Do-As-I-Say Parenting

We went out for a family dinner last night. A little reward for the kids taking one for the team for the past couple of weeks: they had to be shipped off early to before-school daycare to accommodate a little blip in our logistics. We negotiated that in early. Plus some books to read in the hour before school for Norah. They drive a hard bargain.

So the conversation turned to swearing. What? We managed to use the fact that we were out at the "Fanciest Restaurant in Town" (the children use the fanciness of restaurant bathrooms as their gauge and this one is off the charts. Food's ok too) to steer us away from the usual burping & farting conversation.

Max: "so what swearing have you heard Mom & Dad say?" Nothing like asking a loaded question.

Norah: "Well, when driving, Mom has said 'bloody hell!'"

Me: "'Bloody'? That's not even a swear!" [phew]

Norah: "and also 'son of a *bleep*'" (she self-sensors, even when singing along to songs on the radio that have the "soft-swears" in them)

Me: "Well, ok. That's probably not the best"

Max and I exchanged some knowing glances indicating disbelief that this would be the worst that they've heard from us. Really, we try hard - Max tries harder than me - but quite regularly the *real* baddies slip out in whisper and somewhat-less-than-whisper form.

So today, Norah & Pepper were folding our hand towels on the couch (it's one of their jobs. Don't go thinking they just cheerily attack this job or anything). Norah mentioned something sticky on the couch and went to get a wet cloth to deal with it (ok, THAT I'm pretty pleased with).

Norah: "Goddammit! It won't come out"

Me: "WHAT WAS THAT?"

"The sticky stuff. It won't come out"

"No, I mean what did you SAY?"

"I'm trying to wipe it, but it won't come out!"

"[sigh] what. did. you. say. before. that?"

silence and wiping.

"Goddammit, it's still not coming out"

"THERE! Do not say that!"

[nonplussed]"ok, how about 'oh my god'?"

"how about 'oh my gosh'?"

"Whatever. I got most of it out anyway."

It's a work in progress.

Peanut Butter

I don't let the kids watch Family Guy (I do have lines)(they may be fuzzy)(and distant)(but they're there) but I showed them this:




... and then the "original" (or some variation):

Both were big hits. But then came the challenge of finding out how many times in a row the phrase can be repeated.

We haven't reached it yet, but I DO have this nice pen hanging out of my ear.

Influence

One hundred years ago today (March 29), my Grandma was born.

Left: She and I at her London Street house c. 1969; Right: About 30 years later, months prior to the emergence of her first great-grandchild

Grandma's been gone for just over four years, and I miss her terribly. But her mark on my life was indelible, so since she has passed, I have had far less of a sense of loss than I imagined I might. She has really not gone anywhere.

As a woman of my generation and socio-geo-nomic upbringing, it's easy to become complacent about my lot in life. It's easy to wave off the fact that I vote and have an education and a decent job. That I am surrounded by people who accept it as a natural decision of circumstance within a family, that the father be at home with the kids. Or the mother.

There are two kinds of people (yes, I said "people") who have put me here today: there are those who spoke out & marched & fought & litigated & fought & marched some more; and there are those who just did. Grandma just did. Every day.

The Three Lessons From Grandma, that she never, ever said out loud:

1. Get yourself an education. And don't stop.
2. NO ONE can make you feel inferior without your permission (I realize that Eleanor Roosevelt said that, but Grandma lived it)
3. Do not take yourself too seriously, dammit!

Without words, every one of those lessons has been threaded through my person, as I've tried to emulate her spirit in an entirely different life & time. #2 is hard, but I think I'm doing OK.

**************

Happy Great-Grandma Norah Day!

(Pepper named the day, on Grandma's first birthday after she passed. She saw it marked on the calendar, she decided we should do something about it. So we did!)

Parenting... It's All About Communication

I yell: "STAND STILL SO I CAN TAKE YOUR PICTURE!":



I whisper: "chocolate chips":

(Actually, everything in all of life is all about communication, but that's a topic for a different post. One filed under "d'uh".)

Breathe

If you look to the upper right of your screen (assuming your screen looks anything like mine, which might be a huge assumption, me being only technically ept (how come "ept" isn't the opposite of "inept"?) enough to get myself into serious trouble and not necessarily out of it), you may notice the bio saying "something, something wife/mom/engineer something something". That might lead you to believe that I have some answers or at least suggestions about "balancing it all". HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! [cack-choke-cough]
Ohhhhhhmercy… (Sucker).

