Still Life with Wyliekat

On Saturday, after Rosebud came home from her time with her father, we snuggled up on the couch to do a review of her time away. This isn’t abnormal. It’s what we do, though really - she doesn’t tend to report things in any linear fashion. She will tell me whatever occurs to her, whenever it occurs to her. I’ll hear about a bump on the head a week after it happens. Or she’ll tell me the moment she hits the front door about how she found a rock.

Linear reporting is for losers.

Anyway, as we were snuggling on the couch, I asked her if she had fun with her father. She nodded.

Then she told me that *Britney came along.

As soon as she said it, she turned to me and started scanning my face with a great deal of intensity. Checking back and forth between my mouth and my eyes, over and over again.

It could not have been more clear if she shouted it that she was assessing me for a negative reaction.

There was part of me that was frozen in shock under her close scrutiny. I somehow deluded myself into thinking that reading body language was reserved for adults. But it was clear that she’d ferret out any lie I could produce if I were stupid enough to try and feed her one. She wasn’t paying attention to what came out of my mouth. Just how it was shaped when I said it.

Fortunately, I don’t really feel much of anything about the ex’s new interest. I had some very negative feelings about his last one, I’ll admit. But then, she was in the picture before I was out of it. Forgive me if that didn’t exactly endear her to my soul.

Owing to this happy turn of events (my apathy on the subject) I could take the half of me that wasn’t marveling over my child’s scrutiny, and put it to good use projecting my calm about their day together, and my pleasure that she’d had fun with her father and Britney.

It was literally breathtaking to be faced with such an obvious sign of the connectivity between my well-being and hers. Intellectually, I understand that its basic survival instinct for young children to be that attuned to their mothers. But I’ve never really had such a blatant example of it. She very clearly wanted to know if it was okay for her to like this person.

It’s certainly a cautionary tale/reminder about how careful I need to be with her in relation to her life outside my home.
*The ex’s current girlfriend. Name changed to protect the innocent.

Well, we’ve gone and done it. We’ve taken an irrevocable step towards having a diaper-free home.

As of this weekend, Rosebud will be wearing big girl pants by day. I haven’t tried to switch up the nighttime stuff yet. Not because she pees at night (she generally doesn’t), but she still invariably decides to take a nice, contemplative poop in the privacy of her bedroom. Something I do *not* want to clean of bedroom furniture, thank you very much.

Still. She’s in underwear. I sent her to daycare this morning in underwear. I also handed over three pairs of extra underwear, and two dresses (because pee goes straight down, you see. She had three accidents yesterday, resulting in three underwear changes, but no clothing changes - dresses for the win!).

But no diapers.

I have to say, while I’ve certainly heard a lot of stuff around potty-training, I’ve never really paid much attention to the “How to” aspects of it.

I mean, when people say “oh, he/she was potty-trained, and I didn’t even have to think about it.” What does that mean? They never needed prompting? If so, she’s not ready.

Then there’s the other side of it, the kids who just refuse to pee on the potty at all. The child will pee on the big toilet every time you put her on there. But then again, she’ll pee herself without blinking.

Does that mean she’s very ready?

We’re putting her on the potty every hour, which is going alright.

But this seems like a great mystery to me. Exactly what is the “right” approach? I don’t really see us changing how we’re managing it, but it does seem like we’re following a “no approach approach”.

Oh, and also? S’mores. Never had s’mores before this trip. S’mores are Gawd’s Own Food.  

(more…)

I don’t know why this is. I consider myself, on the whole, to be a generally responsible person. I pay taxes. I floss (sometimes).

And yet, I cannot for the life of me keep hold of my keys for more than a day or two at a stretch.

It’s like we’re repelled by each other, my keys and I. I want them with me, assume they’re with me, and rely on their presence near to me. They, on the other hand, seem to think that if I’m not constantly watching them, that means they ought to take it on the run (baby).

Like children that way. Only more irritating.

I’d taken steps to ensure that this didn’t happen. Spares at various locations. Little known maneuvers about getting around locked doors. Secret codes.

But when all of these things fail at the exact same time, you might just end up hanging out on your back deck after a long, hard, hot day. You might be there with your small child/ren, who think nothing of yelling our state to the neighbors on every side (who fate conspired to send out to their yards at the exact right time to bear witness). You might need to send your partner to his parents’ home to retrieve some of the strategically placed keys. You may dine on pizza al fresco. You might spend that time desperately wondering why your keys have forsaken you.

Or is that just me?

I have another thing to admit. It’s something I know is going to cause a hail of curses and a gaggle of guffaws to surround my head like the tweety-birds and stars of cartoon yore.

I am seriously WoWing. World of Warcraft. Warcraftin’.

Perhaps it’s good that I avoided WoW until just recently. If I’d discovered it before, I doubt I’d have ever bothered to get married, have children or even, yannow, work. Why bother?

Thankfully, between the two of us, Buddy and I are able to muster enough parental common sense to restrict our play to moments when the children are sleeping, or away. We haven’t yet left them to the kindness of strangers in the streets, or abandoned them to feeding themselves dinners of cat food detritus and floor scrapings.

We’re terribly proud of this fact. Every day, we do a small dance and a large round of high-fives because we have managed to not neglect the children.

Of course, these dances and high fives occur in WoW. Why would we waste a second of precious playing time to be self-congratulatory when we look way better doing it on Wow?

I’m undead. So is Buddy. Being undead is so much more fun than being nearly dead, or mostly dead or this weird non-dead state we wander around in. Undead gives you a perfect justification for bad skin. You get knocked off? You’re just gonna get back up again. No need to fear cancer, AIDS, pneumonia or even the common cold - you’re already undead!

