside down. It took a lot of effort to swim this way (obviously) and the only way to right him up again was to feed him frozen peas (I have no idea why).

Nevertheless, I think I've killed Quack. He's flip flopping around the tank right now and he's not looking good.

However, the tank looks wonderful.

I can't handle dying fish. I wish I could be anywhere else but here right now.
I can't get the stupid filter going either.

When I was in boarding school I had a fish tank. I cleaned it out with dish detergent one day and neglected to rinse it properly. The tank had soapsuds covering the water for about two weeks and all my fish were pooping on a constant basis. I didn't loose any that time though. I don't remember if I did, anyway. I may have blocked it out.

I'm blogging because I'm too scared to turn around and see if Quack's okay.
I know, I'm such a wimp.

Okay, I'll look.

HE'S RIGHT SIDE UP!!!!

I gotta go get that filter working....

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?

I am waiting downstairs for D so that the two of us can watch Sin City.

I thought it would be great.

Now I'm scared.

We had a friend over for dinner and she mentioned that someone she knew walked out after 10 minutes due to the violence.

Gratuitous violence of the comic book style, Japanese animation, Kill Bill variety... I can (mysteriously) handle. This is what I thought Sin City would be like.

Violence of the reality, drama, Schindler's List, babies suffering and crying out for their tortured mothers... are definitely NOT something I can watch, listen to, or read about without paying for it with about 6 months of insomnia.

I'm hoping it's a gratuitous blood splaying across the room and raining down on sullen, sexy breasts... kind of violence - where the bad guys always lose and the good guys are always in a bad mood.

Please. Please. Please.

(then again, school starting and insomnia might not be a bad idea)

EDIT: Okay, apart from the creepy farm reference that kept kicking me out of the show and reminding me of Willy Picton, the movie was amazing. Gratuitously violent, moody and probably quite a treat to see on the big screen. Bruce Willis - such a sexy guy.

I was snubbed today. I pretty sure I was snubbed anyway. I stood there, waiting and waiting and waiting.... and I was ignored.

Snubbed.

But never mind because I discovered TWO tomatoes on my yellow cherry tomato vine. I can hardly wait.

Hardy wait.

I was so excited, I took this blurry photo of the perfect fruit. In fact, this may be a tomato that you would like, Chair. They aren't as acidic as regular tomatoes.

Actually, I have no idea why I feel the need to find you a tomato that you will enjoy. There must be some old Italian Mama inside me.

Speaking of the force-feeding Italian stereotype, I remember performing a piano duet with an Italian girl when I was young. She decided that we both had to wear baby blue to the performance because her skin looked good in baby blue. My only baby blue dress was incredibly too small for me. It was too small because her mother kept feeding me cookies whenever I went over to her house to practice (I like to blame my weight on other people). She didn't speak English, but I understood what a plate of cookies in my face meant.
Ah, the universal language of force-feeding, I mean, cookies.
Nevertheless, squeezing into that baby blue dress resulted in finishing the song at the concert without being able to feel any of my fingers. The arm pit holes were cutting off the circulation to my chubbed up arms.

We still got a trophy though. I'd scan in the picture of the two of us but it's slightly pornographic. The dress was stretched t-h-i-n and my friends weren't into the whole "bra scene" quite yet - ifyouknowwhatimean. My mother showed a lot of restraint letting me on stage wearing that dress. Of course, what coud happen at a piano recital held in a Christian Reform Elementary school gymnasium?

Why did I feel that I needed to add in the fact that I won?
Pathetic.
However, I think I may have used up all my winning karma before I hit high-school. Since then, my track record has been dismal.

This is my way of telling you I didn't get the job I interviewed for last week.

This has nothing to do with the snub. The snub is laughable and something I just wrote to start me writing tonight. Unfortunately, missing out on an extra $268.00 a month isn't as funny.

Ah well.
Onward and upward.

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.

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

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

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

She's lucky I sold that pickaxe.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP ALREADY!

Right at this particular moment my father is watching The Score with D. My mother is reading, "In the Company of Cheerful Ladies", one of those No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency novels. We read the first one for our last book club. I didn't get a chance to finish it but I think I'll pick it up soon.
I love our book club by the way. These are seriously great women who are interested in, wait, this may shock you... READING THE BOOK. Don't get me wrong, I love drinking wine and talking about porn as much as the next drunk woman, but sometimes, when my life is insanely busy and I put in a consistent effort to read the books other people have recommended to me and then get there only to hear others just shrug off the entire reason for the groups existence... I get a little, how does one say? "Perplexed".
However, these women seem interested in reading the book AND talking about other things.