Really, that was just a lure to reel in those who might also have some ideas/notions/ANSWERS (preferably EASY answers) and then I could check them out, absorb them, and then I'D have life-balance, and then I could stop blogging and just sip G & T in my perfectly life-balanced back yard (where it would always be a beautiful day)(and summer)(and that perfectly balanced lounge chair would show up on sale, too). Or, OR I could keep blogging about frivolous stuff (without feeling guilty about it)(or feeling guilty about not feeling guilty about it)(and so on).

So anyways, that hasn't panned out (my GAWD you people have a lot of problems!) and I've had to resort to the HARD way (sometimes known as "the only way"). Which pisses me off. Well, not really. Except on some level. Maybe the level where I thought there was another way. This post is making less and less sense. I wish there was some kind of an edit button.

Was there a point? Kind of, though maybe not a strong one. I went in to work today (yes, Sunday). Work is nutty. Like, kind of surreal nutty. I went in to get a handle on it. On my way in, I was kind of pouting. "It's Sunday morning. I want to be lounging in bed, doing my Sudorku, or crossword" (no, that's not code)(or is it?)(no, unfortunately, it's not). After four hours of pretty successful focussing and dragon-slaying, I returned home. We were heading out to my folks place and it occurred to me that I had to switch gears (from engineer) and be those other things. Given the success of the day, and how I was looking forward to spending some (albeit short) time with my family, I started to think that maybe it IS about focus. Be in the moment.

There it is, an easy answer: Breathe, and move on. And breathe again.

[But not when you put the glass up to your mouth, because that will make you choke, and that is just a waste of perfectly good gin]

Do you have any more easy answers? Please?

Balentimes

A few years ago, due to some unusual circumstances involving no one together that evening (plus Grandma in town for a visit), I decided to instead have a special family Valentine's breakfast. The more I explored the idea, the fancier and the idea grew. Our best china, champagne glasses for the orange juice, table confetti, flowers...

The funny part was that it was all very simple, and easily doable (even for me!) I had no idea what to have for a Valentines themed breakfast so I landed on biscuits. Made them heart-shaped, added whipped cream & fresh fruit (we splurged in the dead of winter)

The kids loved it, and the idea stuck. We've done it every year since.

This year, we were going to be at my parents' for a sleepover (unrelated to Valentine's day, but a different manufactured holiday combining Norah's birthday, Chinese New Year and mostly our desire to get together and make home-made ravioli one night an pad-Thai, chicken curry & spring rolls the next), and the kids got concerned about what we were going to do about our Balentimes breakfast!

So we took it on the road.

**UPDATED** see link to Pad-Thai recipe method!

The Volcano

For as long as I can remember, I've eaten my mashed potatoes by piling them up, carving a little hole in them and filling the hole up with gravy. It just makes sense. This way, you get maximum efficient use of your plate (especially important in buffet situations) with minimum risk of gravy infiltration to other food – just gross (half of you are now sitting there nodding "oh, that's just obvious"; the other three are face-palming "WTF? You are bent lady!" that second half of you can just bite me)

Growing up, my family mostly ignored accepted this. I have received some blank stares and probably some rolled eyes when I wasn't looking. Mostly, just "oh, that Harmzie – has to make her little mashed potato volcano!" They openly mock me (NB: this is just regular, every day, normal family interaction - it's why I have the stomach for the Internet) – albeit quietly – but I'm certain they realize the genius of my arrangement as I see them Easter, Thanksgiving & Christmas dinner after Easter, Thanksgiving & Christmas dinner, their little piles of mashed potatoes sporting increasingly larger divots in their tops. They make sure their gravy runs over so it doesn't look like they did it on purpose, but I'm watching...

My girls noticed this early in their mashed potato consumerism phases. Not having the years of family politics and baggage to impede them, they quickly embraced the brilliance of The Volcano. Mashed potatoes are one of their favourite and most highly anticipated foods in the dinner cycle. Sadly, Stewie will not eat mashed potatoes, even with the entertainment they bring to the table [snort].

Usually, they are content with piling the potatoes, smooshing out the hole and watching the gravy fill the void until it *just* runs over the edge – the smaller the trickle, the better (this whole issue may actually be the reason Pepper did her volcano project last spring). The other night though, things were a little more... interesting.

I had built the perfect volcanoes for each of them. I mean, textbook. One tiny stream of lava running down a craggy mountain face. Pepper took her fork (she used a fork! I'm so proud) and grabbed a tiny blob of potatoes and put it smack in the lava's path.

