How Can It Be?

As a mother and teacher (both relatively new experiences for me in my life) I feel I need to write something brief about what happened in Newtown, CT this week.  I have heard snippets on the news and read the odd story here and there on the internet about the victims and heroes involved in the school shooting.  they’ve released the names and small little faces of the 6 and 7 year olds who were senselessly killed.  i’ve tried not to pay any attention to the shooter (who I shall not name, as he doesn’t deserve it) I try to reconcile the information - its like a tornado - a force of nature - something like that so random - how can you ever prepare for or prevent something like that?  

there are no words for something of this magnitude.  something so out of the blue.  something so senseless and horrific.  As a teacher I’ve heard it before: don’t you ever feel like a sitting duck? aren’t lockdown procedures scary to learn when you’re new on the job? why can anyone just walk into a school?  none of these things carry much weight for me.  of course. I know the lockdown procedures and when I had to practice them with a grade 3 class on my very first practicum during teacher’s college, something deep within me felt that it was wrong and corrupting their innocence to have to teach them about these things.  but the words, “gunman” weren’t used - just "bad guys" and/or “intruders” and we practiced the rules and procedures as we did fire drills - some people even giggled because they thought hiding under tables in the dark was fun.  its just part of our day and age. I teach 6 and 7 year olds all the time.  I would have done that same thing that that brave teacher did if my class were threatened.  so would every other teacher out there - I don’t doubt that for a second.  

But teacher realities are not the thoughts that are haunting me, surprisingly.  Its the idea that i have a son who will grow up.  No, I won’t take him to target practice and I won’t own any weapons (that’s a whole other blog post!), but he will go to school.  I will eventually have to leave him in the care of another person/ institution all day long.  I won’t always see or know about the troubles he has or interactions he has socially that will make him who he is.  He will grow up a lot of the time on his own, or under the guidance of others, and he will go through awkward phases.  he won’t always be liked.  won’t fit in.  he might be too smart, or not smart enough.  he might get teased.  depression? hopefully not, but maybe.  1 in 4 people have a mental illness.  all these thoughts are playing bumper cars inside my head.  what made this kid snap?  How can I be a protective factor to the kids I teach? To my own son? How can I help to stop this sort of thing?

Motor Skill Maniac

 where you end up when you can only crawl backward.

When Charlie started crawling, he crawled backwards.  He just wouldn’t go forward and would end up in precarious places as he had no clue as to where he was crawling.  I, having a tendency to worry, overanalyze and catastrophize, decided there was something wrong, developmentally, and that this was likely an indicator of a learning disability to come.  “Who crawls backwards?” I worried aloud, hoping someone with experience would hear and reassure me that they knew of plenty of well-adjusted adults who began their journey’s crawling backward.  Then, at a dinner party, a professor of English told me that researchers had made a link between crawling and the ability to read.  “Great!” I thought, “He’ll be dyslexic for sure.”

Now a great forwards walker, runner and marcher (Ants Go Marching is a perennial favourite in our house) Charlie has recently started cutting a rug whenever he hears a song he likes.  He’s got the moves like Jagger! Surprisingly (I never thought a son of Elaine would be so on-beat and limber!)  And most recently he has taken to side stepping down the hallway, both right and left.  Its like he’s on an invisible tightrope and is sneaking around somewhere trying not to be seen.  Its adorable.

I always thought of Charlie as more adept in the fine motor department.  He doesn’t get into things head first. He doesn’t climb or do physically strenuous things that might involve an element of danger.  He’ll hang back and watch the other carefree children “discover” and will then decide if he should take part.  In an effort to balance him out and move him away from puzzles, picnics and scribbling, we bought a plastic baseball bat and ball, a small foam football and Grandma bought a bowling set.  Charlie loves hacking at the ball with his bat the way a lumberjack schools a fallen tree.  Swinging it is not and hand-eye coordination is not really established, but he has time to enter Shoeless Joe Jackson territory, I mean he is after all only 2.  We’re working on rolling a ball, kicking a ball (alas, there is no bending it like Beckham).  He can’t jump up and down yet, but he can squat and crouch like a champ.  I’m not following a gross motor skill checklist from a baby book, but I feel like being able to throw, catch, kick and roll a ball are pretty important things for a toddler to learn and practice.  I’m not Walter Gretzky, but it would be great if Charlie had a hat trick under his belt by JK.  Thankfully it seems like I’m not the only one who wants their kids to hone their physicality either.

Enter B2Ten whose tagline is “Dare to Be Great”. They are an elite group of business people whose goal it is to support and develop Olympic level athletes.  Its in their best interest (and ours, as proud, medal-loving Canadians!) to make sure their pool of potential isn’t dwindling, but growing.  The group’s focus is on what they call "physical literacy" and it is their goal that it will catch on with moms (even non-sporty ones like me!)  You see, moms are the key holders, who, in a few minutes a day, can teach toddlers the basic elements of movement and co-ordination that will result in them being more confident when they try physical games, sports, for the first time, rather than giving up early because they are not comfortable with the basic skills. Now, I’m not saying that Charlie needs to be center on the podium by the time he’s 18, but I’d like at least a little league medal or two and if I could, would like to help him avoid that awful feeling of being picked last for a team.  Check out their PSA-style advertisement here.   If it doesn’t give you goosebumps and motivate you to turn your TV off and go outside to run and play with your kid, I don’t know what will!  As a teacher, I know how the curriculum stresses Daily Physical Activity (DPA) in schools and how moving and being active isn’t just reserved for Gym time.  Kids (a lot of them kinesthetic learners) learn best when they’re moving - especially boys.  I’ve seen more kids than I can count on one hand be in a situation with ample reaction time and still get hit in the face with a red rubber dodge ball and I ask you, did these kids’ parents ever play catch with them?  

Let Me Show You How Its Done

Molly the Dinosaur, a clay model "by me" in 1st grade (with mom's help)

Growing up as a rather bookish, school-loving nerd, there was a lot of parent engagement in my learning journey.  I’m not sure if my home life helped solidify these traits which would have existed otherwise or if I was a product of great, involved parents.  I’ll paint the picture: my parents always read to me (a variety of books and articles and even the ingredients on the pancake mix).  They helped me with my homework (and then some) and they always were there to save the day on a diorama that wouldn’t stand up right or to help figure out a tricky math problem (re: every math problem I was ever assigned).  I was lucky and I did well in school.  They didn’t do my work for me, but they supported me, shared ideas and modeled how to do certain things properly or more efficiently or with more finesse.  

