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.

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