"Oh no! The lava is heading right for the city!"

Norah quickly followed, noting a city in her lava stream. "Oh... they're toast"

Pepper was madly trying to save her city by redirecting lava flows. I noted her city was right on the edge of her plate. "You know," I commented, "as the chief engineer, if any lava gets on the table, YOU'RE the one responsible – and in big trouble." She looked at me blankly. "You can *direct* your lava flows. Do you see how your sister's city is toward the middle of her plate?" More blank. "Don't get gravy on the table!"

Norah had moved on. "Look Pepper, my volcano has exploded, taken out the city and is now a delicious lava and ash tornado"

Throughout all of this – including the naming of Mount Potato, Mount Chick(en), Mount Bean (we had green beans, too), plus a dozen more including Mount Norah, Mount Pepper, Mount Stewie, as well as each of their friends on our street AND in school... AND several other food varieties we were not having that night... – Stewie was watching intently while gnawing on his drumstick – the only thing from this delicious and entertaining supper to pass his lips. At one point, he stood in his chair and announced that he would have some mashed potatoes too, but that he didn't want to eat them. Before I had a chance to shoot him down in a fiery ball of momtastic you-can't-have-food-JUST-to-play-with-it, BOTH Pepper and Norah chimed in with a matter-of-fact "No, you can`t just play with a volcano, you have to eat it too"

"Oh," he replied, and sat back down, continuing to watch & gnaw on his drumstick.

And I just wrote an entire post about mashed potatoes.

Girly Bible

Girly Bible

Rules for Girls

Reprinted (verbatim – as is the title) with permission from the author.

******************************************

1. Never talk about vilolince
   
2. Never think vilolince is funny
   
3. Never kiss a boy under the age of 12 (unless they are relitives)
   
4. Never tell secrets to those you don't know
   
5. Pay no attention when the "boy show" is on
   
6. Always eat & talk (not at the same time) for the girls show
   
7. Never be rude
   
8. When you have a crush on a boy be nobody but yourself
   
9. Always be yourself
   
10. Be clean
    
11. Don't' change the rules in this book (And I mean it!)
    
12. Obey the rules
    
13. Take care of what you have
    
14. Friends don't fight
    
15. Friends don't be meen to each other
    
16. Friends look out for each other
    
17. Play fair
    
18. Ignore those who are annoying
    
19. Be careful what you say
    
20. Be calm
    
21. Face your fears
    
22. Boys don't live by these rules
    
23. Never expect anything in return
    
24. Don't make fun of people
    
25. Chear on your teammates & friends
    
26. Don't play with matches
    
27. Stay fit
    
28. Dress apropitly for the wether
    
29. Don't listen to advratisements
    
30. Mute ads
    
31. Get your butt of the couch and go outside
    
32. Don't do things without asking your parents (unless your 18+)
    
33. Be neat
    
34. Be careful what you wish
    
35. Do what you want to do
    
36. Girls are not lazy
    
37. Don't cry over spilt milk
    
38. What you say is what you are
    
39. Nnnnnnnnneeeeeevvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrr no matter what obey the boy bible.
    
40. Don't talk to strangers
    
41. Obey rule #40
    
42. Be a good girl all the time.
    
43. Ignore boys
    
44. Consentrate
    
45. Remember all the rules!
    

Norah – age 9

******************************************

I didn't write this. I didn't even encourage its writing. I didn't even know about it until it was well under way. But it is extremely encouraging to note the influence we have had on its creation. Several of these rules we *regularly* deal with *considerable* flack on. The violence ones are humorous, considering the frequency of sister-clocking which occurs around here. We're still working on implementation of the rules, I suppose.

***Update***

I hit "publish", snap the computer closed and roll over to go to sleep. Max reaches out with big bear arms and pulls me in for a big bear hug. He giggles lasciviously "is THIS in the Girly bible?"

"No," I say "This will be in the new testament, which she doesn't know she has to write yet."

Sweet and Salty

The girls stayed up way too late last night to watch a movie on TV because "IT'S THE WEEKEND!" and it's what we do on weekends, apparently.

So the crazy late, late movie they watched was actually "Cheaper by the Dozen 2 - we left the movie making machine on!" Stewie actually tried to stay up too, but fell asleep by about 9:30.

When it was over, despite it being ELEVEN o'clock, I still had to grab their scrawny little arms and twist them beyond what is reasonable force to convince them that maybe they should be going to bed, because "it's the weekend" and "OMG! It's Prank Patrol! We HAVE to watch that".

