Tell me y’all have seen “the greatest freakout ever” on youtube - parts 1-3. I honestly can’t say whether I want to laugh or cry, but it’s worthe seeing before it becomes a giant litigation issue and disappears from human eyeballs.
You know you’re a parent when. . .
June 30th, 2009You know you’re a parent when the absence of yogurt tubes produces exactly this gesture:
In front of the fridge with such conviction that you feel compelled to present one of these:
You are, in fact, the parent of a pre-schooler.
Didja
June 29th, 2009Didja ever have one of those weeks where, after it’s all said and done, every single member of your partner’s ex-in-laws have dropped by your house - unannounced?
No? Just me?
Nine years ago
June 24th, 2009Nine years ago, something happened. At the time, I had no idea what happened, or that this occurrence would later end up having such a significant impact on my life.
Nine years ago, Juniper was born. It seems amazing to me that I wasn’t there to see her baby blue eyes first open. Nor to watch those eyes become the softer bluey-greeny-grey they are today. I wasn’t there to smell the top of her head, or to hold her when she cried. I wasn’t there for her first steps or her first words. I wasn’t there to listen to her develop the amazing art of whistling to get the attention of those outside of her crib bars.
I wasn’t there. And I wouldn’t have belonged there, even if Doc Brown showed up in a bloomin’ DeLorean and suggested a roadtrip.
I didn’t belong there, but now - now, I can’t imagine having a life without Juniper in it. She is my child, Rosebud’s sister and a fundamental part of our family.
I know that the complications of blended families can be hair-raising. I know they raise all sorts of issues around parenting versus step-parenting, and the reality of not having your children with you at home every day.
But for today - I’m glad. I’m glad that we could dogpile on her bed for a birthday morning hug. I’m glad we were able to watch her open her book and her new dress (can’t have a birthday proper without getting gifts, even if the party comes later). I’m equally glad that Juniper’s mom is taking her to the beach today, and that they’ll be celebrating, too.
In the end, it’s not that hard to share your kids, because in the end, they get more. More love, more opportunities, more time and more attention. And there’s no better time to have this be the case than a birthday.
Happy Birthday, Juniper. You have a big, beautiful heart and a smile that takes your face from pretty to heartstopping. Your sense of humour, your sense of responsibility, your affectionate ways and your giving nature are the gifts you give us every day. Long may you reign.
Olden
June 23rd, 2009Back in the olden days, when I was a child, we didn’t have video games. Well, we did, but there truly was a limit to the number of games of pong or space invasion that you could possibly play.
So, we played outside. And again, the olden days didn’t have the superawesome play structures that kids have nowadays. Well, okay - maybe there were some moderately awesome structures to play on. But we also played on other things. Like big wooden structures for industrial sized garbage containers. Structures that looked so much like something to jump off of, they couldn’t be resisted.
Even by me - then all of 8-years-old. Even if it meant being sandwiched into a line up (on top of the box) with bigger, older kids. Even if it meant staring down at the ground from what seemed to be a massive height. Even if it meant running the risk of landing badly and injuring ankles.
So I, like all the olden days children before me, jumped. For a wonder, I landed decently, though I was slow to get up and out of the way.
Too slow. Because the next thing I remember was the sensation of a big lump of flesh landing on my person.
The thing I remember after that? Sky. Seeing sky and my sister, her friend and the friend’s aunt and uncle (one of whom was a doctor, I believe) all around me, framing me in a circle of worried faces.
But, like all kids in the olden days, I was tough. Hey - if you had to walk in the frozen tundra to school every day (uphill! Both ways!), you’d be tough, too. You’d even manage to survive the neck/lump of flesh collision and move on, despite not being able to turn your head for three days post-injury.
You might even forget it ever happened. But if your body is anything like my body, it will remember what your mind has opted to ignore. And it will do so more than once.
The last time my neck acted up was over fifteen years ago (I’m ballparking, because dates are not my specialty. If I didn’t blog, I wouldn’t even be able to tell you what I did last week). T’was painful, but I was still pretty young and springy, so I bounced back.
This time? Not so much. I tweaked my neck on Friday by stretching. Just as it was nearly healed, on Monday, I tweaked it again. With stretching. Not even the tough stuff. No rack, no traction, no devilish devices - just stretching. In bed. With my head resting on the pillow.