Nowadays, especially now being a teacher, I unfortunately see that parent involvement isn’t always there.  Some parents are too busy and some don’t know how to help.  Some (if they can afford it) hire tutors.  Others pack in the extra curricular activities (also great, don’t get me wrong) but leave little time for school work or enrichment.  Whatever the reason, and it varies greatly from child to child, it can be an issue that will impact the child’s school success, and its one that I’m trying to avoid for my own son.  As a parent and a teacher, I’m not a huge fan of homework, but for practice sake, I am, especially if the child requires extra support above and beyond what they receive within the school’s walls.  Now Charlie is only 2 and years away from any (official) school programming, but I am trying to expose him to as much art and literacy and math in fun ways as I can now in an effort to give him a good foundation for JK.  

The other day, at playgroup, where I consciously take him to expose him to social scenarios involving many children to encourage sharing, cooperative play, and group learning, I found myself questioning both my parenting and teaching ability.  I was at a fork in the road and I couldn’t decide which path to take.  

Here’s what went down: An ECE student at a local college was at the drop in center as part of her internship and had organized all the day’s crafts.  The fork in the road came during a tissue paper and glue craft which was supposed to culminate in a breezy mixed media seaside scene.  I looked at the example and gathered the materials for Charlie’s piece.  First of all, I knew I was forcing Charlie to be artistic in a moment where he really just wanted to kick puzzle pieces across the room.  “Do you want to do this craft?” I told him rather than asked him, as I plunked him down on the chair.  “Here is the glue.  Put some on the paper down here so the water can stick” I ordered as I waved some turquoise tissue in front of his face.  “See?” holding up the example like Vanna White, “this tissue will be for the water.” As he motioned eating the glue off the mini spatula I decided to wipe the glue onto the paper for him.  “That’s right” I said, really just complimenting my own work.  “Now press some BLUE tissue on top to look like the waves!” He stared blankly at me and tried to eat more paste (to his credit, paste does look an awful lot like Vanilla yoghurt).  I finished the craft for him and wrote his name on it.  I was wiping and cleaning as we went.  His activity center had mise en place for goodness sake.  I found myself avoiding mess and in doing so curbed any and all of his freedom to be creative.  The fork in the road was missed for me, but it became clear after the fact when I witnessed another mom who let her daughter get filthy and sticky with glue and create a dog’s breakfast piece of “art” if you wish to call it that.  Any art buff worth his salt would be hard pressed to find even an echo of an oceanic or nautical theme in her work. However she looked darn pleased with herself and asked to do another while the first piece dried.  Charlie was back climbing up the baby slide in (now bare) feet (where on earth did he put his socks and shoes?)  I chose to take the path of overbearing direct instructor as opposed to a discovery model of learning.  Charlie still doesn’t know what white glue feels (or tastes) like and he hasn’t got cotton baton (excuse me, cumulonimbi clouds) stuck under his fingernails.  And its all my fault.  I robbed him of a real art experience.  I was focused on the product and not the process.  Wrong, wrong, WRONG!

I find myself questioning this very thing in a kindergarten classroom only days later.  The children are gathered on the carpet working together to build “mat man” a large wood and felt “puzzle” of an anatomically correct human.  There is a circle for the head and two big round eyes, arms, legs, etc.  It is a kinesthetic way of learning about the face and body so that they can move away from stick figures and draw more lifelike people in their work.  But I ask myself, do you just let kids continue to draw their body-less globs with one eye and hair but no mouth hands or legs - and compliment them, hoping that soon, they will realize that most people have 2 eyes and bodies and they will self correct?  Or, do you criticize their work and say, “Nice green grass, Liam, however that man mowing the lawn (or pouring out a bucket of red paint, I’m not sure) doesn’t have any arms or legs! Go back and draw some please!”

Do you let creativity reign or do you model and share the process - guiding them toward the desired (or your desired) outcome?

One and Done

spoiled? lonely? the only way for an only child?

My son just turned 2 and already the questions about when I’m going to have another have already started.  They are harmless questions, their askers mean well and some (basically strangers) are just making conversation (in line at the store mostly).  For me, I don’t know how to field this question.  I don’t have a short and sweet answer that’s canned and ready to deliver when the moment arises.  If I’m asked, first I issue a rather awkward pause, and then I start in on this long winded, philosophical answer about the meaning of life and the mother and child bonding process and who I am as a meaningful member of society.  I think that this response is effective in that it tends to throw people off the scent of the answer they were looking for (and maybe even forget their question entirely).  

Do people not realize what a loaded questions this is? I mean, what if my husband and I were trying (unsuccessfully?) what if I had a hard pregnancy (oh wait, I did!) and postpartum (oh wait, I had that too).  What if I find it hard to rally the patience for just one let alone two children?   Nobody thinks about these things - they just ask.  They raise one eyebrow, suggestively, and say “Time for baby number 2?” Like a waitress desperate for a big tip, encouraging me to order another Amaretto Sour.  

I know that people have this stereotype about only child syndrome or that I should try it again because now that I know what to expect (even though every conception / pregnancy / birth and postpartum story is different) I might be able to handle it all better and, this time, enjoy myself.  I do consider these things when deciding for myself.  My husband and I discuss these things too. And money and lifestyle and careers and family.  Funny how we never discussed these things in detail before they happened.

Family members hint all the time about going out for a night on the town with my husband so that we can produce another heir to the throne.  Or a princess sister for our little prince.  “His eyelashes are so long, Michelle, think about if you had a girl!”  I do get baby flutters now and then when I hold my baby niece or see cute (not crying, screaming babies) at play group.  But they are momentary flutters that go away rather quickly.  It so hard.  I never thought that I would feel this way.  My absolute favourite game growing up was playing with my dolls or playing “house” and I was always, always the mommy with my babies.  I love kids, I’m a teacher for goodness sakes.  But motherhood is different.  A friend of mine has a young son - a bit older than Charlie - and she is expecting twins.  What if that happens to me? I don’t mean to make it sound like getting hit by a car.  I shouldn’t refer to it as “happening to me” like its a tragedy.  I know others who’ve have had baby number 2 turn out to be baby number 2 and 3 and while some look at it as a blessing (and it is one, of course) it doesn’t always present itself clearly as a blessing until they are in school full time and you can enjoy them in small doses.  

Am I a terrible person for admitting all this?  I don’t know.  One and done is looking like it might be our family story, not by necessity, but by choice.  I wonder if I should make a decision tree and concept map my way to a decision?  Am I over-analyzing it?  I’m so on the fence its not even funny.  I guess its a pretty privileged place to perch.

Mean Cowboy

cartoon-cowboy-johnny_automatic via OpenClipArt

Today, for the first time since I’ve been a mom, my inner mama bear emerged. I took Charlie to play group (what we call going to an Ontario Early Years Center during drop-in hours.)  As I’ve mentioned before, we are working on sharing and taking turns, but Charlie is still uneasy when kids appear interested in ‘Tah-yee’s toys’ (anything he is playing with at a given time).  However, the same does not apply if Charlie wants to play with something that another child is using or enjoying.  Hypocrisy reigns.  Charlie will take the item away from them with no awareness of the hurt feelings that may occur until you point it out after the fact (which I always try to do).  