Okay. So I’ve confessed and I promise, here and now with my typing fingers contorted into the holy keyboard configuration signaling my sincerity, that I will NOT spam you with WoW information and reports on my activities.

But if you happen to be around Spinebreaker, give Railion a wave, would you? Dances, high-fives and donations of gold also acceptable.

I’m going to shuffle out of this here closet and make my confession. Please don’t make any sudden movements, or I might feel compelled to return to my previous state of juddering fear in the closet corner.I am an Olympics fiend.

There. I’ve said it. I watch the Olympics with a fervor that should be reserved for things like Pampered Chef or sex toy parties. But it’s true. I love the pomp and circumstance, and I love cheering for my country. I’m one of those annoying people who personalizes the talents and grit of others when they are Team Canada. I say “we” when I note that there was a medal won. As though I somehow made it happen by contorting and clenching as I watch from the comfort of my couch.

Even in the summer games, where the Canadians seem to be more entranced by the absence of snow than anything else, I cheer. I watch. I obsess.

It’s just a little quirk that I cannot explain. To be honest, I blame it on Eddie the Eagle, which is the first set of Olympics I recall watching. With that kind of drama, why the heck wouldn’t I keep looking?

If you haven’t ever spent time camping in the very north (not far from the tree line, which, to the uninformed, means near where trees just can’t grow any more. Permafrost. Nuff said?), and you get a chance to, I strongly suggest you take the opportunity.

I’d never gone before, and I’d probably have urged medication to any soul suggesting that I drive 12 hours north to expose my bits to the elements, with nothing more than a thin fabric shell to protect me.

And yet . . .

While I wouldn’t be stupid/brave enough to try camping up there in the winter, I have to tell you that it is, without question, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

And abundant? Talk about abundance. I saw (and ate) saskatoon berries, raspberries, pin cherries and rose hips. I saw (but didn’t eat) chanterelles and blueberries. There were even more berries of a slightly more dubious edibility, (juniper berries, for one. Some vivid orange thing that didn’t even look tasty, but was still beautiful, for another) but They. Were. Everywhere.

You simply cannot find this amount of abundance of ready-made trail mix anywhere else I’ve been. Some things, sure. But all? Never.

And the stars. I didn’t think it was possible to see galaxies without a telescope. I never imagined that the exposed rock of lot 56 would provide such an amazing view of the sky. It was such a cathedral of the spirit, you almost wanted to whisper.

So yeah. Needless to say, I will be making the pilgrimage back to the north again, someday. Perhaps when the children are prepared to completely and utterly ignore us for the duration of the almost 24 hours worth of road trip time we put in. You know, when actually being forced into proximity with us will cause them to bust out in rashes (Read: Teenage Years).

Until then, a closer site. But there’s no doubt about it. Our family? It’s a camping family.

As of tomorrow, first thing, I’ll be AFK. Very, very AFK. So far AFK that it will become a distant and misty memory, this keyboard. And being at it.We’re packing Big Red and heading up north for a full six night, seven day camping trip. I am very excited about this. The girls are very excited about this (though it does need to be said, Juniper is less than excited about the nine hour drive ahead of us). Buddy is an interesting combination of jazzed and petrified.

The fact that the forecast is calling for rain for at least four of the seven days does nothing to brighten his spirits. I’m going to assiduously avoid mentioning the rain to him, and hope that he doesn’t really notice the gills and flippers beginning to develop on all and sundry.

So, I’ll be away from my precious keyboard for a week. All I ask, intarweb, is that you do nothing of interest during that time, okay?

I lost the bead I had on Rosebud. You know, the bead? The one that every mother has trained onto every one of her ducklings at all times? The bead that keeps a constant reading of where your child is at emotionally, developmentally and physically?

Well, I lost the bead. Even though she’d already made a recent and noticeable language leap, she’s come back from her trip on an even higher level.

No shit.

It’s not enough that I noticed it and Buddy noticed it. Even Juniper, at eight, noticed it. Enough to comment.

It’s amazing to see her right now, and to try and retrack myself to where she’s at. Adapt to this suddenly more grown-up little girl.

What really troubles me is that I missed it. During her week away, she had a developmental leap, and I wasn’t there to see it. To notice it beginning. To feel myself grow to accomodate her.

This is the cost of divorce that I dreaded, and still dread, paying. It’s not that the marriage ended, it’s not that things went the way they did, it’s not the fact that Rosebud has this divided life (though that’s part of it). It’s that I knew, when things ended, that there would be things about my daughter’s life that I wouldn’t be privy to.

I remember, one night, laying in my bed at the old house, too tired and heartsick to move. A friend was sitting beside me, watching me, supporting me, grieving with me.

I told her, that night, that what made me so sick about it all was that I’d have to lose out on tucking my girl into bed every night. Being able to keep that bead on her. Being her all-the-time mother.

That holds true to this day.

If I had been a greater participant in the demise of my marriage, I might feel differently. Instead of anger and sadness, I’d have guilt and sadness. Or maybe nothing but relief. I don’t know.

But I can tell you that I’ve worked hard, every day, to stop trying to see the world as a just place. To accept it on it’s terms, appreciate the serendipity as it falls and accept that hard knocks are inevitable. Because we all seem to get more, and less, than we really should.

However, this particular little injustice in the world of Wyliekat will never be something I accept with any comfort.

Today, I am annoyed. Irked. Peeved. Piqued. Bothered.

Pissed off. I’m so pissed off that my eggs are boiling.

So who wants a uterine scramble?

Too graphic? Probably. But since I want to keep my job (thanksmuch), I can only be graphic in my description of how I’m feeling, as opposed to being graphic about what’s actually bothering me. So yes, uterine scramble.