Monthly Archives: November 2013

Board game Friday and strategic acts of violence

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The game: Settlers of Catan. Here, if you want, you can see Wil Wheaton play it on Table Top, so you know it’s cool. Or not.

The point of this post (of course, never a board game review. Why would I do that?):

Flora: Ha! I have conditioned him to cringe in fear every time I come to trade!

Jane: What? Um… yeah, I guess. How?

Cinder: She’s been kicking me in the shin every time she’s come to trade in her stupid sheep! What the hell?

Jane: I didn’t realize Settlers of Catan was this violent.

Cinder: All trade and expansion, when done properly by one of the parties, is inherently violent and leads to the ultimate destruction of the weaker or dumber partner.

My son. The new Machiavelli.

Flora: Mom and I have been co-operating and working together against you!

Cinder: Yeah? And who’s gonna win this game?

Jane: You little…

Sean: Hey, hey–you are not allowed to call your son names because he’s winning. Actually, he’s not just winning. He’s destroying you. Wow, Cinder, well done!

Someone come over to my house and beat my son at some board game. Please. Please? I’ll bake cookies.*

xoxo

“Jane”

*OK, I’m lying. I won’t. I’ve documented how much I hate baking. But maybe I’ll buy you Peak Freens? Hmmm? And if you catch me in the right mood, I’ll throw in a smart-ass husband.

“Deadlines met, Jane?”

“Um, yeah. Of course. Sure. All of them. With plenty of time to spare Shut up. My editors and clients might be reading…”**

**If I had spent any time procrastinating this past week, say, and not fully dedicated to my tasks at hand, I might have spent time gawking at an old, old Billy Idol, discussing Dr. Who with my kids, and laughing at the worst Asian sign translations of all time. I’m not saying I did. But I might have. Because the secret to working efficiently is to take lots of breaks. And naps. Tony Schwartz says so.

 

 

 

How they know they’re the children of a writer

Math Medley

I.

How you know she’s my daughter:

Math question: Jamie had 2 video games. He got 2 more video games for his birthday. How many video games does he have now?

Flora’s answer: Well, Jamie is a nerd so he has four video games. If he lived in our house, Mom would make him give away the first two video games when he got two new ones, so he would still only have two. And he’d only get one new video game for his birthday, because how could he play two video games at the same time.

True.

Math question: Yesterday, Claire found six pennies laying on the ground. Today, she found one penny. How many pennies did she find altogether?

Flora’s answer: Why were the pennies laying on the ground? Who put them there? Was today’s penny in exactly the same spot? And, the real question: how many pennies will there be on the ground tomorrow?

Um. So. I need to ask…

Jane: Flora? Why did you just write “She found seven pennies”?

Flora: It said to answer in full sentences. See?

Of course.

II.

How you know he’s my son:

Jane: My sweet, I know that you know the answer as soon as you look at these two ridiculously large numbers. But for these questions, you need to break it down into the steps you’d use to find the answer. Can’t you just pretend you don’t know the answer right away and work it out like this…

Cinder: I don’t want to jump through these idiotic hoops! I want to get this crap done as quickly as possible so I can go do something interesting!

I know, beloved, I know. I wish I could tell you that one day life runs out of idiotic hoops. Still. I think we do get better at avoiding the most onerous of them, with practice. So. Yeah. Go on to something more interesting.

III.

How they know they’re the children of a writer:

Jane: OK, guys, here’s the sich. As you know, I lost a week of work and consciousness because of the Plague, and I have three massive deadlines this week. So here’s what’s going to happen. Today, I’m doing research and scheduling interviews. Tomorrow, I’ll be stressed, frustrated and panicking because no one is returning my emails and probably unproductive as a result, so we might as well take a field trip. Let’s go to Banff—Cinder, you’re in charge of finding the swim stuff. It might be molding in the basement from the last time we went swimming. Wednesday, I absolutely need to write because one of the stories is due Thursday morning, so don’t talk to me: Daddy is the only parent alive as far as you’re concerned. Thursday is going to be hell, because Daddy has a shoot, and that’s when I’ll be doing the interviews for the story due Friday… You can basically watch movies all day and night until you pass out. Um, Friday… Friday, Daddy’s home and I need to write.. don’t talk to me. But Saturday, Saturday I’ll probably make supper.