Lately, Charlie has been into cowboys.  This fact will be relevant in a few sentences.  Today is Halloween and most of the moms who brought their kids to playgroup had their acts together enough to a) remember and b) dress up not only their child, but also themselves.  I forgot all of these things.  In fact, I think I forgot it was even October.  Anyway, a cowboy about aged 3 showed up at playgroup today.  Charlie was entranced.  He started following the boy around and wanted to play with him, and with anything the boy was playing with.  I coasted nearby as I sensed that John Wayne was not that impressed with his new stalker.  “Charlie, give him some space.” and “No, I don’t think he’s quite finished with that ________ (fill in the blank)” were phrases often used.  At one point, Charlie was standing within breath-smelling distance from the boy's face and the boy flat out shoved Charlie to the ground and yelled “Go away!”  Well Charlie immediately got up and ran to me bawling hysterically.  The boy’s mother was equally mortified and apologized making cowboy hug Charlie and say he was sorry.  Not 3 minutes after reluctantly accepting a hug from the assailant, Charlie was attempting to play with cowboy again. (He's either got short-term memory problems or he's got the forgiveness of a saint I figured)  “Let’s go play with somebody else” I said loudly for the mother to hear (an attempt to not-so-subtly let her know that her bully kid should not be allowed in public among innocent, angelic children.)  After all, that IS why there is heaven and hell, right? To keep good people safe from bad people?  All right.  I may be going slightly overboard and in a few years, nay months, Charlie might be going through the same phase.  Even though Charlie accepted cowboy's apology licktey-split, I had a harder time doing so.

Anyway, about 30 minutes later, Charlie was attempting to be the other half of the see-saw that cowboy was rocking.  I could see trouble brewing so I hovered closer.  I guess he was galloping off onto the sunset on old trusty and Charlie hadn’t realized because when Charlie had one leg lifted in the air to straddle the see saw, cowboy got off and ran toward Charlie (I swear he was foaming at the mouth).  He shoved Charlie (half the boy’s size) down again (right in front of me) and cowboy’s mom (let’s call her cow-woman) did NOTHING! I was appalled. I scooped up Charlie and kissed him. Loudly I said.  “Oh dear! That’s not nice! I don’t think so buckshot!  Charlie - Don’t play with that boy.  That cowboy is a mean cowboy and he is in a bad mood today.  He isn’t nice.  Its not nice to shove people.  Tell him No! Please don’t shove me!”  

For the rest of the time we were there Charlie approached the cowboy and repeated my sage advice right to the boy’s face: “No! Peese do not shove me peese.” and he pointed at him with a sneer.  I think the boy and his mom got the message after the 16th time hearing it. 

Glimpses of Stellar Parenting

attempting to exercise patience at meal time

I just finished rereading Mommie Dearest.  My step-grandma gave it to me because it was the one book I always took off of her shelf and leafed through as a young girl.  (That and an illustrated tour of Graceland by Priscilla Presley).  I never wanted to be anything like Joan Crawford as a mother.  Obviously not.  She was portrayed by her daughter as demanding, critical, evil, even insane.  Sometimes I say things and I hear a bit of Joan in my voice.  Oh dear.  What do I expect? He’s only 2! He’s discovering and learning, he doesn’t know!  I always wanted to be a blend of Marilla and Matthew as a parent (Anne of Green Gables reference) - a mix of mushy-sentimental and strong/ no-nonsense.  I started thinking about my own mom - pretty darn patient woman considering.  She had her moments, her special saying for those trying moments where we didn’t want to do as she’d asked: life’s tough and then you die. When she said that, we knew she meant it and we generally smartened up and acquiesced.  Life is hard.  I don’t have it bad now, don’t get me wrong.  My whole family is healthy and relatively happy (knock on wood).  Things could always be better, but then again, they could always be worse (like "We Need to Talk About Kevin" worse).  Much, much worse.  Being a movie lover I started to think through all the movies I’d seen where the parents exhibited some pretty stellar patience.  Some unconditional love.  They were open-minded, they let bad (not life-threatening) but tough things happen to their kids so that they’d learn their own lessons, they weren’t over protective.  They were relatively liberal. My own wishes for myself as a parent are to be these things: to not try to fit Charlie into a box, to let him be himself (to a point) and to socialize him in ways that aren’t over-the-top strict, but that will allow him to be liked by others (and maybe even a teacher’s go-to helper).  

Movies Where The Parents Rock (Despite being sometimes overbearing, pig-headed, short-sighted, poor communicators and selfish)

Baby Boom (Diane Keaton)
Father of the Bride (Steve Martin and Diane Keaton)
Steel Magnolias (Sally Field and Tom Skerritt)
The Family Stone (Craig T Nelson and a very hard to love Diane Keaton)
Rachel Getting Married (Bill Irwin)
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock)
The Blindside (Sandra Bullock and Tim McGraw)
I Am Sam (Sean Penn)
Twilight (Billy Burke and Sarah Clarke in a cheesy loveable way)
Little Miss Sunshine (Greg Kinnear and Toni Collette)
Pieces of April (Oliver Platt and Patricia Clarkson)
Spanglish (Adam Sandler and Tea Leoni)
The Pursuit of Happyness (Will Smith)
My Girl (Dan Aykroyd)
Pretty in Pink (Harry Dean Stanton)
Juno (J.K. Simmons)

Klepto Kid

a natural place to store trains

On my way to work last week, I stopped for my usual coffee and when I went to pay, I opened my wallet and noticed that it was completely empty.  I figured I’d been robbed and knew exactly who the culprit was, my nearly-two year-old son, Charlie.  I smiled politely at the woman and awkwardly told her I’d be right back, thankfully I only live around the corner.  When I returned home, I entered the house and politely asked my son, “Where did you put all of mommy’s cards and money?” (I hoped that his answer would  not be: I flushed them down the toilet or I ate them).  He smiled coyly and vacated the room, his hands together, whistling, nonchalantly, and looking around for something new to get into.  My husband and I spent the next 10 minutes frantically tearing the family room apart and when we found nothing there, proceeded to do the same to the kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms.  It sounded like a chant, we were repeating in unison as we searched: Where’s the stuff from mommy’s wallet? Oh where oh where can it be? Hoping the sing-song, you’re-not-in-trouble-as-long-as-you-show-us-where-you-buried-the-treasure, game would entice Charlie to play along, or at least jog his memory.  Finally, the hero that he is, my husband found the missing cards and money inside an unpacked overnight bag, backpack really, from the previous weekend’s excursion to a bachelor party.  Inside the backpack, along with the cards and money, were a roll of toilet paper, our chopstick collection and an unpeeled naval orange (thankfully not punctured by the chopsticks, nor rotting).  And so I kissed my husband, gave my son a heart-not-in-it, gotta-hurry lecture and rough hair-tousle and headed back to pay for my coffee and be (only slightly) late for work.

