The Princess Bride, almost severed body parts, and the thing that matters the most to little boys

The Princess Bride (film)

First, this: Flora, eight years old with braids almost reaching her waist, pirouetting in the middle  of the living room, an egg-spattered spatula in her hand, and delivering, as if she were possessed by Mandy Patinkin, absolutely perfectly:

My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!

Then, this: Ender enters from stage left, with charred bamboo skewer in one hand and a steak knife in the other–who the hell gave the baby a knife?–and screams, loudly if not accurately:

My name is Ender! Killed my mother! Time to die!

…and lunges for Cinder, in a move more worthy of Fezzik/Andre the Giant than Inigo Montoya.

(You will be glad to know a combination side-step by big brother/tackle by mother narrowly averts a potential castration or evisceration).

But everything pales compared to this, when, after ensuring all the knives, steak and otherwise, are where little hands cannot get at them (I may be permissive but I am rarely negligent), I see Ender run down the stairs, Flora’s tiara (a gift, incidentally, from lovely Anka at Keeping It Real) thrust onto his head, and what looks like a sword built out of straws and connectors in his hand. And I stop what I’m doing, and prepare myself for the delivery of another immortal line from The Princess Bride.

And instead get this:

I am the King and this is my giant penis!

Because, when you’re a 3.5 year-old boy with an older brother, this is where everything leads to.

Andre the Giant applying a bear hug to Hulk Ho...

PSA

You too, of course, have the entire script of The Princess Bride committed to memory, right? No? Truly? Now, you know I hate to tell you what to do. But if you were to die tomorrow, without having seen this movie at least a dozen–preferably a dozen dozen times–I think your life would lack meaning. Get thee to iTunes, Netflix or a library, and, oh, enjoy. (The William Goldman book, on which the movie is based–beyond fabulous as well.) End of PSA.

… and if you’ve already got the entire script of The Princess Bride committed to memory (and of course most of you do, because after all, you are my people), hop over to Undogmatic Unschoolers for the best-ever quote for Isaac Asimov. And then follow the link there to my new best-ever, most-favourite site on the Internet.

And may your Monday rock. Even if you hate Mondays. And if you really hate Mondays, head on over to Mod Mom Beyond Indiedom’s I Hate Mondays Blog Hop. And we can all sob together…

… but seriously. May your Monday, and your week, not suck.

A room of her own? Earplugs. I’ll settle for earplugs

Suess Landing at Universal Studios' Islands of...

I didn’t turn on the radio; that was my first mistake–should have let CBC Radio One fill the void of noise, or the latest BBC Horrible Histories CD. But even though it was only 10 a.m., I had had my fill of noise, and so while we drove through the snow-covered streets, I didn’t turn on the radio.

And so. First, Cinder:

“Um-ta-um-ta-um-ta-um-ta…”

To the beat of some YouTube video… I bet you know the one. I don’t, because I’m a negligent parent, and no longer supervise my 10 year-old when he youtubes (look, I made a verb. Take that Oxford Dic). And Flora joins in:

“Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist.”

If you watch How I Met Your Mother, bet you can name the episode. Yes, my eight-year-old watches How I Met Your Mother. On Netflix. Unsupervised. And while I’d love to claim that this experience will ensure she will never date a man like Barney… I have to confess, she’s got a thing for his pecs. And I suspect she thinks she might be able to reform him. Sigh.

“Um-ta-um-ta-um-ta-um-ta…”

“Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist.”

And now, enter Ender.

“Fox in Socks! Fox in Socks! Foooooooox! Iiiiiiiiin! Sooooooooocks!”

Dr. Seuss? I hate you. And I particularly hate you in this car, and if this goes on much longer, I will hate you on a star, and I will hate you here and there…

Cinder’s chants morphs into:

“I’ve got the moves like Biscuit, I’ve got the moves like Biscuit, I’ve got the mooooooves like Biscuit.”

(If you’ve got a Minecrafter in the house, you’ll get the double-reference; if not, don’t worry. But yes, this version is just as annoying as the original.)

Flora morphs How I Met Your Mother and Dr. Seuss and starts chanting:

“Box. Box. Box. Box. Box. Box. Box.”