Getting older - it’s not the grey hair or the wrinkles that are getting to me. It’s the general wear and tear that’s goes from inconvenient to crippling, seemingly over the course of a half-decade.
Tune into my fiftieth birthday post, written from within my full body cast at the nearest hospital.
Dear gawd, what is that lightbulb in the sky?
June 16th, 2009Oh, I know.
It’s the sun.
Haven’t seen it in a while. It’s presence in the sky means that I’m either:
a) Outside, basking in it, like a walrus at high tide
or
b) Cowering in my air conditioned state, waiting to make the transition to the next air conditioned place.
What’s your vote for what I’m actually doing?
OOOOH! AND:
Dearest neighbours,
Okay, you’re strange and really anti-social. And it’s funny that I call you anti-social, because it’s not like I desire a buddious relationship with my neighbours in any way, shape or form. So while I may generally muse about the fact that you people resolutely avoid even so much as the awkward nod, I’m more or less at peace with it.
HOWEVER.
This does not - AT ALL - mean that you should stay inside your home until I go back inside mine. This is especially important to note as I saw you watching me out of your kitchen window as I was retrieving your dangling cat from my yard.
That’s right. YOUR CAT WAS DANGLING FROM HIS LEASH OVER MY FENCE.
Have you any notion of how large a heart attack you gave me? I was reading, immersed as I always am, and very much minding my own business. This was the tableau when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a CAT DANGLING OVER MY FENCE BY HIS LEASH.
I thought he was dead.
DEAD!
So - points to you for the humane leash that runs across his chest and thusly prevented the poor thing from dying ON MY FENCE. Points against you for watching me try and perch him on the top of the fence and then gently . . . nudge . . . him to your side. Points also lost for TYING YOUR FRICKEN ANIMAL THAT NEAR THE FENCE.
Sincerely,
Your slightly more grey-haired than previously noted neighbour.
P.S. You’d be paying for the therapy if my children encountered that scene. Just so you know.
If you ever wondered.
June 9th, 2009Last weekend, Juniper and Rosebud had 17 minutes of time together. In total.
That’s the reality of blended family life. Constant changing of sibling dynamics (or absence of them). Rosebud goes to her father’s house, where she’s an only child. Juniper goes to her mother’s home, where she’s the older sibling of a small toddler boy.
Sometimes, Rosebud is an only child at our house.
Sometimes, Juniper is an only child at our house.
And sometimes, they’re together for seventeen minutes.
This generation is looking to be like a bunch of guinea pigs. I guess we all were, to some degree or another. We have no real idea of how these constantly shifting sands are going to impact children. Will they be healthier for it? Will they be confused? What happens to the psychological theory of sibling order and its impact on personal development?
All I can really tell you is that the 17 minute weekends make me sad for them. Juniper may enjoy her time as a reinstated only child, but she’s also the person who put a banner and streamer up in Rosebud’s room after her weekend away. Rosebud lives and breathes by Juniper’s attention, and is frequently crushed when she doesn’t have time with her big sis.
And inevitably, after some time away, they have a transition process. They have to transition back to our rules, our expectations and our household rhythm. They also have to adjust to each other. Transitioning back to us usually involves some level of temper tantrum/attitude. Usually takes about an hour, depending on the duration of the absence.
Their transition time with each other usually goes something like this:
Rosebud to Juniper: Play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me.
Juniper to Rosebud: I’m tired. I don’t want to play.
Rosebud to Juniper: Play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me, play with me.
Me to Rosebud: Leave Juniper be!
Rosebud leaves Juniper alone.
Minutes elapse.
Juniper to Rosebud: Wanna play?
Rosebud: Okay!
They disappear for hours, emerging only to demand snacks and occasional attendance for restaurant openings, tea parties and fashion shows.
It’s tiring to get them through these transitions. They happen every week. I hope that they’re as adaptable as they seem to be. I hope that they remember growing up as a joyous thing.
I hope.
If you don’t know Menno.
June 8th, 2009Or, more accurately (since good ol’ Menno-the-original is long dead and gone), if you don’t know any Mennonites, I feel sorry for you. Not only are you missing out on the comedic gold to be found in blanket stereotypes about inbreeding, dancing (or lack thereof), drinking (or lack thereof), and general cheapness, you’re also missing something else.