You see I've been to both kinds of these gatherings and I was just about to throw in the towel when this group came about.

I've been to the drunken slobber of an excuse for a book club as well as the type of club where people bring notes. Yes, that is what you read, bring notes. Now I realize Soul Mountain isn't the easiest read in the world, but notes are a little too much for someone who is currently trying to juggle three lives in her toddler free hand.

Anyway, now we are reading Alias Grace - timely, considering our infamous and acquitted serial killer, Karla Homolka, will be released from prison next month.

I remember when her trial was taking place 12 or so years ago. I was one of the only people I knew surfing to get through the publication ban. I became addicted to finding out more and more about the case and what had happened. I was also desperately trying to find copies of the torture videos. I can't believe I was doing that. It's funny what I was able to stomach back then and what I would in no way shape or form be able to handle now. Or more accurately, it's funny what seemed like fiction is now a potentially horrific reality now.

I still have a downloaded floppy of some scary racist manifesto that was so, so easy to find and yet incredibly terrifying. I was astounded that people actually felt comfortable about printing stuff like that in public. Of course, back then I was in a cloud of political correctness and it didn't occur to me that there are parts of the world that thought certain races were still only play toys for their amusement.

Ugh. I didn't expect to write about that today. This post was going to be about taking Franklin to Margaret Falls. I suppose I'll save that for when the pictures are downloaded.

Our Urban Gurus were asked to weigh in on the following question:

"In today's job market, how important do you think it is for an applicant in their 20s, with some prior work or internship experience, to have a graduate degree when applying for a professional, non-management position? Also, if you have filled any professional positions within the last 3 years, please include in your answer an estimate of what percentage of those hires held graduate degrees."

The Urban Gurus unanimously responded that an advanced degree (MBA, MPA, MUPDD, JD) was "very important."

The overall average percentage of our Urban Gurus' hires over the last 3 years that hold advanced degrees is 87%.

Why weren't any of us told this? When I was graduating from university, no one I knew was planning on graduate school. In fact, the saying went, "If you have to pay for your own graduate tuition, it's a sign you shouldn't be doing it at all".

Now, it is the norm to go to graduate school. In fact, it is expected. The measuring stick is no longer the four years of post-secondary school I felt so privileged to earn. It isn't the technical schools either - the ones everyone talked about a couple of years ago when the ivory towers of theory started to fall out of style. It is graduate school.

I don't know anyone who is "moving up" in the workplace anymore. Everyone seems to be leaving their jobs in order to go back to grad school. In fact, to stay in one place, put in the years; show the loyalty... this is almost considered a narrow-minded career burn.

Are we really expected to be these over-educated, fickle job hoppers?
Am I supposed to be satisfied with 4 years of post secondary school and data entry work requiring little or no critical thought?
Why am I required to spend an additional $1500.00 per term to earn a degree for which I feel I can learn on the job just as well - better even?

If someone had told me there was more to be expected, I think I might have lived my life a little differently.
Perhaps not. Who knows.
I just wish things were different now - because I'm capable. I just want to be given the chance.

I did something last night that was very dangerous.
I'm very angry with myself.

I don't feel like blogging about it, but I don't feel like blogging about anything else.

I don't mean to be dramatic, I'm just really pissed off and I thought I'd excuse myself from the table before I explode.

Sorry.
This will be a bit of a blog break.
I tend to hold personal, self-deprecating grudges for a bit.

A morning of...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These kids think I'm crazy.

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

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

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

I don't understand kids these days.

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

I've been stressed out lately.

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

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

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

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

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

Won't be the first time kid.

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

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

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

Okay, that's a lie too.

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

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

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

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

D will lay back and tell me to breathe.

Breathe Ada.

I saw this on freak girl's pew.

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

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

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

If you feel the same, please do.

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

fcuking hell.

I'm sick.

I'm going to bed early these days coughing and blowing my nose while cursing to the world,

I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!

What does it say about me that I'm blogging on Christmas day?
Shouldn't I be spending quality time with the family?

Well, Franklin's asleep - most likely dreaming of trains, trains and more trains... So are Dickson and my mother.

My father and my brothers are watching a movie that started with a five year old boy getting shot. I can't watch that stuff anymore. I can't watch Law and Order, trailers to violent movies, Fahrenheit 911, or commercials about children who aren't getting anything for Christmas.
I suck at the emotional stuff. I don't know why or how it's gotten to this point. It has been escalating since Franklin was born.
People assured me that this would tone down after awhile but it hasn't. The old mantra of "it's only a movie / commercial / tv" doesn't work. I've started a new one where I say "it's not Franklin" over and over again. That's not working either.
Should I see someone about this?