Cinder: You’re not going to feed us until Saturday?

Jane: I’m also not doing any laundry this week. So either do your own or ration your underwear.

Cinder: I don’t think this happens in other people’s houses.

Flora: No, I’ve conducted surveys. She’s extra weird. And look. Now she’s texting and dancing!*

Jane: Yes! New plan! The Friday story is now due Monday. The good news is, I will now make you supper on Thursday. The bad news is, I’m going to be stressed and bitchy all weekend.

Flora: It’s ok, Mom. We’re used to it.

Awesome.

*I was actually emailing and dancing. But, same diff.

I’m on deadline. So I’m not really here. I was never here. You never saw me. Shhhhh.

xoxo

“Jane”

Kill! The! Cheater! Or, playing board games with children

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The game: Carcassonne.

The purpose: Build a… screw it. It doesn’t matter. This is not a board game review. You want a board game review, go watch Will Wheaton’s Table Top, the Carcassonne edition, or spend some time on Board Game Geek. You’re hear to read this:

Ender: Kill! The! Cheater!

Sean: I am not cheating! Jesus, Ender, what the hell…

Cinder: That’s how they used to do it in ancient times. Kill the cheater.

Jane: Flora–get Mom more wine. Please.

Cinder: Why are you upset , Mom? Did you just notice the mistake that cost you nine points?

Jane: F@ck.

I play board games with them. It’s proof of how much I love them.

Bonus Phrase aka Guess the Context:

Sean: Well, if our Carcassonne game smells the next time we play, we’ll have to get a new one.

♠

The plague visited my house this week. ’twas awful. I’m still not sure I will live. But let’s not dwell on my imminent death. All three kids survived, and they have a great Daddy.

♦

Meanwhile, in the Blogosphere: My brilliant blogging friend Kimberly from All Work And No Play Make Mommy Go Something Something wants to tell you about true love. Or is it Barf and Bracelets? Go let her. And my also brilliant blogging friend Stephanie from Where Crazy Meets Exhaustion (I only have brilliant friends; I’m prejudiced that way) was interviewed Inside the Blogger’s Studio on Danielle Herzog’s Martinis and Minivans: it’s a really neat piece on the “why” of blogging. And, have you heard? Deni from Denn State is finally no longer pregnant! Go say congrats!

But if you only read one thing this week (other than me), go read Brian Sorrell’s A Thousand Words About Bullying Poverty & Fathers.

xoxo

“Jane”

How we teach children to lie, without realizing it #attachmentparenting

Yes. It is we, the parents, who teach them to lie. And this is how:

Kids Wall 2

Caption: “I didn’t do it!”

Jane: Ender? Did you poop your pants?

Ender: Yes.

Jane: Oh, Jeezus, Ender, how could you? I just asked you if you needed to go 10 minutes ago. Fucking hell, and now I have to change your poopy bum, and it is so disgusting, yuck…

What happens next time?

Jane: Ender? Did you make a poop?

Ender: No.

Jane: Of course you did! Why are you lying to me?

We ask a question. We get the truthful answer. We don’t like what we hear. We freak. We repeat this cycle. The result: we teach the child to lie.

And it’s so simple. Do this instead:

 Jane: Ender? Did you poop your pants?

Ender: Yes.

Jane: Let’s go clean your bum. Tell mama next time as soon as you feel you need to go, ok?

Better yet, don’t ask questions to which you know the answer, right? Ya’ know he pooped. Ya’ can smell it. Just say this:

 Jane: Let’s go clean your bum, dude, and then we can go back to playing.

I chose the toilet training example because it’s almost invariably the topic of a new parent’s first “My child has started to lie! What do I do?” And we just don’t realize that we’ve been coaching them to lie to us by how we react to the truth.