Ender starts free-forming:

“This is my song and I am singing! I am singing! AS! LOUD! AS! I! CAN!”

And me? Well, it’s been 10.5 years of sometimes-screaming children and 3.5 years of three of them howling in the car at the same time. I’ve got coping strategies. The best one, frankly, is noise-cancelling earphones (earplugs will do in a pinch). But I ain’t got them one me right now, so instead, I leave only a small fraction of self driving the car–just enough not to break any major laws or rear-end any bad drivers. The rest… the rest is in a bathtub. Gloriously alone. In a gloriously silent bathroom. Underwater… disassociating…

The cacophony continues. I’m now not just in a gloriously silent bathroom, but in a gloriously silent hotel room. Oh God. Yes. Please. Silence envelopes me, surrounds me. The outside is snowy and quiet. The inside–can’t even hear the central heating. The phone’s unplugged.

“I’ve got the moves like Biscuit, I’ve got the moves like Biscuit, I’ve got the mooooooves like Biscuit.”

“Box. Box. Box. Box. Box. Box. Box.”

“This is my song and I am singing! I am singing! AS! LOUD! AS! I! CAN!”

Silence. Oh yes. It’s a beautiful thing.

I try not to resent the happiness my children–most children–take in creating cacophony. If it’s noise of happiness and joy, I can usually ride it out.  Feel fantasy water fill my ears; disappear into my head. But sometimes… oh, the real thing is the only thing that will do. Silence. All around me.

“Mom?”

Flora breaks with the noise. We’re parked in front of our destination.

“Mom? You have that horrible creepy look on your face, like you’re not here. Mom? Mom?”

“Sorry, babe. Just thinking.”

Liar. I’m not thinking. I’m just listening to… silence.

I’ve been away wallowing in silence–just me and my laptop and no Internet, in the mountains–for a glorious interlude and thus a bad citizen of the blogosphere. While catching up is impossible–I’ll be around more this week so if you’re a new visitor and commentator, I will pop by your cyberplace soon. Unless I get swallowed up by silence again. It was… glorious. Simply glorious. I’m jonesing for it already…

“Boy, you sure have your hands full”: the rebuttal

This isn’t what I usually write, or how I usually write. It’s actually a really great example, from the point of view of a professional writer, of why you shouldn’t write when you’re all het up—or why you shouldn’t press “send” right after you’ve written something that had you all het up. Think on it a bit. Emotional angst makes for great drama—it rarely makes for great writing in the moment. Too much confusion, cloudiness… self-absorption.

What the professional writer in me wants to do is to file this under “bad drafts,” come back to it three or four months hence when I don’t remember the incident that fired it, take the nugget of insight from it (generally found in the second-to-last one-sentence paragraph), and build a proper essay around it.

My inner child wants to publish it as is, because she’s wilful and has poor impulse control and it’s her blog, goddamit, and she’ll write what she wants.

The wilful inner child takes charge, grabs the lead and starts to write this:

I was rude to you the other day, I realize, and the soft, peace-making, acquiescing part of me wants to apologize. It’s not nice to be rude to people and I should have made some effort, taken the high road, etc. Etc. Especially as you weren’t malicious—nor rude to me, particularly. I was just tired of mediating with the world, and you were just… stupid, I think is the word I’m looking for.

The adult within asserts a little and starts to edit a little:

Damn, this apology is not going well. Stupid’s unfair. You may have been a perfectly intelligent, thinking person under most circumstances. With a flaw, perhaps: the desire to talk to strangers about the first thing that occurred to you. There’s probably nothing wrong with that trait. Probably helps you make friends in new places. You just had the bad fortune to select the wrong mother at the wrong time to talk at. I’m sorry.

There, that’s a better shot at an apology. And now, the inner child and its super-ego start to compromise and work together… They write this:

I suppose before I go any further, I should recap what you said—and what I did. So there I was in the library on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, with my three kids. The seven-and-a-half-year-old (“I’m actually closer to eight, now, Mom, shouldn’t you say that?”) was checking out our stack of books at the self-check out. The ten-year-old was amusing the not-quite-three-year-old (“Amusing? Well, that’s one way of putting it, Mom.”). And I was lounging against the wall between them, occasionally toning down the volume on the amusement, and occasionally helping my checker-outer when the machine didn’t read the book codes properly. Last book went through the check out. I divided the books between four sets of arms, and said, “To the car, dudes.”