My period is late.

Ahhh what the hell, eh?
Merry Christmas everyone. I hope you cooked your turkey on time (Claire, your chickpea salad was great).

If any of you are looking for something to do on a Sunday morning, check out St Patrick's Roman Catholic Church here in the city. There's a lady in the choir who has one amazing voice.

That's my little gift to you...
You can always count on me for the latest rock'in social scene in Victoria.

Dear Yahoo!

Apparently you don't accept my credit card because it is Canadian. (edit: International).

Apparently you didn't find it necessary to warn me that my site was about to cancelled.

Apparently it is acceptable to hang up on me when I tell you it's not.

I'm not sure if you aware of this. It certainly doesn't seem to be getting through but, my archives are being held hostage by your patriotic website.
The thought of losing these memories due to narrow-minded, underpaid customer service representatives and unexplicable policy makes me sick.
I think I will send you my vomit in a plastic baggies until you release my work, my pictures, and my correspondence.

I have never felt so angry and frustrated.

I realize that there are people starving in the world and this little problem isn't so big.. but to tell me to get an American Express or my archives will be erased in 30 days is a really crappy form of extortion if I ever saw one.

I have purposely moved to a Canadian webhost - because dammit, they were polite.

If anyone wants to send Yahoo! a messagel on my behalf please do so. Thanks.

- Ada

I want to write about uplifting things... really I do.
I can't do it these days. I'm just not feeling it.

Seriously, I am having a hard time.

Perhaps it started on the plane ride home last week?
When Franklin and I were jammed inside an airplane bathroom while Mum made "pee pee sounds" and splashed all over the underside of her bum (is there and overside?) and I faintly heard the pilot mumble something about weather and landing problems? Perhaps the repeated descent, assent, and then a final, suspenseful, forced landing in pea soup fog?
I don't think I have said that many Hail Marys since I first said the word "fcuk" on the playground when I was seven years old. I didn't want Clinton Mitchell to think I was a pussy but I also wasn't about to burn in hell for him either.
(That's three quarters in the swear jar, Justin - sorry Dave)

Then there was the time when I saw my neighbour's child wandering around in 7 degree weather in her bare feet, looking for her mother... again.

Then there was that American news broadcast I fell asleep to - the one where I think there are about 15 kids missing and presumed dead in the Oregon State alone. My dreams seemed to correspond with every abduction and murder in a vivid CSI action style complete with a re-enactment of bullets traveling through brains and water entering through lungs.

Perhaps it was the time I was wondering around the hardware store watching a Mother ignore her daughter in a frenzied state of Christmas shopping euphoria while addressing her chatter with that annoying
"umhmm? yeah? sure, that's nice"
Of course, until the kid started to whine and then she was all into the surprised,
"Man, Kaitlen! What is your problem today!" act until she was able to turn around and continue to check out bath mat and towel options.

Perhaps it's the realization that Lushlife, from my comments the other day, may have hit the nail through my thick head. Perhaps it's important to recognize our limitations and some people have a tendency to take too much work home with them. These people aren't able to handle those jobs which are emotionally draining.
I may be one of those people and a profession in project coordination for Unicef, the Red Cross or some other agency like it, is not the occupation for me.
So when the dream seems misfigured, where's the goal supposed to go? If I have trouble living here, watching the news, or even shopping, perhaps I'm not tough enough to set up those walls which are so essential.

Then there is the recent realization that my expectation for adoption is looking more and more grim. There are growing numbers of people and circumstances against this dream - more now than I ever had. I have started to wonder, was it only acceptable when it didn't seem to be a real possibility?

Or perhaps it's everything put together, making me feel ineffectual, with my little self-serving webpage telling people how sad I am. Poor me with a roof over my head, food to eat, university education, loving partner, healthy child, and supportive family.

You see, when you have a child, every other child seems to become your child too. At least, that's what seems to have happened to me. Anything, even an over tired toddler with her shop-o-holic mother will get me upset, obsessed and morose.

Perhaps it's me that needs a little less me time.

Then there was that American news broadcast I fell asleep to - the one where I think there are about 15 kids missing and presumed dead in the Oregon State alone. My dreams seemed to correspond with every abduction and murder in a vivid CSI action style complete with a re-enactment of bullets traveling through brains and water entering through lungs.

Perhaps it was the time I was wondering around the hardware store watching a Mother ignore her daughter in a frenzied state of Christmas shopping euphoria while addressing her chatter with that annoying
"umhmm? yeah? sure, that's nice"
Of course, until the kid started to whine and then she was all into the surprised,
"Man, Kaitlen! What is your problem today!" act until she was able to turn around and continue to check out bath mat and towel options.