Its funny really, how any organization, or attempt at it, goes out the window when your kids gets to a certain age.  Its ironic, that now, I can actually manage to label things, sort them and keep them orderly on my own (not like when I had the baby blues and couldn't think straight nor wanted to do any of that), but now that I want to alphabetize my spices and line up my books by genre and colour block the spines on my bookshelf, my son is like the tasmanian devil, whirling about the place and throwing things everywhere.  All cutlery is out of the drawer and in a variety of spots from toilet brush holder behind the toilet (yeah, probably don’t accept that invitation to my next dinner party) to inside the cold air return register grate.  All my tampons have been removed from their packages and are in a variety of handbags in the closet (highly sanitary I believe) as well as a welcome surprise inside my husband’s sock drawer.  Its not that I don’t watch him and supervise him.  Its that he’s lightening quick - especially if he’s undertaken a job he’s not supposed to be engaged in.  One minute he’s singing Twinkle Twinkle and reading in his room and the next he’s moved his crib to the other side of the room and has lined up every sock my husband and I own around the perimeter of the baseboards.  If only I could train him to enjoy putting things back, where they belong, and not in the most random and inconspicuous place known to man.

Cake Fear

When my son was about to turn one I got pretty obsessed with party planning.  I wanted his fete to be just that, something people referred to other than “birthday” because it was so darn smashing.  Something that would go down in the annals of family history.  A party not to be forgotten.  To prepare, I bought overpriced paper streamers and balloons in a variety of shades of blue and created a nice menu of classy nibblies for the adults with accompanying kid versions of many dishes.  I even bought palatable wine.  But the cherry on top was that I actually designed my very own, very unique birthday cake.  The vision was to make the cake entirely out of cupcakes, which, when placed side by side, would comprise a life-like fire engine.  The vision was awe-inspiring.  This would be an award winning cake.  Guests would fawn over it.  “Its too amazing to eat!” they would say.  I might even get a feature in the local paper, real calendar-worthy firemen would come to my house to try the cupcakes...(okay fine, but daydreaming is allowed to be far-fetched!)   I guess I’ve been indoctrinated by Ace of Cakes and Cake Boss.  All the boutique cupcakeries opening up in the neighbourhood haven’t helped either.  They needed to be epic.

That morning, as my fresh cupcakes cooled (mistake #1 = runny icing), I began to create bright red icing.  Fire-engine red.   A culinary endeavour not for amateurs - my kitchen looked like Dexter and his dark passenger had been by for a visit.  I don’t like fondant and so I decided to take white icing (homemade) and 2 bottles of red food colouring and hope for the best.  After 1 whole bottle of Red dye was mixing with the icing I began to sweat.  As I added more drops, I saw the icing transform like a colour wheel.  Ballet slipper, Pepto Bismol, cream soda and then, what would be the final shade.  Not the desired shade either. My fire truck was fuchsia.  I was mortified and time was ticking.  Guests would be arriving shortly.  Who the heck knew that it would require more than 2 full bottles of red food colouring to make white icing red?  I tasted the icing and my tongue instantly went numb.  More food colouring? Probably not safe.  What to do?  I opted to change my fire truck to something pinker, and was left with no other choice than to create a giant pig from the cupcakes.  A stuck pig at that.  My memorable first birthday party was beginning to look like a John Waters film.  As guests arrived and caught sight of the garish focal point of the table, they giggled.  I had to explain the entire ordeal to all of them, and it became a funny, memorable party, not due to its “Martha Stewart” perfection, but because of its homemade, quirky pizazz.  This year I will get a Dairy Queen ice cream cake.  Stress-free and delicious.

deranged pigs make a party more memorable

Sharing Is Caring

don't even think about it, mom

My son does not share well.  I’m sure he will, one day, but that day has not come.  Right now, if you, say, ask for a piece of his grilled cheese, the response is a resounding “Noooooo!” (sometimes, “No sank you,” but only if you’re lucky).  If you really play it up, milk it and whine “Pleeease? I’m SOOO hungry!” He will pause, think and then still say “No.”  I don’t know what my husband and I are doing wrong.  We sing the Raffi “Sharing Song” as if its a Top 40 hit. We always say “Sharing is Caring” and Charlie even repeats it.  We’ve even taken up clowning in an effort to teach, for “modeling” sake.  In a pantomime fashion, Mommy and Daddy share everything (me with my husband and he with me) and we lay the manners on thick too “Thank you so much for sharing this delicious apple with me daddy.  I was hoping you’d give me a bite and you did! Oh boy!”  Charlie just rolls his eyes and walks away “Charlie’s apple” he says, clutching his Northern Spy tightly.    

You’d think having 3 young cousins around to share toys with would help.  You’d think our twice weekly visits to the local Ontario Early Years drop in Centers, where sharing is sacrosanct, would have rubbed off on him atleast a little.  Well it hasn’t. Recently, for example, we went to the center for some play time with different toys, to play with new kids.  We were first to arrive.  Big mistake.  This sends Charlie the following message, I’m sure: Behold, Sir Charles, your very own play mansion filled with whatever toy you desire. Enjoy.  Then, of course, as it is a public place (and free, and awesome) lots of other mommies arrive with their kidlets to escape the Murky Dismal weather.  The Bob the Builder toy set Charlie has been enjoying (alone) is suddenly “under attack” as other curious children arrive and bee-line for it.  Charlie enters high-alert disaster mode and starts wailing, tears spurting from his eyes as if he’s swallowed a habenero.  He runs to me and collapses in my lap.  Its a travesty.  

Desperate, I search my local library for books on sharing.  I found one called “Mine” by Patrice Barton.  Its a book about two toddlers who fight over everything and all they keep yelling is “MINE!” and trouble ensues when their puppy starts stealing and destroying everything they fight over.  I think its a little over his head because all he does is laugh hysterically at it, especially when the teddy bear ends up soaked in the dog dish after doing an aerial over the entire living room.  This book is NOT teaching Charlie to share.  What will?

I Know What I Want and I Want It Now

Operation: Tantrum Management

Charlie has recently started expressing very strong preferences for things.  Some might call him willful.  Others may say he’s domineering.  He’s almost two.  No, I will not let myself call it the “terrible twos” that’s so cliche and I’m not there yet so I haven’t really technically experienced it and can’t assume the label.  I’ll paint the picture.

6:30 AM Wakes up, opens door and, from crib, sweetly coos, “Oh, Moommmmmy!”

6:33 AM Mom shuffles sleepily to the doorway and says playfully and with an intent to start the day off on a whimsical note, “Who’s there?”