Children—all people—lie to protect themselves. They lie because they learn that their parents—others around them—do not actually want to hear the truth. They lie because we teach them to.

You do not “teach” a child to be truthful by talking about how important it is to tell the truth.

Instead, you teach them to lie by not accepting the truth when they tell it to you. So. If you want the truth? Don’t teach them to lie. Foster an environment and a relationship, in which saying “I pooped my pants,” “I broke the lamp,” “I lost my mittens,” “I don’t like this supper” is okay and doesn’t lead to a parental shit storm.

Cinder: Mom! I think I broke the X-box! Help!

Music to my ears.

Flora: I’m sorry, Mom, but I just don’t like this soup.

Awesome.

Ender: Mama: I pooped my pants!

That’s what I want to hear.

English: A soapbox at Occupy Boston

This soap box moment was originally brought to you on November 25, 2012 because  I very much needed  a reminder not to  teach my children to lie. I was reminded of it when I found myself in a fascinating conversation this week in which I found myself arguing that spouses-lovers spend their entire relationships teaching their spouses-lovers to lie–ever more intricately–and then are outraged when those lies are suddenly uncovered… I might tell you about it sometime. If you bribe me with chocolate, wine and Facebook shares. Wink.

xoxo

“Jane”

P.S. I get a massive ego stroke this week at Tao of Poop, as Rachel celebrates her daughter’s bedhead and references that infamous The AP Hair Style: I don’t brush my children’s hair. It’s a massive philosophical thing. Really post. And I’ve got to point you to the awesome Katia’s edgy pop culture take on body image, Ladies Meet Your New Body Image Protection Squad: J-Law, Britney and Miranda at MamaPop.com (Katia usually blogs at I Am The Milk; pay her a visit there).

P.P.S. While I’m sending you places, here’s a new-to-me blog, Not that you asked but… that I think I might like. So you might like. I’m sending you to a body image (sort of) post. For a reason, which will be revealed later, and has nothing to do with teaching lovers or children to lie.

P.P.P.S. I knew what he was doing to that wall. It’s family-centred living. OK, now, for real, Jane out.

I win parenting, and the #whatsyourtotemanimal report

Ender: Moom? Can you put me to bed? I’m really tired.

Yeah. It really happened. It was 8:15 p.m. He was out by 8:18 p.m.

One day, if you’re really, really sweet, perhaps I might tell you how I achieved this (hint: it involved three bowls of ice cream with chocolate and caramel sauce on top). Today, all you need to know is I won parenting that night (I know it’s not supposed to be a contest. But you know it is. It always is…) And now, prepare to meet your inner beast:

Maker Faire 3

The Totem Animal Report

The delicious Deb at Urban Moo Cow (twitter handle @UrbanMooCow) is a porcupine: prickly on the outside, cuddly on the inside.” Oh, yes. Love.

The just-perfect Jean at Mama Schmama (twitter handle @mamaschmama) took a test that told her she’s a wolf. She’s processing. I think it fits.

My kissable Kristie from Finding Ninee (@findingninee) is a monkey. Minus the poop throwing and gross stuff. Um. She thinks I’m a bear.

Cataclysmic Cathy (who doesn’t blog but who needs to start writing that book we talked about last time we went parking* on Nosehill, you’re gonna, right?) is a giraffe but would like to be a dragon. Meet the dra-gaffe. Who thinks I’m a rat. My fleas wiped out half of Europe in the Dark Ages. Score one for the dark side. (She qualified that the ick factor and disease-spreading didn’t enter into the picture, and that I was “super smart, a bit dangerous, intimidating to those who don’t know you, endearing to those who do, definitely adaptable and resourceful.” So, I forgive her. Flattery will get you almost everywhere.)

Rockin’ Rachel from The Tao of Poop (@TaoofPoop) is a deer and she’s sticking to it.

The sultry Sarah at Left Brain Buddha (@leftbrainbuddha) is a dog. Maybe. But what kind?