I tucked them in separately, in their separate rooms on separate floors. And separately, as they were settling, they both paused and gave me the saddest look I had ever seen from them and told me of this really sad commercial they had seen. (They're supposed to mute the commercials, but I go hoarse yelling over to the TV area "why am I hearing that?")

And then they started CRYING! Each of them.

I thought: "damn - I forgot that they have a whole different set of commercials on later, even on YTV". I assumed we were going into World Vision territory, but no. The offender was thus:



Of course, my poor dears, I hugged them and comforted them at the same time as I was giggling at them for being so sensitive. Then I watched it myself and suddenly found that there was a bit of something in my eye.

Here's notice, Sidekicks: any chance you had of ever coming into this home are summarily ELIMINATED when you make my girls cry! (disclaimer: it was slim to none prior)(clarification: and it's NOT because there was something in MY eye).

Very Small Rocks

I had a dream the other night that I was in my parents' garden and they rolled a giant rock out of it and it rolled right at me. I dodged it once, but then it rolled back, right on top of me. Just as I was yelling "HELP!" they looked up and I woke up. I always wake up before the worst part of a dream – even those that don't involve my own demise.

So I woke up and I immediately began thinking "what the hell was THAT?"

I don't usually ponder the meanings of my dreams. I've had relatively few that I could figure out even if I tried. The most vivid was one I had as a child – about four. A large crowd of people – including my mother, my father and me – were running in a field, being chased by a herd of buffalo. The sky was dark with a looming storm. My mother and father were at the front of this crowd and tossing me back and forth between them. My mother was wearing a green vinyl trench coat. Did I mention they were newly separated at the time? I think it was a warning about my aversion to crowds. And buffalo.

The only other one I can recall offhand was about a former boss, whom I respect deeply. I had an image of him in a bathtub having been electrocuted with a toaster. That one freaked me out. So I asked my mom what death meant in dreams. She assured me that it was all about change, which kind of made sense, since we had just acquired a new toaster at the kitchenette. I failed to mention the bathtub and the nakedness. I don't want to know what that meant. (He's alive and well, by the way. And clothed, I presume.)

Now, I often don't pick up on metaphors and deeper meanings unless they are explained to me in very small words (high-school English was a bitch), but I sort of decided that the big giant rock was something that was overwhelming me.

I discussed this with Max, who, after mocking me soundly about dreaming about giant rocks (that's just how we roll – HAW!), analyzed – probably correctly – that may I have some difficulty in breaking down problems/issues into manageable pieces. It's all or nothing. Give'er pig. Go big or go home. And then, bleh... I'm done. Burned out. But hey! I'm done, so I can just rest. This MO would often work out just fine in my pre-child years, in an apartment, but now it does not serve me well. There is no rest, there's just the next project or task or crisis (did you know I made a whole freaking RAGGEDY ANN doll? Embroidery and everything?) So I'll consider it. Because, hey, I like rest as much as the next guy. Maybe more.

And what the hell is up with the fucking brain anyway? Why can't it just say "HEY! YOUR PARENTS ARE SEPARATING!" or "HEY! YOU'RE MORE WORRIED THAN YOU THINK ABOUT THE CHANGES AT WORK!" or

"HEY!!! STUPID!!! TRY TACKLING YOUR PROBLEMS IN SMALLER PARTS!"

I can't help but note that if I were to break up this "rock" into manageable "pieces" that a pile of gravel that size would still kill me. But maybe I take the metaphor too far.

I also note that Max wasn't in this dream, and have concluded that he must have been holding the rock back, and is actually the reason I was able to wake up at all.

Roughing It

I'm stuck out here in the middle of The Gap with a laptop from Pioneer days (seriously – the mouse doesn't work. Do you know how much you use the mouse on a computer? A lot. A hell of a lot), so I thought I'd share a little about life on the road. With three kids.

Let me tell you those pioneers had it easy simply because, sure they couldn't tie up kids for hours on end with a DVD player that would plug into the horse's butt, but they COULD threaten beatings, or typhoid, or mountain lions. I'm not allowed to do that. All I've got is "finish your kids' meal or I'll eat the Oreo cookie treat myself". Even that, in the wrong context could land me in jail for child depravation these days. And they know it.