You’re missing out on this:
(served with sausage gravy, called SCHMAUNDTFAHT by those in the know, or those who can wrap themselves around the tricky Germanic gutturals)
And this:
(Served with a crosshatching of hot pink icing. Rosebud snarfed this at an unseemly rate. I, virtuously, did not. Do you believe me? You shouldn’t.)
Ah yes. Kielke with schmaundtfaht and rhubarb platz. With farmer’s sausage and cole slaw. It was a lovely way to end my indulgently lazy weekend - if the weekend had to end. Which it did, apparently. Even though I put my vote in as firmly against the notion.
Thanks to CH and Bobby for feeding us (though Bobby is now full on committed to helping with the kielke making next time), and for being Menno. My sense of humour is quite appreciative of the opportunities you provide. ;-}
Boo-boo.
June 5th, 2009So, do you all remember me saying that I tend to get injured whenever I start exercising?
Yeah. It happened.
This time, it was not my fault. This time, fault belongs to the love child of Mother Nature and Transit Tom.
It was pouring rain yesterday. Pouring so heavily that I swear I saw animals pairing up and looking for arks. Nonetheless, I was determined to continue with my walking regimen, especially since I was starting to catch the wave of “this feels gooood, damnit. Why did I ever give it up?”
I decided to walk, even though I’d forgotten a ratty t-shirt to wear, and I’d forgotten sports socks and oh yeah - it was POURING.
Still. If the spirit moves me, I have to give it room.
So off I went. I quickly adjusted to the cold and even moderately adjusted to the rain and its attendant requirement for frequent nose brushings (to stop the rain drops from tickling or worse - being snorted up in a moment of exercise and rain confusion).
I was even getting into the rhythm of car-dodging. Well, it was not so much the cars I needed to dodge, but the movement of road puddles up onto sidewalks and pedestrians. For the most part, the drivers were very courteous, and went out of their way to avoid being responsible for road puddle transport.
Courteous drivers, except for the bus drivers. You know, those people who maneuver massive people movers across city streets all over the world? The ones who drive . . . for a living? Yeah, those were the drivers who seemed to have the weakest grasp on the idea that pedestrians are those people who are not in cars, and therefore, the most vulnerable to enthusiastic water puddles.
After having been doused a few times, my ankles started to inform me that it wasn’t just water they were being doused in. They were also be doused in road grit and probably some motor oil.
How did they tell me? They took the water and grit and combined them to make a skin-grater. About halfway through my walk, I was well aware of the fact that I had blisters/abrasions on both ankles.
Last night, I had to slather the throbbing things in polysporin (the pain was out of proportion with the size of the boo-boos, so I have to conclude that my internal organs don’t care for motor oil in the bloodstream) and cover them with Scooby-doo band-aids.
Today, I am nursing what little skin I have left on the backs of my ankles, so that we can make one last walk home today, before the sloth of the weekend takes over (blissful, glorious sloth).
But I want it on record - these ankle injuries? NOT MY FAULT!
Can I tell you something?
June 3rd, 2009Whenever I go over to a friend’s house and see their perfectly tidy rooms and their wonderfully stocked kitchen and immaculately groomed garden, all alongside their clean and well-dressed kids, I feel a moment of fail.
Okay, a lot of moments of fail.
It feels to me like Buddy and I run at top speed about 90 per cent of the time - the other ten per cent is taken up by those moments where we sit in a glazed stupor, trying to convince ourselves that we’ve a) done enough for the day and b) clearly exceeded our mental limits.
And even with that, it feels as though we’re constantly on the verge of domestic disaster. Things forgotten on the grocery list (which means tweaking meals at the last minute). The constant battle against clutter at the back entry, where the shoes, bags, papers and hats are always in a state of war-readiness. Encroaching bastards. Where laundry is always in some state of half done, dust kittens collect in legion, bits go missing, or are found in odd places and for the life of me, all I can do is prevent the avalanche from gaining momentum.
I don’t know how you guys do it. I look around and see these people who are on top of their games and I don’t get it. I don’t think I’ve ever washed a window in my house. At this point in my life, I’ve still not figured out how to tidily fold fitted sheets. I can see dust accumulating on my bathroom fan and I keep thinking “yeah, should do something about that”. And then I forget until it next presents itself to me.
I stand in awe. And fail. And danger of an impending avalanche of chaos.