6:34 AM Charlie screams and yells no and throws himself onto the mattress in his crib, mom tries to cajole him and rubs his back.  “Are you still sleepy? Want to go back to sleep?”

6:35 AM Charlie hits mom’s hands away and moans, “Arghwahwahwah” Like a wounded, whimpering mule.

6:36 AM Mom goes back to bed, from bed she says, calmly, “Ok, Charlie go back to sleep then.”

6:37 AM Charlie is silent and then screams a foundation-rattling wail which knocks picture frames off their nails throughout the hallway, “UP!!! NOW!!! PEEESE?”

This is how we BEGIN our days.  

He’s also mastered the “wet noodle” maneuver whenever I need to pick him up to move him out of harms way or dress or undress him.  Diaper changes? Forget about it.  Its like he’d rather sit in his own refuse than humor me to lie still for a mere 30 seconds.  I swear I could probably do it in even less time if he’d just HOLD STILL.  Socks? Rather go barefoot.  Shoes? Are you insane? Brush your teeth? Ok, yes, I’ll take the toothbrush, oh wait, I thought I heard you say to brush the tile grout!  “Here Charlie, have the last bite of your chicken finger” He coyly takes it and then hurls it to the floor, tiny specks of breading becoming lodged between every nook and cranny and luring neighbourhood ants into our home.  

I know that this is a phase, a milestone even, if you look it up in What To Expect The First Two Years: Toddler Edition it likely foreshadows this set of behaviours rather accurately and calls it Displays of Attitude.  I’m fine with it.  Its cute at times.  He’s developing his personality, his likes and dislikes, he’s expressing himself and communicating and what’s crazy is, its up to me, and how I react that is teaching him, in the moment, whether or not that behaviour is tolerated.  I’m socializing him and this terrifies me as I’m a rather sarcastic and impatient person.

He’s also a bit of a parrot recently repeating back everything I say.  “Is there an echo in here?” he just said with (if not perfect pronunciation) perfect intonation.  Earlier today it was, “Darnit!” and “What the HECK?!” We really have to kindergarten-ize our expressions.  What a little potty mouth!

Through The Fog

don't let it creep in on you and try to manage it on your own

Its foggy outside today.  Where I live, its never foggy very often and so its odd and notable to see the mist hanging there in mid air. There have been a few times already today where I’ve glanced outside while passing by a window and actually stopped for a moment to keep looking.  No real tangible thoughts occurred to me when I stood there, but I stood for a pause nevertheless. 

Charlie had a really long sleep today and instead of the regular chores or movie watching, I decided I’d reflect on being a mom.  Maybe I’m dried up on unique topics for my “mom blog”.  I don’t know.  But ever since watching the tear-jerking film, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, based on the novel of the same name by Jonathan Safran Foer, I’ve been ruminating on that vital parent-child bond.   Today I thought a lot about the events or things about becoming a mother that have left me changed and the things that have bonded me to my son.  I tried hard to define motherhood (and parenthood and dependency and responsibility).  To express the epic change that occurs when you bring someone into the world.  I thought of many images and metaphors, but what I realized beyond anything poetic, artistic or with a writer’s sensibility is that I experienced for the first time in my life, real mccoy depression.  Post-partum depression, baby blues, whatever you’d like to call it.  I think the majority of it is over now, I’m “through the fog”, but sometimes, on days like this, due to pathetic fallacy I guess, little whispers of it creep back.

For those of you who have depression on a good day versus a sleep-deprived, hormonal rampage one, well, I guess this post is pretty empty for you (or maybe not).  I’m not looking for sympathy and I certainly don’t feel sorry for myself.  I’m writing as an open confession (though confession seems like the wrong word for talking about depression - it assumes there is some shame there - which there isn’t) maybe an open letter is a better way to express it.  

Before I was married and had Charlie, when I was in high school, I babysat a lot.  This one family had three kids and seemed pretty perfect from the outside.  I used to watch crap tv when the kids went to sleep, but one time I noticed on the book shelf Down Came The Rain by Brooke Shields.  “Maybe their mom isn’t so perfect.” I judged.  I read the entire book over the next 3 babysitting jobs.  I was far away from having a baby and yet I, for some reason, was interested in it.  After I had Charlie I was in a fog.  A thick one.  I couldn’t even see what, for those close to me, was as plain as day: I was majorly depressed.  It took me about 6-7 months of suffering before I went to my family doctor who referred me to a mental health specialist.  I was afraid to go.  I thought, this isn’t depression, I’m just tired.  I’m just bitchy and sore and frustrated.  But, when I went, she administered the Edinburgh Post-Natal Depression Scale/Test and told me that, yup, I needed some help.  I didn’t feel like I loved Charlie.  I wanted to.  I knew that I should, but I was too overwhelmed and sad to feel that emotion.  To love anything frankly, even things I used to love.  Before.  

But now I feel pretty darn great.  I didn’t need medication (though I would have taken it if the doctor recommended it), but I started blogging and journaling and telling people about it.  I connected to other moms and felt better.  I wasn’t alone.  I also started to notice how Charlie was becoming more independent.  I stopped nursing.  He slept through the night.  He started to engage and be more responsive.  He started developing more of a personality.  I started to feel myself enjoying him and loving him and feel more natural as a mom.  I’m more lighthearted and don’t feel so anxious about things.  I don’t always worry or blame myself if things don’t go exactly as planned.  I don’t cry at the drop of a hat.  I sleep better and if the chores are piling up, I usually just do them one at a time instead of thinking of them as this giant, unachievable mountain of a to-do list.

Now, when I hear Charlie wake up from his nap, I don’t feel heavy or panicky that he’s awake.  I feel excited to play with him and see the world through fresh eyes.

http://www.helpformom.ca

http://www.lifewithnewbaby.ca 

Patience Is A Virtue

Charlie Shake: 2 parts odds and ends, 1 part mom-patience

There are times when I question the hypocrisy of my never-ending patience for the children I teach and my serious lack of patience for my own 2-year old son.  Is it because he is my progeny that I expect him to be compliant and obey my commands at all times?  Is it because I get paid (or will when I get a job) to be patient with the children I teach? I don’t think so.  Why is it that I get so flustered when he goes limp noodle and throws a tantrum or when he decides to take all the tampons out of the box in the bathroom and line them up down the hallway like railroad ties?  Why is it that I can’t smile and shrug when I notice he’s taken every piece of folded laundry out of the basket and strewn them across the room?  Why do I blow a fuse when he puts all his scrambled eggs inside his glass of apple juice when I turn my back for two seconds?  I think I need a reality check.  At times like these, I think: he’s healthy.  I’m healthy.  He’s curious, learning, experimenting, testing the boundaries.  These are all really good things.  Why should I care that he’s a Tasmanian devil leaving ripped, dismantled, wrinkled and wrecked things in his wake?  