So we embarked on a whirlwind road trip to Calgary for Thanksgiving. Roughing it in the worst way. We drove a whole 10 hours and landed in Medicine Hat at a hotel campsite of Max's choosing (and reserving). The plan was to pitch camp and blow off a little kid steam at the waterslide. It was a brutally rough test of endurance, as the hot-tub was not working, so as Max & the kids partook in only two full sized waterslides, I was forced to take on the body-temperature swimming pool. It was excruciating. Then, the place that we camped only had glass French doors between the king-sized bed and the rest of the suite. And they didn't even latch shut. Also, the TV in the bathroom was only 19 inches (never mind that there were only three TVs! Come on! There are five of us!) AND the dual shower heads had to be turned on separately. I swear I would rather have beat my laundry on a rock. Or maybe marble, like the floors and counters in there. Then I had to endure a Japanese Hot-Stone massage that Max had booked for me, when really I just wanted to bake pretzels and tan racoon hides over the campfire with the children. No, really. But endure it I did. It was also excruciating.

After I showered in the spa's shower with only four jets on top of the regular overhead shower, we de-camped and proceeded to Calgary where we weren't allowed to demonstrate our stupendous roughing it skills, and were forced to accept overwhelming hospitality and generosity from our brother and sister-in-law. Seriously. We had to sleep in our own room! With the kids on a whole other floor! And visit and re-connect with other adults! Family adults! I know.

But Thanksgiving dinner made all the roughing it totally worth it. My niece made her very first all-on-her-own Thanksgiving dinner. The only thing I had to endure about that was the painful awe and inspiration watching her pull it all together flawlessly (actually, I only saw the finale. She had it so together that 99% of it was done for extra awe and inspiration). Also, it was delicious. And the company was wonderful. And they had a playroom with a plexi-glass door. That LATCHED! The pioneers had nothing on that.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Note I said "Thanksgiving" and not "Canadian Thanksgiving". You're a big kid and can figure it out.

You say it’s your birfday…

(This conversation took place in July. I'm a yiddle bit disappointed that it didn't play out the way he planned it. That would have been awesome.)

"I'm going to wap up a pwesant for you, Mommy when it's your birfday"

"Yeah? I like presents from my boy!"

"I'm going to wap up a wine machine for your birfday"

"That sounds like a great present"

"It's a yiddle bit different"

"Oh?

"It's wed. You put wine seeds in it and turn the handle and wine comes out. You have to put fwayver [flavour] in it too. It tastes a yiddle bit weird

"You know what else I'll get you for your birfday? A Hot Wheels screamer machine!"

"A what?"

"You have to put Hot Wheels cars in it and it turns into a green gun! It's a green skrisher gun. It helps to skrish everything.

"How does that sound? (Say 'petakwar')"

"Spectacular!"

"Yeah."

Paring

Pepper's last soccer game was Wednesday evening. The previous evening was Norah's last game. Both were, for some reason, the continuation of the spring soccer season.

That was it for the programmed activities for our kids for the foreseeable future. At least until the New Year, or until I scream "FUUUUCK YOU NEED TO BE SOMEONE ELSE'S PROBLEM FOR AN HOUR!", whichever comes first.

Last year's activities included:

Norah: Piano (half-hour lesson once a week, plus practice every day), Guitar (half-hour lesson once a week, plus practice every day), Dance (one-hour lesson once a week), Squash (one-hour lesson once a week), Soccer (one-hour practice once a week, plus two one-hour games per week at various locations around the city)

Pepper: Piano (half-hour lesson once a week, plus practice every day), Basketball (one-hour practice once a week, plus a one-hour games each week at various locations around the city), Dance (one-hour lesson once a week), Soccer (two one-hour games a week)

Stewie: Soccer (two one-hour games a week). For some reason (probably him NOT constantly badgering to join things), we didn't have him in much.

It was too much. We were constantly going. We started using Google calendar because between Max and me and one car, we had to strategize and analyze the logistics of every single evening. Including weekends. The kids – separately – said "Mom, we're too busy".

How did we get into this? We're not "those people". We always swore we wouldn't over-program our kids. We mock "those people". But there's just so much that's interesting. So much that we feel they should learn. Dance for flexibility and coordination. Basketball / Soccer for team-building and discipline. Music for brain-wiring and math skillz. And they asked for it all, were enthusiastic (at the beginning) for everything.

But while they liked dancing, they didn't love it. The team sports were fun, but none of them (so far) have the bloodlust I can see in other players the same age (as soccer players, they'll make great cellists). Maybe they will later, but I'm not willing to tear at their little souls to get it now.