Salacious Stephanie from Mommy, for Real (@mommyisforreal) says it’s supposed to be a secret. Shhhhh. Knowledge is power, secret is magic, all that stuff.

The decadent Dani at Cloudy With a Chance of Wine (@chanceofwine) cheated (how??) and is an owl.

The secretive Spy Garden of, um, Spy Garden (@spygarden) is a leopard-print fish if she must choose an animal… but she’d rather be a plant. She thinks I’m a furry seal. With a loud bark. She’s also new to Twitter, friends, so give her a follow and some love.

Lovely Larkin (@larkinwarren) is a brown bear. Possibly a golden retriever. Clearly–furry and with a great snout.

Jennifer, whose kids’ hair is just as wild as mine, doesn’t know hers, but each of her first three kids has had an “out of the ordinary animal encounter” in the first year of their lives. She’s got an orca, otter, and a skunk. The fourth might be a deer.

Jessica, who blogs at Jessica’s Journal, is a “cross between Goofy and Eeyore. And maybe a polar bear.” (twitter handle @goaliej54)

Linda, from Elleroy Was Here (@modmomelleroy on Twitter), and host of the I don’t like Mondays Blog Hop (which I always mean to play at, but see, it’s Monday, and…), is a pug. Of course. Check out her All You Need is Pug page to understand.

Funky Fox, of Trailer Park Unschoolers, is a–get ready for this–fox. Her lovah’s a lynx, and her babes are a racoon (mebbe weasel), boar, rabbit and bear cub. She thinks I’m a coyote. I like.

Quincy, from the Talk 2 Q Radio Show, is also a fox (@talk2Q): “Sly, decisive, works well with a pack, but can function independently.” He didn’t dare guess what I was.

Beth, from Writer B is Me, is an elephant. And she KNOWS she’s an elephant. She thinks I’m a bad-to-the-bone jaguar. I’m wondering which posts she’s been reading… At least she didn’t call me a cougar. But someone else did. Read on…

Chelsey aka Chessakat from Five O’Clock Dance Party is a heron. She had a close encounter of the spiritual kind with one in a Seattle back alley. I know the best people…

Elizabeth, who hangs out at Rebel Mouse (@ElizabethM_J), is a dragon. And she owns it.

Here’s something really weird: tantalizing Tracy from Crazy As Normal (@crazyasnormal) and sizzling Stephanie from When Crazy Meets Exhaustion (@CrazyExhaustion) are both WOMBATS. There’s a moral in this story somewhere, I know it. I’ve got it… no, wait… it’ll come to me…

Dazzling Deni from Denn State (@homeecwreck–that’s two ee-back-to-back, got it? Home Ec Wreck? Get it?) is pregnant. Wait, hopefully not any longer. I meant to say, a capybara. The largest rodent in the world. She was choosing her totem animal while well past her due date, but I’m not reading anything into that. Wait, no, she’s a mantis shrimp. One or the other. Both? The psychic who lives next door says you can have a lot, and different ones take different precedence at different times in your life. So there.

Jazzy Jenn from Something Clever 2.0 (@JennSmthngClvr) thinks she’s a cat. But I think she’s wilder. More a lioness. Maybe a cheetah.

Klassy Kim from One Classy Motha (@MothaKim) is kreative. “Tonight it’s a sloth. Tomorrow, I’m hoping a gazelle.” (I’m sorry about the Ks. I know it’s wrong. But isn’t classy better than Cantankerous? Actually, that kind of fits. I should change it. Cantankerous Cim… Soft “c”. F@cking English. Spoiling the best alliterations.)

Lea from Becoming Super Mommy (@bcmgsupermommy) is a ferret: “Awkward and erratic and supremely un-self conscious. Full of joy and confusion and affection.” Nice.

Georgie, from Georgie Lee Books (@georgieleebooks) is “a really big, black horse, like Manfred in Engagement of Convenience.”