Perhaps it's the realization that Lushlife, from my comments the other day, may have hit the nail through my thick head. Perhaps it's important to recognize our limitations and some people have a tendency to take too much work home with them. These people aren't able to handle those jobs which are emotionally draining.
I may be one of those people and a profession in project coordination for Unicef, the Red Cross or some other agency like it, is not the occupation for me.
So when the dream seems misfigured, where's the goal supposed to go? If I have trouble living here, watching the news, or even shopping, perhaps I'm not tough enough to set up those walls which are so essential.

Then there is the recent realization that my expectation for adoption is looking more and more grim. There are growing numbers of people and circumstances against this dream - more now than I ever had. I have started to wonder, was it only acceptable when it didn't seem to be a real possibility?

Or perhaps it's everything put together, making me feel ineffectual, with my little self-serving webpage telling people how sad I am. Poor me with a roof over my head, food to eat, university education, loving partner, healthy child, and supportive family.

You see, when you have a child, every other child seems to become your child too. At least, that's what seems to have happened to me. Anything, even an over tired toddler with her shop-o-holic mother will get me upset, obsessed and morose.

Perhaps it's me that needs a little less me time.

I've looked over all the points in this guide and can plainly see that my actions would not be acceptable for the apparent standards of a good, 1950's wife.

• I will never, ever have dinner ready for when D walks in the door. There was once a time when I thought it would be nice have something on the stove at least (back during my maternity leave, when Franklin started sleeping for three hour intervals instead of two and I felt like I had oodles of energy to spare). I think it happened once... and he didn't eat it... it was liver... who knows what I was thinking.




• Prepare ahead? For anything? Yeah, ummm... it's not going to happen - ever.




• His day is indeed boring, I agree. How can it not be, when his "gay and interesting" partner in crime works on the other end of the city? I am most certainly both gay and interesting - except when I'm covered in our child's vomit, and then I'll be just interesting.




• Clutter clearing and dust cloth running will be done on a need to do basis only, such as company and home inspection. I have my priorities.




• "...catering for his comfort will provide [me] will immense personal satisfaction" ...yes, well, I'll have to take their word on this because for myself, I tend to get quite a bit of personal satisfaction from things like masters degrees and gardening.




• ooooh, the fluffing of the pillows! I'll fluff his pillows anytime, baby. However, the need to remind me that his topics of conversation are more important than my own?!? This stuff can't be real.

The list goes on and on. It must have been quite a source of amusement back then as well - except that there may have been a bit more quilt felt than I feel right now.* I certainly see that I don't fit the mold of the "good wife" for the time period but I'm pretty sure I'm a good partner for 2004. Actually, I would probably make a good partner for D in any period, I think it would make him feel a little odd if I were to "speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice".

Of course, there are occasions when I feel bad that I am so tired by the end of the day and I feel like I have given almost everything I have to Franklin. By the time we've put the little guy to sleep we can only manage to sit and veg in the same room. As a result, the stimulating conversation tends to lag.
Yet, I look at Franklin and realize that he, himself, is a pretty large thing we do together. If we don't get around to talking about the crap in our day or the depressing politics in our province it's okay. We are still together each evening, eating popcorn and pickles for dinner and imitating the way Franklin says the word "nakeeeed".

*No one has actually found the source of this article so it may be just an exageration to make us feel good about how far we've come and all that.

So many uninteresting thoughts, so little time before I throw myself into bed and cough my way to morning...

Franklin and I are sick again. I either blame daycare or work - both are filled with sick people who are far too willing to share their germs. Yesterday, Franklin and I went home early due to our health, Our throats are so sore and swollen it is hard to swallow and although I can't speak for Franklin, I would prefer to just let the saliva drip from my mouth instead of going through the pain of actually swallowing. Franklin has been having trouble getting food down and there were two incidences where the small morsel of food he tried to swallow got stuck and I had to calmly reach down his throat to remove what he was choking on. I swear, being a mother has really taught me to act calmly in tense situations. Both times he was having trouble I was screaming inside yet, both times I watched my outside actions patiently come to his aid. Although I hope to never go through that again, it was amazing to see myself handle it that way.

On a less dramatic note, I have recently gone through a steep learning curve in terms of hacking and other such juvenile nonsense. Turns out, my computer was incredibly vulnerable and surprisingly quite interesting to a few people. I really have to say, what the hell do people need to enter my computer for? At least I know a bunch of new terms for trivial pursuit - dumpster diving, honey pots, cryptographic, shoulder surfing, war-dialing... and the beat goes on... it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

I have two newly knocked up friends who should expect a subscription to hip Mama on their doorsteps. I couldn't decide between Mamalicious or hip Mama. I chose the latter due to the fact that it's been out longer. I think I might get a subscription myself.