I suppose it is because I find myself unable to catch up with the messes that present themselves in every corner of my house and instead of laughing about it, I let it put me in a crabby mood.  Today for example, there are puzzles everywhere.  The dishes need to be emptied out of the dishwasher for the next load of crusty ones to go in.  Charlie’s clothes are all over the place and he’s removed the entire contents of my pantry and put two items per kitchen floor tile like a grocery store checkerboard.  When I open the lazy susan to find my coasters, can opener, plastic cling wrap and a pair of socks inside my empty juice pitcher, I feel my shoulders hunch tighter.  Maybe I do need that Eucalyptis roll-on anti stress stick I was given.  If only I could find it.  As I empty the contents of the pitcher to put the items back in their respective places, Charlie comes around the corner protesting wildly.  “No, mama.  Benda.”  He takes the items, returns them inside the pitcher and puts on the lid.  Suddenly he begins to make a blender whirring sound.  “See? Benda.”  Mr. Messy is a genius.

To Spanx or Not To Spanx

control-top pantyhose or how to lose a customer in ten seconds

Its my sister-in-law’s wedding in less than a month.  I am known for procrastinating and so the other day I ran to the local mall to look at a dress.  I couldn’t deal with the uncertainty stress any longer and wanted to wipe it off my to-do list.  I left Charlie with a sitter and had all the time in the world to go to every store and look at anything that tickled my fancy.  I went to the first store, a rather upscale boutique with ladies wear for the 40-80 set.  It has knit dresses and accessories, embellished pant suits and some formal wear for charity dinners, etc.  I don’t know why on earth I decided to go there first, but I did.  Well, no, actually that is a lie.  I probably did because I wasn’t in the mood to negotiate my body into a too-short number made for teenagers.  Post-baby body does not like change-room lighting, let alone that sinking feeling of not being able to get a dress over your hips or, once over your hips, done up properly.  So Aritzia, H&M, Forever 21 and Garage were all out of the question and I knew I’d be dishing out a pretty penny for something suitable that didn't show the bottom of my butt cheeks if I decided to cut a rug on the dance floor.

I knew that I didn’t want to buy anything at a department store because they depress me and the change rooms are always old and dirty and the staff is never that helpful.  Honestly, I once found a maxi pad in a change room at a department store.  I also didn’t feel like hunting through a vast section of mock neck sweaters in every colour of the rainbow before finding “the dress”.  

So I chose this place and decided to take the salesperson up on her offer when she greeted me with, “Good afternoon - can I help you find anything in particular?”  I told her, with a rather pained look on my face I'm sure, what I was looking for and she led me to the back of the store that housed a small selection of what appeared to be tastefully chosen semi- and formal wear for the season.  I immediately gravitated to black because its slimming and lately, I’ve been trying to buy basics that can be worn over and over and refreshed with different accessories.  I chose 3 shortish black dresses in different cuts and sizes.  Its been a while (oh, and a baby) since I bought any dresses.  I made the grave mistake of picking up a 4 which was my size upon graduating highschool.  Was that really 10 years ago? Somehow it is permanently etched in my mind that I am still that size.  Wishful thinking I suppose.  The saleswoman, laser eyes and all, swept in and handed me an 8.  “This is better.” she smiled with a half-pitying, half-sincere grin/grimace.

She led me to my change room and pointed at an array of higheels in varying heights to borrow should I like to see my leg “lengthened” in the mirror once in the dress.  I guess I have stubby gams.  I looked down at my shoes, black Nike hightops and wool socks.  Bad choice for dress shopping.  Don’t ever get me started on the hairy legs.

Too lazy to remove my shoes, I slid my jeans off over them, and put on the first dress.  After wrestling with it to sit properly, I took it off before opening the door to show the saleslady, even though I knew she was waiting to see it.  With the second dress on I was happy.  “Need a zip?” she telepathically asked me.  After I was zipped up, I received the nod of approval from her and shockingly, liked what I saw in the mirror.  The dress was comfortable and quite cute.  I’m sure any fashion mag would approve of its LBD status.

She mentioned a promotion that if I spent a certain amount I’d receive $50 off and so, math not being my strong suit, I opted for a pair of blingish diamond studs to finish off the outfit and bring my tab up to discount-approved status.  As I walked up to the cash feeling quite happy and lucky that I'd found my beloved dress at the very first shop I entered, the woman whispered to me, “You know, we do sell Spanx.”  I sputtered.  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard those are, ahem, effective.” I said, taking out my credit card.  “Shall I include a pair?” she asked. “Barely black are attractive for evening wear.”  Had I said what I was really feeling in that moment, which would be sure to voice a peculiar mixture of shame, saddness, rage and a vague being-bullied feeling, I would have probably made a bit of a scene.  Something along the lines of, “Pardon me?! Are you suggesting that I have a muffin top that needs hiding? Are you implying that I look ok, but that I have unwanted bulges that would benefit from a little harnessing? Well I NEVER!” I would slam the dress down (or maybe even drop it on the floor) and storm out of the store, stomping across its fabric with my high tops as I left.  This is something I visualized doing in the time it took me to swallow hard, keep a fake pleasant smile on my face and sign for my purchase.

I guess my problem is, I find it really hard to take public suggestions on how I might conceal the fact that I created, housed, birthed and fed a human being using my body within the last 2 years.  The fact is, your body doesn’t bounce back perfectly like it appears to in every celebrity magazine and this fact is hard to accept.  When others point it out, well, its pretty infuriating and also heart-sinking.  I’ve tried to rationalize her suggestion, like maybe, regardless of the customer, its her job to upsell Spanx to everyone.  I mean, even if Alessandra Ambrosio was shopping there, would she recommend Spanx?  Oh, I hope so.  I guess this enraged, internalized reflection is probably due to years of body issues and body-image issues, but I felt the need to write about it because, well, its not going away.  Though she stamped "final sale" over my receipt in red ink, she might as well have stamped "saggy maggie" right in the middle of my forehead. 

Caspar Babypants and Being Half Of A Creative Couple

brimming with creative potential

My son is watching every single conceptualization of “The Wheels on the Bus” ever video recorded and posted to YouTube on my iPhone.  Now he’s watching one in Japanese.  Atleast he’ll have a multicultural appreciation before JK.  Also in the background is Mighty Machines on the TV (Google the theme song now to share in my pain).  Upstairs, I’ve left Caspar Babypants playing on the CD player.  Energy conservationists we are not.  This is a recipe for ADD in the making if I ever saw one.