Lounging Lovelyn from Nebulous Mooch (@nebulousmooch) is a dragonfly. I love.

Olga at MrsDBooks (@MrsDBooks) is really into mice. One mouse in particular. His name is Carlos. It’s sort of a long story…

aLluring Lori Pickert of Project-Based Homeschooling (great book and resource, btw, folks) (@campcreek on Twitter) is a hippo. Which is beyond awesome. Hippos. Are. Just. Cool.

A visitor from The Educator’s Spin On It (@EducatorsSpin) is an antelope.

My flood coven** consists of a wanna-be-a-raven-but-alas-I’m-a-crow-with-a-shot-of-black-panther, a slithering serpent who could be a heron at times, a raven-with-a-touch-badger, and a rabbit-moose-but-we-all-think-she’s-a-horse-skunk-with-a-touch-of-dolphin-and-otter. Also a tadpole, a mermaid, and a Canada goose.

The managing partner of that law firm–you know which one–says he’s an eagle (aren’t they all?) and I’m a wolverine. I say I can take down a full-grown moose! I win! Of course it was a contest. It’s always a contest.

The ex-managing partner of that other law firm–you know which one? no. Not that. Not that one either. For chrissake. Stop guessing and keep reading–has an affinity for dock spiders. Seriously. Family Pisauridae. Canada’s largest spider, he informs me. I don’t know what that’s about. He says I’m a hyena. I know what that’s about. You’re reading my blog, dude, and taking time out of billable work to email me. I win. (It’s always a contest.)***

Did you play and I missed you? Don’t get angry. Rectify the error in comments. Feel free to self-servingly include Twitter handle and blog link. It’s that kind of post.

Finally, I don’t think any of you nailed my totem animal. And perhaps I don’t have one. Or maybe I’m just Homo sapiens without any hidden symbolism. I’m cool with that.

“Jaaaaaaaane! Why aren’t I sultry, decadent, kissable or sizzling?”

“Please. We barely know each other. I am not a blog slut. It takes time, baby.”

There’s a snow fall warning in YYC. Cuddle up to a loved one or your inner beast, and stay warm this weekend.

xoxo

“Jane”

*Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s like hiking, except when you get there, you realize you’re underdressed and you’re wearing un-sensible shoes, and it’s November, Christ, it’s cold, and so you just enjoy the view from the car. See? Like hiking, minus all the walking.

**I live in a really interesting neighbourhood. And we had this flood thing. We’re compensating for lack of walls with witchy get-togethers and a lot of wine. Which, I admit, is not the best long-term coping strategy. But, you know. Keeps you warmer… ;P

***I always win. Wink.

Don’t fight with the four-year-old. Just don’t.

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It goes like this:

Jane: For Keeee-rrriiiissst’s sake, what is wrong with you guys? Do. Not. Fight. With. The. Four. Year. Old!

But do they understand? No.

Flora: Is it too much to ask to not have him pull my hair?

Sean: Is it too much to ask to not have him screech in the car?

Cinder: Is it too much to want my testicles to be intact?

So I try to explain. Of course it’s not too much to ask to have him not pull your hair. It’s a perfectly reasonable request. But how about you just move your head like so, so it’s not within grasp of his crazy little fingers? He’s restrained in the car seat. There’s only so far he can reach. Just… move more to the right.

Flora: But I want to rest my head on the car seat!

Jane: Then he will pull your hair.

Flora: Because he’s evil?

Jane: Because he’s four…

I re-coach Sean through this, again. Yes, it sucks when he screeches in the car. But he’s at this awesome phase that the more of a reaction he gets from you, the more he will do it. Ask him to stop, once… if it doesn’t work, zone out. Don’t pay attention. The more you ask, the more—and with more glee—he will do it. That’s the phase. It should be over in four-to-six months.

Sean: But it’s driving me crazy!

Jane: But you will never, ever win that kind of argument with a four-year-old.

Sean: But you hate it too! I saw you—when we stopped at that red light, you clicked open the door and your hand was on the door handle. I know what you were thinking!