Music is even more difficult to ditch, as both the girls have actually been advancing fairly rapidly. Plus, we bought a whole mother-fucking expensive piano. Norah, after (Guitar Hero induced) begging to take guitar lessons all summer last year, got exceedingly belligerent and ornery (I mean more than normal) after only about a month. We forced her to stick out the entire year (until June – acquiring Guitar Hero at Christmas may or may not have bought a little time). She was (and is) actually amazing. Her teacher – a local rock-star himself – commented on her skill and potential (I think he was also secretly a little jazzed to have a nine-year-old girl asking him to teach her Metallica's "One" and AC/DC's "Thunderstruck")

So, we quit. Everything. This fall and winter we are going to do some one-off family stuff. Skating. Movies. Skiing (hey, we may be in the flattest area in the FREAKING WORLD, but we've got a lump or two suitable for kids. And me. And there's always cross-country) And looking forward to some unprogrammed time. There is much to do to regain control (assuming it's "regain" and not just "gain", but either way). I hope to be able to document some of it here, but don't hold your breath. Cleaning up and gaining control of this cluster-fuck we generously call a blog is unfortunately not terribly high up on the list. But since I enjoy whining sharing here, look for continued, random brain-farts!

Paring down is only step one. I hope it works. What do you think?

Manic

The kids left Thursday evening. It is real. They're gone. For 10 days.

Maybe about a year ago, my dad made an offhand comment about how they were looking forward to when the kids would be old enough to take camping. I said "sounds like a great plan" and put it on the back shelf of my brain to be accessed in about 15 or 30 years. You know, just before they start dating.

Late spring, they called and said "we have to book camp sites, can they come?" Ga?

They are camping. Real full-on camping. Not the kind of camping we did Back In The Day, where you load up as much beer and hard liquor into your car as you can, and fill the leftover space with steak and if there's any space left over after THAT, you put a tent and maybe a sleeping bag in. And the sleeping bag was the cheapest thing they could legally call a sleeping bag available at Canadian Tire that you picked up on your way out of town. And the tent was something your *real* camping parents had handed down to you that had been used possibly in the second world war (not IN the war, because then it would be full of bullet holes, but in the TIME of the war). And you hope that you remembered to locate all the poles after last year, because something way back in the annals of what passes for memory you seem to recall *really* needing a marshmallow roasting stick on your last night and you also happened to be using your parents' station wagon last year (i.e. much more room for the beer). Also, it was the only time you could feel justified eating Alphagetti. Because that shit is gross except when "camping".

That's a very accurate description of the kind of camping they are NOT doing. They ARE taking their gear (Real Gear, see above) and going to a camp ground that only has access by bus. That is, you park, load up your Real Gear and ride the bus to the site in the middle of the mountains.

As their departure date grew closer, and we realized we'd be childless for 10 days, we were both riding a very exciting - and excruciating - roller coaster of emotions. After they left, I have myself masked any emotional response - appropriate or otherwise - through other means:

Off on this adventure is Grandma & Grandpa, three aunties and one "Skunkle" (my kids decided that he would not get full "Uncle" privileges until he made an honest woman of her). Nine of them off in two cars with walkie-talkies between them.

They called this evening - night 3 - they sound wonderful. They're having the time of their lives. They had in their voices, the exactly perfect mix of not missing us, but being really happy to tell us of their days adventures.

Dreams

I am at a schwanky party at a stone castle on the Riviera. I've stepped out onto the terrace for some air (the inside air was getting a little weighty with pretension).

"You've never looked more beautiful" the voice behind me says (a fleeting thought doesn't disagree, as my dress cuts a perfect silhouette in the moonlight). I turn and gaze into his eyes and his arm gently slips around my waist and pulls me closer. I find myself fully lost in those eyes.

"MOOOOOMMMMM!!!" The shrill voice rips through the brisk night air. I ignore it. Probably someone else's mom.

"MOOOOOMMMMMMMYYY!!!" As the veil that was my happy place gets shredded into little wet bits, I catch a fleeting glimpse of my Danny heading off to catch the next most beautiful perfect silhouette. Likely one without a muffin-top too, fickle bastard. And I get up to tend to the offender.

I've done a lot of reading and observing, considering and ignoring, trial and error, laughing and no doubt shuddering on various parenting techniques, tricks, strategies philosophies and tips. Dealing with nightmares is the one thing that I have to say I've not really read much about, but actually reached my own conclusion, based a lot on things not specifically related to parenting. So it's probably wrong. But I've never claimed to be good at any of this. Read, consider, and let me know what you think of my approach.