Speaking of subscriptions, I am more and more impressed with The Walrus. This month's issue has an article by Michael Adams titled "Continental Drift". The piece is about the evolving differences and similarities between Canadians and Americans. I think I'm going to break down and subscribe to this too. I'm not sure if the bookstore appreciates me borrowing one off the stands every month.

Finally, I really must trudge off to bed. I have assignments due, a lunch to make and some dishes to wash. Two thirds of these will be done by tonight. At least Franklin's fish, who he appropriately named "Quack", is doing better. We have a new filter and I no longer have to change the water every night. I never gave it much thought when we decided to give Franklin a fish tank for his first birthday but I suddenly remember that I am insanely afraid of dead goldfish. I'm not sure where it stems from and perhaps I'm better off not knowing but if that fish ever decides to float upside down in a dead-like manner I might have to move.

Last night I went to bed at a somewhat decent hour and although this alone is big news, believe it or not, I have even more to report.

We were woken up at about 2am by a loud bang. My first reaction was, of course, to scream to the unknown disturbance: "Jesus! Shut-up! You'll wake the baby!"
These days, I don't think a train wreck and subsequent chemical explosion would wake this child but consider me trained...

Once I came to a semi-conscious state I thought I would look outside to see what was going on. Things went pretty silent and I figured some drunk idiot had smashed into the dumpster in the parking lot. Since we have the privileged view of said dumpster from our bedroom window I took a look.

There was a man, about our age, dumpster diving for food! Yes, it's true. In a city with welfare, soup kitchens and regular, expected pan-handling, there are still hungry people. I'm inclined to think perhaps things aren't working.

I watched this guy look around, jump into the dumpster, shuffle through a ton of dirty diapers (you know, those things really don't decompose), and locate a half-eaten submarine. He ate that sandwich like he hadn't eaten in weeks.
He licked the wrapper.

The rest of the night I dreamt about strapping the dumpster with bags of apples and cooked turkey.

I've been a little pensive the last couple of days. On Saturday, the police paid a visit to our complex and picked up a woman who lives near our home. Last summer I talked to her and her children quite a bit. She seemed a little socially inept but not overly unstable. I think that she has had a pretty stressful life. She is very defensive, aloof, and insists on teaching her 7 and 5 year old children that "no one's looking out for them but themselves..."
She definitely wasn't popular around here. She loves to garden though and we would talk about plants and the possibility of a communal compost for the complex.


Once I started work, I would see her sitting on her front porch sipping a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. We would always acknowledge each other and I would occasionally see her two sons after school.


After being at work for awhile I stopped seeing her in her usual seat. I now realize that I hadn't actually seen her children for quite awhile - although I saw trucks and other toys on the porch.


Last weekend, after the three of us came back from the park, we saw a police van and unmarked car in our parking lot. As I walked past, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach that all the authority was for this neighbour. As it turns out, about an hour later a friend of mine saw the police lead her away to the van.


Of course, I don't know what's going on. There is no way for me to find out and it's definitely not my business. Nevertheless, I am worried about her and the two children. I haven't seen them for so long. I feel like I should have noticed (or at least wondered about) something being up a long time ago. Egotistical of me isn't it...


I know that, rationally, the safest thing to do was keep my distance from a woman who, in my opinion, had questioning mental stability. However, I can't help but wonder, what happened to the "community" I thought I was moving into? I really didn't get to know her family at all. She is a single Mom and seemed quite lonely. If I had invited her into my home at least once would she have felt she had support? Would she even have accepted my offering of friendship?


This is crazy. I have no idea what's going on.


I look for the three of them every time I walk past that porch now. No one has been home since Saturday. I feel like crying but I'm not exactly sure why.

It seems I have a little publicity thanks to The Tyee! Nice to have a mention.

I have just explored their site to figure out what it's all about and it looks extremely interesting. Thanks for pointing it out to me Trevor.

Today is Friday and not a day too soon. I now seem to have a job that puts me in a position to have my work continuously checked on. I'm trying to adjust and not take it personally - it's not meant to be. Nevertheless, I'm used to working independently, making my mistakes, and finding them in due time - never creating a disaster and learning from everything.
There is nothing too horrible about someone pointing out your mistakes if you are still figuring out your role in the whole scheme of the workplace. However, these days I get this insane amount of pride when I finish a project and don't hear a rolling chair behind me with a subtle clearing of a throat...

I find myself chanting a bit of a mantra to myself - "classes, school,