True. I almost leapt out of the car and walked the remaining 4 km home. And there was a blizzard happening, and I was NOT wearing sensible shoes. But it wasn’t just the screeching. It was the combination of screeching-and-counter-screeching… because, see, it always takes two.

Which brings me to…

Cinder: I can’t wait to see how you justify Ender’s incessant assault on my privates.

Jane: Cinder, you do everything to provoke him but tape a “kick me” sign to your groin.

Cinder: A “kick me” sign on my groin? Now there’s an idea…

Jane: I have absolutely no pity or sympathy for you. And I’m becoming resigned to the idea that you will never give me grandchildren. Thank Zeus I have two other children who may continue the genetic line…

I own this: the four-year-old is… exhausting. He is such an amazing combination of exuberance, glee, joy—and utter chaos, destruction, self-centredness and irrationality—that… well, exhausting. There’s no other way to describe it. Chaos personified, joy personified. Love personified, too, but energy draining more often than energy-giving. The mantra that gets me through his most intense moments is pretty simple:

It takes two to fight.

So I don’t.*

Ender: I’m going to pee in my potty, and then I’m going to put it on my head and dance, dance, dance!

Jane: I’m going to start the bath running, then.

And look for the mop.

Caveat: I don’t always succeed. Of course not. Them four-year-olds are wily creatures. And sometimes, they crave the conflict as much as I crave peace. They—or the Ender, at least—will work tirelessly and methodically to elicit a scream. To arouse the Evil-Mommy-Within. To evoke The-Voice-of-Cthulu.

Cinder: Jeezus, Mom, what the hell was that?

Jane: Um… sorry. That was the crazy, I’ve lost all control voice.

Cinder: Wow. Did you ever yell at me like that?

Jane: I can honestly say, No. But, you know, I don’t think it’s that you were any less annoying. I think I had more patience.

Flora: Mom? I don’t think the crazy voice worked. Ender just ran out the front door.

Jane: But it’s -10! And he’s naked!

Flora: He’s also holding a pair of garden shears in one hand and a drywall saw in the other.

Send chocolate. Wine. And the business cards of some good therapists.

xoxo,
“Jane”

P.S. I still want to know what your totem animal is. I’ll collect all the answers in this Friday’s post. The things you will learn about yourselves and your friends… Hashtag #whatsyourtotemanimal if you’re tweeting the answer or respond in comments below the original post, It’s a game: what’s your totem animal? And what’s mine? Email me at nothingbythebook@gmail.com if you want to play but keep it all undercover.

P.P.S. I want to ensure none of you construe the above post as parenting advice. To that end, I direct you to Rachel of Tao of Poop’s recent post, Can’t you just stop the parenting advice?

P.P.P.S. For the bloggers in the crowd: last week, my Twitter feed introduced me to Shane Prather, from Whispering Sweetly and her Bloggers Coast to Coast map. It’s a fun idea: you list your blog with her and can use the resulting interactive map as a way to meet local bloggers. Have a peek:

*I will also own that my conflict-avoidance powers are legendary. For better or worse.

It’s a game: what’s your totem animal? And what’s mine?

Brothers with Snakes

From the source of all current knowledge, aka Wikipedia: A totem is a being, object, or symbol representing an animal or plant that serves as an emblem of a group of people, such as a family, clan, group, lineage, ortribe, reminding them of their ancestry (or mythic past).[1] In kinship and descent, if the apical ancestor of a clan is nonhuman, it is called a totem. Normally this belief is accompanied by a totemic myth.

Although the term is of Ojibwe origin in North America, totemistic beliefs are not limited to Native Americans and Aboriginal peoples in Canada. Similar totem-like beliefs have been historically present in societies throughout much of the world, including Africa, Arabia, Asia, Australia, Eastern Europe, Western Europe, and the Arctic polar region.