Part I – The [ahem] "Science"

I took a "Leadership" course through work several years ago. Sounds very "Dilbert", but it was an excellent course on responsibility, delegation and a bunch of other corporate stuff. It was a brief, shining moment when I had some faith that my organization was heading in the right direction with something [ahem]. Throughout this course, the instructor spouted off several bits of wisdom that just made plain sense.

(1) We retain [The actual number is less relevant than the scale between them - I'm going to say -] 10% of what we hear, 50% of what we write down, and 80% of what we explain (either back or to someone else). Your brain puts information into different compartments depending upon what it's doing with it. Writing and explaining require more processing.

(2) Something bothering you? Talk it out! This was the "traditional" format for trauma counselling (talking dangerously close to out of my ass now). He stated that there has been growing evidence that making someone talk about a traumatic even can serve to only freeze the event in their memory, when their own coping mechanism may just be to suppress it. In such situations, “they” have found, the individual should actually dictate how they need to cope. Some people need to talk about stuff, others need not to. Or they do, but a little later (again, several years ago, this may be mainstream now. Or entirely shot down. I mention it because in my context, the basic notion still makes perfect sense to me)

Of course he provided references, but I didn't write them down... or recite them to someone else.

[if anyone locally ever has the chance to take anything with Linton Sellen, I recommend jumping at it]

Part II – The Personal Experience

Whenever I am awakened by a bad dream - it seems my conscience would prefer I waken and play-out the worst semi-consciously - I cannot go back to sleep until I fully waken myself and flush the images. Fully reconcile the logistics of yes-that-frightens-you-but-the-likelihood-of-the-earth-opening-up-and-swallowing-your-car-is-low-enough-that-you-do-not-have-to-have-an-escape-plan

On the flip-side, ever have an awesome/funny/interesting/bizarre dream and want to tell about it at breakfast or work later? Or when some seemingly random image reminds you of it?And all you can get out is: "it was really weird... there was.. something about... I was dating Tintin, and uh, Bea Arthur* was vacuuming my curtains, but it, uh made total sense in context and actually was, uh, I think a subconscious commentary on social justice in a world dominated by um... velociraptors... No, really. Don't walk away!"

..

The Actual Advice (disclaimer: don't take this advice without engaging your own brain. You do have one. I know because you've read this far!)

Based on the above (they relate! Shut up, they do!), I never, EVER prompt the offender child to recite what has caused the distress no matter how much I want to punish them for ruining my evening with Daniel Craig

-- Gently wake the child (not all the way). A hug and "Mom/Dad's here" to test the waters

-- Preferably get them to sit up to apply the hugs

-- Acceptable statements: "It's mom/dad/Aunt Fanny"; "You're safe, in your house"; "Mom & Dad are right here in our room" (maybe leave out any explanations for the noises that probably woke them up - now's probably not a good time for that)

-- If they want to talk about it, BY ALL MEANS! but reassure with every statement "you're here now"; "everything's alright" and such and such.

..

This has seems to work for my kids so far, but I haven't been faced with night terrors or any other really complex middle of the night issues. Tell me what you think of this approach.

My next bit of psychological parenting advice has to do with monsters. Stay tuned for more talking out of my ass!

..

*I really wanted to put the whole picture in here, but it's a very big image, so it's just linked

10/07/02 12:45 - 7#7 - XX

Happy Birthday Pepper!

Forever ensuring the middle child is NOT lost in the shuffle!

Cool Stuff From Last Week - Part II

I am aware that "Last Week" is actually two three a few weeks ago, but I promised to report on it...

I mentioned in Part I, that the girls presented their Class Expert projects last week a few weeks ago. Pepper did hers on volcanoes and presented on Tuesday, and Norah did hers on The Great Wall of China (click photo to enlarge)

She and Max sat researching in front of the computer on several separate occasions. They started with the basics: what; where; when; why; who; how.

She jotted down the questions and answers and ended up with a pretty concise history of China as it is represented by the Great Wall. She then was able to present and discuss the subject in front of her classmates with ease.

In grade 1, she did an awesome project on the solar system. Her and Max started with a soccer ball as the sun, then did calculations to figure out how big and far away the planets would be away. They made them all out of plasticine, and for the presentation, Norah took the class out into the hall put the soccer ball/sun at one end and paced out how far the planets would be. If I recall, she was able to demonstrate Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars and Jupiter before she got to the end of the hall. She then had to explain the approximate location of the others, like "over on Fleet", and "at the community centre". Also: "the next closest star would be in Calgary"

In grade 2, she did a PowerPoint presentation with a video on taking care of her Betta, Nemo (still swimming, by the way!)