Arms full of books, the kids ran joyfully—and noisily—to the door. I followed more slowly.

And, somewhere from the periphery of my vision, you let out a (well-meaning) chuckle, and said, “Well, that’s what your day off looks like, doesn’t it.”

I half-turned my head to ascertain that you were talking at me, and then I said…

 Nothing.

I tried to offer one of those smiles of acknowledgement, but I suspect it didn’t come out genuine, because I didn’t particularly feel like smiling. I thought what you said was really silly—and I didn’t feel like offering any of the conventional responses you expected. What would they have been, anyway? What were you looking for? “That’s the way the cookie crumbles?” perhaps? Or “Good thing we love them?” Or something else that would validate your assumptions that a) this was my day “off”, b) that I’d rather be doing something else, c) that spending a Sunday afternoon at the library with my kids was somehow hard? I’d had a really tough, exhausting week, and this Sunday afternoon was, frankly, one of the week’s jewels, one of those moments in time that underscore just how good my life is. I wasn’t frazzled or ticked or yelling at the children (that was Thursday afternoon, but you weren’t there… wonder what you would have said then? “That’s what your day on looks like?”). My children were by no one’s compass behaving inappropriately or in a demanding, taxing manner (though by Zeus’ third testicle, on Tuesday they did). What the hell were you commenting on?

And as all this flew through my head at lightening speed, the fully rational part of me also knew I was completely over-reacting, because it had been a tough week and because I was tired and my defences were down, and you did not mean to be in any way rude, —you were just a friendly stranger trying to make conversation, and you said the first thing that came into your mind. So I tried to force that smile to be a little less fake, but I still said…

 Nothing.

You were a few steps behind me in the parking lot as we both walked to our cars. My children had raced ahead to mine. They opened the doors, and loaded themselves up into the card. You caught up to me. And said:

 “My daughter’s thinking of having a third, but looking at you, I don’t know—boy, it’s a lot of work.”

And I turned my head again, and looked at you, and said…

Nothing.

But I gave you The Look. I know I gave you The Look, because you took two steps back, and then almost ran to your car without half-a-backward glance at me. It’s possible I made you cry. I’ve never seen The Look on my own face, but I’ve bequeathed it to all three of my children, and I’ve seen it there, and it’s a pretty terrifying thing; it’s a “You’re too stupid to live, and you should leave my sight before I do something about it” kind of look, and apparently it frequently creeps onto my face during business meetings, and my colleagues, as well as the people who have the misfortune of being interviewed by me live and repeatedly, live in terror of me one day turning The Look on them (and my husband and children treat it as a sign of my undying, clearly unconditional love that no matter what they’ve done or said, I’ve never turned The Look on them… yet).

Anyway. I gave you The Look. You skedaddled. I got into the car.

“Can we put one of the new books on tape in?” the 10-year-old asked me, as the seven-year-old finished buckling up her little brother in his car seat. The books were piled around them.

“Sure,” I said. I started the car. He put the CD in.

As we drove home, I tried to parse what it was that you had done that ticked me off so.

 “Well, that’s what your day off looks like, doesn’t it.”

“My daughter’s thinking of having a third, but looking at you, I don’t know—boy, it’s a lot of work.”

Two sentences. Kindly meant, really. What’s ticking me off here? Is it that you interfered in a moment I was having with my children. Sunday afternoon. At the library. The four of us. Chilling. Not performing for you, or awaiting your commentary.

Mothers today live essentially in constant defensive mode from verbal assaults—er, commentary—from well-meaning strangers.

This mother’s tired of it, and is done responding to it. See me in the park or the grocery store with my kids? Whether we’re in a moment of bliss or a moment of strife, it’s our moment, and it’s none of your business. The only two acceptable comments from a stranger to a mother (or father) in a public place are:

 a. What a beautiful family you have.

and, its more effusive variant,

 b. How lucky you are to have such a lovely family.

Feel compelled to say something else? Shut up.