Ender’s is a Bear. “You’re sure it’s not Cthulu?” Flora asks—I shake my head, “A Bear, for sure, I know this,” I say. “No!” Ender interrupts. “My totem animal is a reindeer.” “Really? A reindeer?” I ask. Yup. He’s sure. Reindeer. OK. Flora’s might be a unicorn. Or a frog? A frogi-corn? (“Mom! Stop writing now! I’m still thinking!”). OK. She’s still thinking. And Cinder doesn’t want anyone to know what his is, although he knows. He gives me an evil grin. I bet it’s something venomous… or stinky… Probably both…

Sean’s is… a whale. “Really?” “Yup. A humpback whale.” “How do you know this?” “I just know.”

OK.

Me, I’m with Flora. I don’t know. I’m not sure. I think… maybe… um… no. I don’t know.

“Blue-green algae?” I ponder.

“Mom! That’ not even a plant!”

I feel rather primitive at the moment. And it doesn’t have to be an animal, does it?

But. For the game, it does. So—go. What’s your totem animal? And why?

And if you think you know me well enough to hazard a guess—tell me what you think mine might be.

And look how low I’ve set the bar. Blue-green algae? You can all do better than that.

Happy Friday. Hashtag  #whatsyourtotemanimal if you’re tweeting.

“Jane”

P.S. My IRL friend Dr. Christopher Gibbins, a psychologist who specializes in the assessment of neurodevelopmental disorders of early childhood, was on CTV news last week talking about tablet use and young children. If you’re a thinking parent, you’ve thought–and overthought–this subject ad nauseam, and probably feel guilty non-stop about whatever it is you’ve chosen to do. Have a listen to what Chris has to say: Interview Clip. Key line: “Parents don’t need to be perfect.” Chris’ other qualification: he’s a daddy too. So nothing he’s telling you is just theoretical. (Although it’s always backed by research…)

P.P.S. YYC Floodster? You’re looking for this: After the flood: Running on empty and why “So are things back to normal?” is not the right question. I’d encourage you to read the comments… because see, it’s not just you and me. It’s all of us.

P.P.P.S. Two of my cyber-friends have put together, and more are featured in,  The HerStories Project, Women Explore the Joy, Pain and Power of Female Friendship. Sarah of Left Brain Buddha reviews it, as well as a few other “end of the Mommy Wars” initiatives here, if you want to have a gander.

Why insomniacs, obsessives, the mildly neurotic and the otherwise troubled and imperfect make better parents

It’s 2:13 a.m. and I am very, very awake, listening to shadows, watching noises (it’s 2.13 a.m. in the morning—that’s when one listens to shadows, you know), and alternating between looking my demons straight in their frightening faces or hiding from them behind empty “life is good” mantras.

Tip-tap-tip-tap. A tiny little body hurtles into the bed, crawls in beside me.

“I can’t sleep, Mama!” the four-year-old lies, and, as he curls up against my body, falls back into deep, deep sleep. I inhale the smell, essence of him. He becomes my non-empty mantra…

Tip-tap-tip-tap. Flop. A not-so-tiny body clambers into bed between her Daddy and me.

“Mom? I had a horrible, horrible nightmare.”

I hold her. She whispers the dream, already fading, into my ear. Closes her eyes. Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

“Mommy? I can’t sleep.”

I tell her to try a little more, a little harder, a little longer—but before long, we both give up on sleep and the bed, and tip-tap-tip-tap downstairs. I wrap her in blankets and put on a show for her. Get her a bowl of cereal.

“You’re the best mom in the world,” she says, and that disarms one of the demons that was keeping me awake. I could probably sleep now. But—I look at the clock—it’s now 5 a.m., and I often write really well at precisely 5 a.m. …

I’ve often had erratic sleep patterns, both in hard times of high stress and in glorious times of high creativity and excitement, and I know that my own knowledge and acceptance that sometimes—often—an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep just wasn’t going to happen—helped me be a better night-time parent. When my littles woke me up at night—and woke me again and again—I was able to take it much more in stride, I think, than an adult who hasn’t known insomnia. An adult for whom the pre-child norm was a solid uninterrupted eight. Who hasn’t been NOT able to sleep, no matter how physically exhausted—no matter how much she really, really wanted to.