OK, so I realize this isn't the most stellar and fascinating of posts, but it's been "out there" picking away at me for while. Also I've got to post some dawgs every once in a while to showcase the awesomaucity of the rest of them. Consider this the plain bridesmaid in the ugly dress making the bride look even more stunning. It's got a nice personality, but, y'know.

[Does anyone else do a once-over of a hyper enlarged photo of things in your living room before posting to make sure there aren't any underpants on the floor, or beer-bottles or knives laying around? No? Just me?]

"I'd be honoured to attend" *updated*

After years of pretty effectively using a paper calendar, a while back, we decided we were getting pretty bogged down and needed a better way to organize our family's whackadoo schedule. Without, you know, actually cutting back on any of our Super-Fun-I-Absolutely-Cannot-Live-Unless-I-Do-This-And-I-Promise-I'll-Practice-EVERY-Night-WITHOUT-You-Reminding-Me activities.

So we've started using the Google Calendar. I suggested it offhand and Max jumped in with both feet. We put in our own activities and those of all the kids. Basically we can see when one has to tag-off with the other. And conflicts where we have to sign up a babysitter (or turn to our ever-gracious and wonderful, loving, caring, flexible and compassionate family and/or friends) for extra eyes and hands. So far, it's been pretty effective as a "don't book shit here" tool.

The technology is built one way though, and can't be expected to cover off every eventuality one could come up against.

Case-in-point, I got this notice today (click for better resolution):
Now upon reading this, instantly, I knew that it was a "hey, you'll need to be home so I can do this". I've been "invited" to several things that had nothing to do with me, where the "invitation" didn't faze me at all. But no matter how many times I re-read this one, my mind kept jumping to "Uh, really? You want me to go with you? I mean, 'ew'!"

Please note, as you can see here, I said "Yes" (so that it would appear in MY calendar). But in the comment section I added: "I'm honoured that you'd invite me."

UPDATE: The very next day, I got a notice in the mail from the hospital for a breast ultrasound*. So I put it in the calendar as "Boob Test" and invited him. I was actually waiting to see his response before I updated, but as a rule, he doesn't open email from me. Surprisingly, even one titled "Invitation for Boob Test"

*[no, they don't just hand these out randomly, nor does everyone just get one in Canada - it's a long boring story that ends with me with lube all over my breasts. There are far more exciting stories that end with me with lube all over my breasts - and even some beginning that way - that I don't share, so I'll probably not bother with this one. Suffice to say: I'm healthy & would like to stay continue to know that I'm staying that way for as long as they'll keep plying me with lube.]

UPDATE 2: Apparently he DID respond. But Google calendar didn't register it by sending me an email back. He responded "maybe" with a request for a pre-test. Pig. [please to not be pointing out how I walk into that one, boobs-a-waggling]

Four

I thought Norah was Gigantor, and then Pepper was my delicate little princess at 7 lb 7 oz. Stewie brought along yet another anecdote to put in the file labelled "THERE ARE NO PATTERNS, STUPID", weighing in at 9 lb 3.5 oz (evidence to the left)

This was the first time, of all three that at the exact moment of birth I uttered "thank GAWD that's out of me". There may or may not have been expletives.

Also: "Hey look! A boy!", as we were rather expecting a girl. For no other reason than, um, patterns. With three kids & two engineers - constantly looking for patterns, don't you know - the file is getting full.

He was born ON his due date, making him a "ten-percenter".

One year later...

And additional three...

He wants hot-dogs for supper. And Shark-bite bay Trick-Trax for a present. I have no idea what that is, but we can do hot-dogs.


Mostly, I include this one as it's a good depiction of those *freakish* eyelashes. You know, the ones girls pay thousands of dollars to have implanted.

Happy Birthday, Boy!

I hate horses

...because every time I see them I fall in love with them all over again, and I want to have them again. And that sucks because I can afford neither the time, nor the energy, nor, of course, the money to venture down that road.

We were out at a family friend's farm for grandpa's birthday party and they had a two-week-old colt named Thunder.

"Hello, giant nose!"

Unrelated to horses, but: Harmzie & the BILs (and, well, Max, because he's not my BIL). They made a whirlwind trip in from Calgary for the occasion.