Was that it? The above rant notwithstanding, no, not really. A little—it sure didn’t help—but not really. It wasn’t even that your comments were so completely… inaccurate. I mean, there are plenty of times when I’m out in public with the brood when it does look like hard work. Like the time I had to get Cinder to sit on Ender at the deli while I paid so that I wouldn’t have to buy $200 worth of broken jars of imported honey and olives. Or the time… well, anyway. There are times. This wasn’t one of them.

But even if it was—here’s what really got me—even if it was. Even if it looked like hard work. You vocalized the thing that I’m convinced will be the reason Western society collapses:

 You think if something’s a lot of work, it’s not worth doing.

Is having three children hard work? A lot of work? Having any children? Yes. It requires effort. But everything worthwhile does. My work requires effort. Living in my community requires effort. Maintaining relationships and lines of communication. Eating well. Learning a language. Unlearning bad habits. Cleaning house. Gardening. Fixing your car. Making supper. Some days, getting out of bed in the morning.

It all requires effort. And it’s all worth doing.

If I didn’t do things that were hard work, I’d… I don’t know. Sit on my ass watching bad tv because it was too hard to find the lost remote and too hard to get off the couch? Watch life and opportunity and everything pass me by because it was too much work to seize the moment, make the change, do the thing I wanted to do?

My fingers pause over the keyboard. I’m not sure how to end this rant, which isn’t quite going where it started out heading. Then Ender putters in. He’s carrying a giant, giant rock. Into the kitchen—which means, he must have lugged it in from the garden, up the two flights of stairs.

“This hard work,” he says, with an oof, as he plops down for a rest beside me. “This hard work for a little me.” And I look at him in awe, because what’s the first thing that I was going to say in response to this amazing feat of toddler strength? I think it probably was going to be, “Then why did you do it?”

Ender gives another oof. “This hard work for a little me.” He looks with pride at the stone. “Me did it.”

You did it, dude. And that’s that.

Inner Child Art --Rescued!

Inner Child Art –Rescued! (Photo credit: Urban Woodswalker)

Post-script: So. The writer in me sat on this draft long enough that my seven-and-a-half year-old is now eight and change. But the inner child still wants to share it with you more or less in its original form. And she still has poor impulse control. Plus, her super-ego is rather tired this week.

♥

Blogger love: I got the nicest cyber ego stroke from one of my absolute favourite daddy bloggers, @PapaAngst last week, in his post Balsa Wood Forever, and you should wander over to meet him if you don’t know him already. Actually calling him a daddy blogger does not do him justice: He’s a daddy and a blogger, but what he is, on line, is a story-crafter and talented writer. Who knows how to work his inner child just right.

Agent of Karma, Redux

From February 8, 2012:

Flora: Ender! Go bite Cinder right now!
Jane: Flora! What are you doing?
F: I’m making Ender an agent of Karma.
J: We’ve talked about that. You can’t be an agent of karma, and you can’t make someone an agent of karma. Karma just is.
F: Fine. I’ll just make Ender an agent of Flora. Ender! Are you going to bite Cinder or not?
J: Flora…
F: What? I have a mere year or maybe two while he’s in that do-what-sister tells you phase. Remember, you told me about that?
J: So?
F: So? I have to take advantage of it!

''Fish Karma logo

Brief interlude for homeschoolers: On Undogmatic Unschoolers yesterday, I explain why we don’t “teach” math. But if you’re going to read only one thing about homeschooling ever, it should be this: What being homeschooled is actually like, by Summer Anne Burton on buzzfeed.com.

Favourite thing in my in-box yesterday: Play Dates: Should My Toddler Be Practicing? from Deni at The Diary of a Reluctant Mother. (The short answer, btw, is “No!”)

Proof that other mothers’ children also swear and it’s not just me and mine: Where is that f-ing hat? from The Four Eyed Momster.

And the fabric of the universe does not come apart…

Toilet paper Español: Papel higiénico

Ender: I don’t want you to wash my bum ever again!

Jane: Jesus, Ender, you have no idea how much I want to never have to wash your bum ever again. Ever. And you know when that will happen? When you start pooping in the freakin’ toilet!