I’m writing today about Caspar Babypants.  Well not JUST about him, also about his wife, Kate Endle and well “artsy coupledom” and how darn aspirational it is.  I’m no mom blogger product endorser, but Caspar Babypants, if you’re not familiar, is a children’s musician/ entertainer also known as Chris Ballew the chrome-domed, former frontman of zany 90s band The Presidents of the United States of America.  “Peaches come in a can, they were put there by a man in a factory downtown.”  You might remember that little ditty.  Well, he’s reinvented himself after marrying and having babies and he’s amazing and prolific.  If you’re a parent you know the typical playlist: Yo Gabba Gabba, Justin Roberts, Elizabeth Mitchell, Frances England, Dan Zanes, (oh, and likely Sharon, Lois and Bram and Raffi are still in heavy rotation).  Well might I suggest you add all of Caspar Babypants albums to the virtual jukebox?  I’m not getting paid for this because my site traffic is laughable so I assure you I’m not part of his marketing strategy, I’m just a fan.  His original songs are hilarious (bug in the cuff of my pants, poor little broken truck, poor dust bunnies, my flea has dogs) and catchy (still singing small black ant and not annoyed by it).  And his wife is pretty darn amazing herself.  She’s a successful artist whose work has made it all over the place (to greeting cards, children’s books and just so happens to have graced all the covers of her hubby’s albums with her adorable collage art).  What might their house be like on a typical Sunday morning? I’m envisioning kids wearing newspaper pirate hats, feet warm inside hand-knit wool slippers in rainbow colours, they climb inside a cardboard box to eat their organic pancakes while dad plays his latest tune on a vintage bright green guitar and mom cuts out paper samples to collage the kitchen wall in owls.  Anyway, in my mind its the stuff of a Dwell center spread or a feature on Moomah.

This brings me to the actual point of this blog post which is: aspirational couples (those who I aspire to be like).  Couples who (publicly at least) are creative, artsy and successful and just authentically good at what they do.  I find this very inspiring.  Its all very artificial potentially.  I’m aware that their personal lives may be a shambles and for all I know they can’t stand the smell of each other’s breath, but their public personae as a couple is simply irresitable, and so that is why I find them aspirational.  They have that “thing”.  I consider myself somewhat creative and my husband very much so, and while we have careers that bring in the bucks, I think deep down, many of us are still trying to find that perfect-world scenario where you love what you do and make money doing it; when work doesn’t feel like work anymore.  Not rich and famous, that’s not the goal, but making ends meet (plus a little for an authentic espresso machine from Faema).  I’m not saying that every couple should try to become Paul and Linda and form Wings.  I’m just saying that if you and your spouse happen to have that particular sensibility then, well, embrace it and support each other embracing it.

So with that overly-philosophical point murkily made - here’s my dream dinner party guest list of some inspiring (and yes, famous) creative couples:

Chris Ballew and Kate Endle

Bono and Ali Hewson
Rufus Wainwright and Jorn Weisbrodt

Trudie Styler and Sting

Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin

Diana Krall and Elvis Costello

Tracey Stewart and Jon Stewart

Luke Doucette and Melissa MccLelland

Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner (ok, maybe they’re not around anymore, but this is a dream list)

Zoe Kazan and Paul Dano

Jay-Z and Beyonce

Who would you add to your list?

Items That Might Develop Into Blog Posts*

* My father, a columnist, has this funny thing he gets published every so often which is called "Items that Might Grow Up To Be Columns"  I stole this idea from him.  These are a collection of fleeting thoughts I've had of which I'll probably pick and write about at length, but not right now.

Oh! So that's a bathtub ring!

Why is everything always strewn so willy nilly?

Are those tiny jumping spiders bed bugs? Oh my god.

My son is going to be a garbage man.  That boy is just too interested in sanitation and disposal to become anything else.

Why are there always so many crumbs?

I wonder if I were to put a baby gate at the entrance of Charlie's room if he'd just sit there peacefully while I nap?

Why do people have to report you when you want so badly to run into a store and grab diapers when your son has finally fallen asleep in the back seat of the car? Its called windows slightly open for ventilation and a car alarm PEOPLE!

All he does is take puzzles apart, why can't he put them back together?

How do you calm your anxiety and stop being a worry wart if you're basically a nihilist?

Why can't I be one of those people who has a label maker and likes using it?

Rolling With It

you can choose to freak or smile 

There's a dark and a troubled side of life;
There's a bright and a sunny side, too;
Tho' we meet with the darkness and strife,
The sunny side we also may view.

Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side,
Keep on the sunny side of life;
It will help us ev'ry day, it will brighten all the way,
If we keep on the sunny side of life.

Tho' the storm in its fury break today,
Crushing hopes that we cherished so dear,
Storm and cloud will in time pass away,
The sun again will shine bright and clear.
Let us greet with a song of hope each day,
Tho' the moments be cloudy or fair;
Let us trust in our Savior alway,
Who keepeth everyone in His care.

-Ada Blenkhorn

if there’s one resounding lesson i’ve learned from being a mom for a little under 2 years its that you just have to roll with it. yeah, I’ll admit it, this new realization probably has something to do with the Stress Multivitamin my mother-in-law recently bought me (I get the message, thanks mom).   you can’t cling too tightly to the way you were and you shouldn’t try to be something you’re just never going to be.  for instance: I will never ever again be a size 2.  Dukan diet or not.  and i am never going to buy a jogger stroller and join the running club like the other fit mom’s I see around my ‘hood.  the likelihood of that is akin to me taking up heli-skiing. Um...no.

i’m now almost totally okay with going out into public spaces with smears of food from Charlie’s mouth or fingers on something I’m wearing or in my hair (peanut butter makes a fine pomade).  actually, if I remember to brush my hair and put on earrings that is a bonus.  because gradually, I think my priorities have shifted from me at the epicenter of it all to someone much more important, my son.  sure i have bitter days where I long to sleep in, or be uninterrupted while I surf the net or go shopping at a regular pace instead of Operation: buy a perfectly fitting swimsuit without trying it on and without having a 22 month old a) hide under a rack in a department store or b) scream his head off.  I do miss them, but i’m getting used to la vie nouvelle.

yes, there are puffy stickers all over my couch cushions.  all the cloth napkins that were folded nicely in the linen drawer are now the comforters and duvets of all of charlie’s stuffed animals, and the contents of my pantry are lined up (railroad-style) along the floor tiles of my kitchen (Thomas the Tank Engine is a very useful engine - he can pull 9 chicken stock bouillon cubes at a time!)  these may seem like annoyances but really they’re all just signs that my child is gifted and a divergent thinker.

today at a local pancake house we sat and shared a plate of kiddie cakes and after each bite charlie decided he’d share one with the floor. “Dit” he’d say (his version of “dirty”)  “That’s right.  It IS dirty when you throw pancakes on the floor.  So why do you keep doing it?” I asked, smiling sheepishly at the tsking waitress.  “Ants.” Charlie replied as he pointed out a small black ant crawling across the table.  “Ants yike syr-dup”.  See? He’s not only creative, but also concerned with the surrounding habitat.  Pests or not.  I left the last bit of pancake there for our friends before paying the cheque.