It’s always easier to accept what we’ve experienced ourselves—to understand what we’ve also lived. Especially… if we accept that part of ourselves. If we don’t resent it, fight it, hate it.

Sometimes, I can’t sleep.

Sometimes, I get angry. Irrational. Bat-shit crazy, really.

Sometimes, I don’t want to be with people. Not even the people I love. Not even, my most beloved, you.

Sometimes—I don’t want to eat. I know it’s delicious and you worked really hard to make that meal… but I’m just not hungry. Not at all. Or just not for that.

Sometimes, I don’t want to do the fun thing you planned for me to do. I just want to curl up on the couch with my book. (Or blog ;P)

Sometimes, I procrastinate. And procrastinate. And don’t do that thing that I really ought to do before I do anything else…

Sometimes, I’m moody and unsettled.

Sometimes, I’m completely obsessed with this one utterly unimportant, irrelevant thing, and you can’t distract me from it no matter what you do…

Sometimes—oftentimes—my kids, my mate, other people I love, have exactly those same feelings, needs.

Knowing, accepting—not resenting, not hating—those parts of me makes it easier to accept, to love those parts of them.

Being utterly, completely imperfect makes me a better parent. A better friend.

How about you?

xoxo

“Jane”

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P.S. What? I’m versatile. Sometimes, I’m utterly sweet and sappy. Sometimes, I’m an elitist bitch with a tongue like a guillotine. Imperfect. Deal with it. Love me as I am or screw off.

P.P.S. Recent posts in a similar vein from my tribe: Stephanie Sprenger pens a lovely Letter to my daughter who is just like me and Kristi Campbell wishes she was a more perfect mom.

P.P.P.S. If you’re a YYC or AB floodster and you’ve been sent here to read THAT post, and you’re a little confused about what the hell is up with THIS post, you are at the right blog. You’re looking for this: After the flood: Running on empty and why “So, are things back to normal?” is not the right question.

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Why I love them

I.

Why I love her:

Her bead work spills and runs all over the room, everywhere, everything wrecked, hours of work, destroyed, and:

Flora: Aaaaaaaah! There are not enough bad words in my vocabulary to express how I feel right now!

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II.

Why I love him:

Cinder: Want me to turn off Mom’s computer so you can learn a few new ones?

(He doesn’t. So I really love him. And he makes Flora laugh.)

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III.

Why I love him:

Sean: Oh, sweetheart. Want Daddy to help you pick them up?

IV.

Why I love him:

Ender: Moooooom! Look how brilliant I am! I am swinging from this rope, upside down, holding all my snakes with my feet! AND, I have a pencil in my nose!

Proof I love him: I take the pencil away. My wholesome neglect and permissiveness only go so far.

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V.

Why they love me:

Jane: I am in a piss-bad mood, stressed, and possibly completely insane. No one talk to me, and more importantly, for fcksk, no one listen to anything I say!

VI.

Oh, how they know me:

Cinder: Is it because I was a big buttsack* all day?

Ender: It’s because I peed in the garbage can, not the toilet.

Flora: I think it’s because Mercury’s in retrograde.**

Sean: I’m going to run out and get some chocolate.***

♥

* It’s a metaphor. Don’t think about it too much. Don’t. You did, didn’t you?

** Also, how you know we live next door to a psychic.

*** I really am that easy.

xoxo

“Jane”

P.S. So… apparently half of Calgary needed to read Tuesday’s After the flood: Running on empty and why “Are things back to normal?” is not the right question post. Thank you for the tremendous response. I’m on deadline and behind on everything non-billable, but yes of course you can share it, reprint it, reblog it, and photocopy it (although … wouldn’t it be easier to just email the link?). Thank you.

P.P.S. Flora was Cousin Itt. Cinder was–creepy. Ender was sometimes a dragon and sometimes a dinosaur–anyway, a reptile with an identity crisis.