Cinder: Don’t believe her, Ender! She’s obsessed with cleaning your bum, and even after you’re totally toilet trained, she’ll be putting you under the shower until you’re four or five because she does not believe in toilet paper.

Jane: What the… First all, you can’t not believe in toilet paper. Look–toilet paper. Right here. You can’t not, pardon me for using a double negative, believe in it. You can believe in not using toilet paper. Which, incidentally, I don’t not believe in–we buy and go through so much toilet paper–but you try cleaning THIS with toilet paper, you little…

Cinder: Mom? While you were doing your toilet paper rant, Ender took off. I bet he’s plopping his poopy bum down on the couch right now…

It’s one of those moments, right, when you ponder–what to do, throw something heavy at the smart-ass 10 year-old and then chase after the poopy three-year-old or… but before you have time to process, because this is my life, the telephone rings. And it’s the CEO-VP-GC-analyst-insert-your-favourite-acronym-or-title here I’ve been stalking all week and need to talk to right now. And the phone is on a different floor, of course, and I’m up to my elbows in toddler feces…

If I’m lucky, my Flora will get to the phone and say,

“I’m sorry, she can’t come to the phone right now, can I take a message?”

But if this day continues to unfold as it has, Cinder will get to the phone first, and, the mood he’s in, will say,

“Sorry, she’s up to her elbows in shit. And in a piss-bad mood, so I don’t know if you want to call back. And she’s been calling you a rat-fuck bastard all week because you haven’t called her back yet.”

See, but although the universe has a wicked sense of humour, it also sometimes knows that at this particular point in time the last straw will really be the last straw, and if it throws you one more curve ball, you–and when I say you, I mean me–will tear its very fabric into pieces and bring about the end of life as we know it–and so, although it is Cinder who gets to the telephone, what he says is,

“Yes, she’s been waiting for you to call–hold on just a minute, she’ll be right here!”

Followed, granted, by,

“Mom! It’s that guy who hasn’t called you back all week!”

but he doesn’t call the guy a rat-fuck bastard, and that makes him golden, and I get to the phone, and I get the interview that will make me meet deadline and be golden with the editor. And then, I clean the poopy bum. And the poopy couch. And then, after kissing Cinder on the forehead for answering the phone properly, begging Ender to please-for-whatever-gods-he-may-ever-choose-to-believe-in-sake-to-tell-me-next-time-he-has-to-go, and making sure Flora is in the house (sometimes, I  lose track of whichever child isn’t causing me angst at the moment…), I restock the bathroom with toilet paper.

Because, a. I believe in toilet paper. It exists. I don’t just think it exists. I know. b. Whatever my smart-ass 10 year-old son is trying to make you think for evil purposes of his own–I believe in using toilet paper. And by all the gods I don’t believe in–I can’t wait until Ender does too.

More like this: The naked truth about working from home, the real post and The naked truth about working from home, the teaser.

And, playing here today:

There is magic everywhere…

English: A unicorn.

Flora: What’s that, Mom? And don’t say gasoline floating on top of a puddle!

Jane: Um… well… that’s kind of what I thought it was. It isn’t?

Flora: No, that’s just what it looks like to the uninitiated. But you know what it really is?

Jane: What?

Flora: Unicorn pee.

…

There’s magic everywhere.

And in the above spirit, a Facebook meme a friend passed on to my lovely Flora earlier this year:

Always be yourself. Unless you can be a unicorn. Then always be a unicorn.

Now off you go and be yourself. Or a unicorn.

I f#%$ing hate baking

Photo on 2013-02-14 at 15.35 #2

Cinder: Mom? Do other moms swear this much when they bake?

Jane: Yes. Yes they do. Now where the fuck is that spatula?

Cinder: I think the dog’s licking it.

Jane: Fucking hell! Wash it! We need it to ice the cake.

…

Jane: Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck!

Cinder: Mom? How about I ice the cake?

Jane: Oh thank God. I’ll just get you the food colouring. And the vodka.

Cinder: We need vodka?

Jane: Um, yes.

…

And you know what I hope? That at one point, some time in the future, they realize that each act of my swearing-infested baking, each batch of rock-hard cupcakes, every lopsided cake, and are-they-supposed-to-taste like this cookies–each one of those was an act of unconditional love.