Before vs. After

Today I was doing my usual "Charlie is napping" routine (make a coffee, surf the net, maybe go #2) when I visited People.com and noticed an intriguing quote by Pink, the singer, who had her first child, a daughter called Willow, last year. She said, "We have no idea what we did before having Willow."  She must have amnesia.  Is that just one of those things people say because the masses expect it of them?  Here's a reminder for her.

Things We Did Before Kid and Haven’t Really Done Since - MOURNING Header	Things We Didn’t Do Before Kid - WELCOME HOME
Watched movies (start to finish, in one sitting, usually not rated G)	Share our bed with a squirming, kicking, restless leg creature
Went out for dinners (and didn't need a high chair)	Go for bike rides
Spent money on ourselves	Play trains
Slept in (I mean, past 6 am)	Roll on the carpet
Had long showers or baths (or if not long, at least had them)	Talk to strangers at the grocery store or in any line quite frankly
Took uninterrupted bathroom breaks	Cut sandwiches into 4 crustless triangles
Read a book	Kneel on the floor for 3/4 of the day
Blow dried hair, did makeup	Hunt for spiders with a "tish-oo"
Read the paper	Laugh hysterically when things spill or break
Follow fashion trends	Kiss boo boos better
Made elaborate meals	Get tackled with hugs and kisses
Went to bed late	Spot school buses, tractors, lawn mowers, dump trucks, taxi cabs, police cars and fire trucks
Had a conversation during daytime hours without whispering	Read the same book over and over
Listened to loud music loud	Listen for airplanes, train whistles and sirens
Yelled at each other with abandon	Run outside when Canadian Geese are overhead or when the Garbage/ Mail man has arrived
Made up passionately	fold 9-million pieces of laundry only to have them dumped out and spread around the floor promptly afterward
Got drunk	fought to remove a small wet person from a bathtub

Spic n' Span

Fresh as a daisy

It was 8:30 on a beautiful summer evening, and Charlie was asleep.  My husband was working late and I was by myself in a quiet house.  What to do, what to do? I decided I’d steal a moment away for myself and...clean.  Sounds ridiculous, right? Well not to the makers of a variety of products which are lavender scented.  They’ve done the focus groups, they’ve talked to the cleaning women who relax as they clean.  It seems odd.  Never in my life did I enjoy cleaning, but now I do when my son is sleeping.  I realized that cleaning uninterrupted is actually a luxury (as is eating, going to the washroom, shaving my legs, etc.).  Well, when there is nothing else on the agenda and it is quiet, cleaning is quite nice actually.  

I had a girlfriend as a teenager, whose mother would ritualize cleaning in the evenings. She would smoke, drink a corona, dim the lights and put on Joni Mitchell.  As Little Green would play softly in the background, she’d fold her whitest whites, which she’d dump out on the large harvest table in her all-white kitchen.  She'd peacefully fold the laundry blowing smoke rings making little piles based on clothing type and owner.  I believe vanilla candles were also lit in the background.   Sometimes I feel like I’m channeling this lady as I clean.

There is a difference between tidying and truly cleaning - like - Molly Maid grade cleaning.  So often, all I manage to do is a surface clean, where I grab the nearest damp cloth or Kleenex (or wipe) and clean the obvious, visible spills as they appear to me.   My cleaning, or should I say, tidying, involves: straightening pile of magazines, recycling junk mail, straightening shoes by the door, and swiffering (now a verb!) obvious dust - like ray-of-light-through-the-window dust.  After he eats, I’ll wipe down the tray of his highchair.   Later, laying on the floor doing puzzles I notice parts of the highchair that should have never seen food directly, but that now have pizza sauce and other miscellaneous things spackled and caked on - that need wiping badly.  How long has THAT been there?  My regular cleaning is not thorough spring cleaning type cleaning - who does that but before guests come, I mean, really?! You’re supposed to wash the walls?! But now, with little ants around sink, I know down deep inside why we have these household pests.  I can’t keep up.  Why does having a baby mean that everything has crumbs on it?  And I only have 1 kid! I mean, no pets and a husband who sadly works 12 hour days.  Its just me in this house basically - this means that I’m the pig and I’m raising a piglet!   I’m the worst with stuff just piling up.  My buffet for example (or sideboard/ credenza - what do you call those things anyway?) is covered in bills (paid and due mixed together), a dying plant, mix-matched tupperware, an empty Kleenex box, Charlie’s crocs, an extension cord and some random art supplies.  I’m a candidate for Clean Sweep for sure! Does that show still exist?  Hopefully I’m not a candidate for Hoarders! No, I’m not THAT bad.  

I do have one pet peeve and that is the stinky dishcloth.  Of that I am extremely vigilant, replacing it daily with a freshly bleached cloth.  But the other chores? Well, they slide.  Of all the chores on the list, emptying the dishwasher is my least favourite.  I have no clue why. I’m a soak and scrub later type.  What I lack is some true elbow grease.  And for this reason, shake and bake is my mortal enemy.  Particulates that don’t come off unless you put your back into it.  However, scrubbing a pan is quite good for getting out internal aggressions - like punching a punching bag. 

I know that I occasionally get into hyper cleaning moods where I put on Bjork or some aggressive rock and roll (The Dum Dum Girls is a favourite) and really scrub the bath ring around the tub or get down on my hands and knees and wrangle the dust bunnies that live underneath every piece of furniture in my house.  I fill up the kitchen sink with hot, I mean boiling, sudsy water and scrub every surface.  As I clean I literally feel my hair fall out and my biceps bulge as I turn into a flat-chested bald man with a hoop earring. Self-satisfied, arms crossed, nodding with a big grin on my smug face.  “Yes, that’s Mrs. Clean to you.”

My house rarely looks spiffy and sparkly except for when my mother-in-law has been over.  My spices drawer is alphabetized, my linen closet looks ready for a Martha Stewart magazine centerfold spread and when I put away the folded laundry she’s done I have a series of revelations!  So THIS is how you’re supposed to fold a bath towel, fitted sheet, pair of panties, FILL IN THE BLANK!  It was like I was visited by the laundry fairy.

The last thing I’ll say about cleaning is the idea of getting your kids on board to team clean!  Its this myth that I’ve heard mentioned over and over.  Its cool that Charlie loves to clean by his own volition, but as soon as you force it, by buying a little broom swiffer- trying to make cleaning fun during a pre-ordained "time for cleaning"!  Its just not going to happen.  I've heard it said,  “If your little one likes cleaning, you’ll have a helper and not have to get after them to always clean up after themselves”.  It reminds me of the little ditty we sing at playgroup at the day’s end:

Clean up, clean up everybody everywhere

Clean up, clean up everybody do your share!

Not in this lifetime.