Because I fucking hate baking. And every time I do it–and, frankly, I do it as rarely as possible and only when they ask (beg) me to–I do it only because I love them.

Photo: Cinder and his Minecraft watermelon block cake. Only partially ruined by Mom.

Good Daddies are hot

Romantic Heart form Love Seeds

I’m a wee bit cynical about most things. Not the least bit romantic about Valentine’s Day. But you know what? Good Daddies rock. Nothing sexier than a good Daddy. Carrying a diaper bag, changing a diaper, pushing a toddler on a swing, running behind a six-year-old on a bike, supporting the teenager through her first broken heart… good Daddies make the world go round. And they deserve a massive shout out.

So:

To Ross, who can make Baby M smile no matter what, and who’s made sure his kids know all the words to Little Black Submarines.

To Bill, who looks for recipes and homeschool projects on Pinterest. And then, like, cooks!

To Richard, who knows how to talk and listen to his kids. No matter what.

To Carey, who’s so in love with his girls, it makes my heart sing every time I see it. ♥

To Chris, who said he’d never be the dad who posted about “that stuff” on Facebook… but is and owns it. Cause he’s so in love with his son.

To the other Chris, who was clinically the most qualified of us to be a parent… and as it turns out, intuitively and practically rocks at it.

To my third Chris, who’s the most amazing single dad one could ever imagine.

To Steve, who’ll do anything for his boys, even when they destroy all his nice things.

To Tyler, who can’t stop smiling whenever he looks at his beautiful daughter. Even when she’s trying to stab him in the eye with a steak knife…

To Norm, who likes to pretend he’s a tough guy but pampers his boys ever-so-tenderly. And hooks them up with the best hair cuts.

To Barnabas, who makes his boys the best weapons. And sets off firecrackers. And builds insane fires. But worries that  they might drown…

To Mark, who builds the best train tracks. And, of course, draws the best cartoons.

To Dave, who adores his little girls so much I already pity their future boyfriends. (And they’re gorgeous, so there will be a lot of those, Dave. Sorry…)

To Kelly, who takes his kids on the best adventures (and makes really great suppers).

To Adam, who hasn’t slept a night through in two and a half years. And knows it’s all worth it.

To Paul, who built a store with a killer play space.

To Ben, who turns off the Blackberry when he’s with his boys.

To Martin, who washes the dishes. Every single night.

To the other Martin, who’s never missed a game or tournament—if at the price of an awful lot of speeding tickets…

To Rob, who’s always made sure his girls know they’re the centre of his universe, no matter what’s going on with other relationships. And who knows the difference between an elf and a fairy.

To Garth, who knows exactly what he needs to do the moment he walks through the front door.

To John, who answers the phone when it’s one of his daughters’ numbers on call display–be it 2 a.m. or the middle of the most important client meeting, because it could be an emergency.

To all the rest of you, who change diapers, wipe snotty noses, fiddle with snow suits, look for lost mittens, run out for milk at 11:45 p.m., get up at 3:15 a.m.–and again at 5 a.m.–push strollers in slush, hold tiny hands when you cross the street, swear when you fiddle with car seats, make mac’n’cheese, PVR Blue’s Clues, take time for bed time, give out goodnight kisses and good morning hugs, and do the other million and ten things that good Daddies need to do.

And most of all, to my Sean. With whom I fall in love, all over again, every time he changes a diaper. Reads a bedtime story. Instals a mod for his Flora. Plays Munchkins, Stratego or Primal Carnage with his Cinder. Takes Ender for a long walk on the hill, even when the weather’s bad. Makes French toast for second breakfast and peanut butter and jam sandwiches for third supper. Builds a train track, fiddles with Mindstorms, or listens to stories of ponies and unicorns. Thank you, my love, for my beautiful children—and for being their most awesomest Daddy.

Ladies—if you’ve got one of these amazing dudes in your life, wear something skanky for his pleasure today. And make sure he enjoys it.

Gentlemen—underwear models, movie stars, super athletes, my ripped 26 year-old boy toy of a personal trainer—cute, gorgeous, symmetrical, whatever.  Eye candy’s nice, no question.

But there be absolutely nothing hotter than a good Daddy. 

Truth. You’re the stuff dreams–and better yet, the best quotidian moments–are made of.

xoxo

“Jane”

Add a toast to the good Daddies in your life below. It’s Valentine’s Day. They deserve a shout out.  

Photo via Zemanta: Romantic Heart form Love Seeds (Photo credit: epSos.de)

The not-so-mysterious incident of the carrots in the milk carton

English: A photo of a cup of coffee. Esperanto...

I.

I sleepwalk into the kitchen in search of the first cup of coffee. Boil water. Fight with the grinder. Dump old coffee grounds all over the floor. Clean them up. Make the coffee. Inhale the smell of… sheer bliss, really. If you’re a coffee lover, you know what I mean–there is nothing like it, it is the smell of perfection, the birth and end of the universe in one olfactory sensation, the promise of everything. Ah. Pour the first cup. No cream in the fridge–reach for the milk carton.

Pour.

Discover there are two giant carrots in the milk carton.

Look at them uncomprehendingly, because, you know, I have just smelled and not yet drunk the coffee.

Pour the milk into the coffee carefully. Replace the milk carton in the fridge.

Go sit on the couch beside the 3.5 year old. Drink my coffee.

II.

Sean stumbles into the kitchen in search of his cup of coffee. Lucky man, the lag between his wake up time and mine insufficient today for the first pot to be empty. Pours himself a cup of coffee. Savours the smell. And, responsible father that he is, asks the 2/3 of the awake progeny if they want to eat something. (Their mother does not speak, or serve, until she has finished her second cup of coffee. She is still on the couch drinking the first…) The progeny want cereal.

He grabs bowls. Cereal. Milk. Pours.

“Why the fuck are there two carrots in the milk carton?”

Neither the milk nor the carrots answer. I look at the 3.5 year old. He grins a wicked grin.

“I put them there, Dadda!” he calls out happily.

“Why… why did you put carrots in the milk?” Sean says. His voice full of angst and despair–and see, this is why I do not talk until after the second cup. Why suffer? And make others suffer? Let the caffeine do its work first…

“Flora was peeing,” Ender replies promptly.

I am almost done my first cup of coffee, so I understand perfectly. What he wanted to do was to flush the carrots down the toilet. However, the toilet was occupied. What else could he do with them? Aha! Milk carton!

Sean is still just smelling the coffee. And trying to understand all this. And perhaps on the verge of tears.

And here is proof that I am an excellent, excellent wife and helpmeet: although the effort involved in this is Herculean, I lift myself off the couch, stagger into the kitchen, grab his coffee cup, and put it into his hands. He tries to speak–I shut his mouth with a kiss.

I’d say drink–but I do not speak until I’ve downed the second cup of coffee.

He takes a sip. Then another. The world is slowly becoming a better place, and the case of the carrots in the milk losing its power to ruin his day.

I pour my second cup of coffee. Pour the rest of the milk into it. Shake the carrots out into the sink. Rinse them.

“They don’t look like they’ve been in there very long,” Sean says. He picks up the empty milk carton and peers into it. To determine–by what evidence?–the length of the carrot milk immersion?

Cinder, our 10 year old, stumbles down the stairs. Stops, and stares at the tableau, dominated by his father, evidently distraught, peering into the milk carton. And says…

“Did Ender pee in the milk again?”

I draw the curtain on the resulting scene. Suffice it to say, Sean was never happier that he was lactose intolerant… and Flora may never eat cereal again.

More like this: The obvious correlation between crying over spilt coffee and potty training

♥

And some blogger love. Last week, Tirzah Duncan, the talented writer-poet-entrepreneur-cynical optimist-coiner-of-phrases-extraordinaire at The Ink Caster, passed The Versatile Blogger award on to me (which of course means someone gave it to her, congratulations, Tirzah). In addition to being a talented writer, Tirzah would be a great person to watch your back come the Zombie Apocalypse. If you don’t believe me, check out this post.

My head wasn’t quite done swelling when TJ, Sara and Jen from Chi-Town Mommy Mayhem — well, possibly just one of them, but I prefer to take the compliment from all three — handed off the Liebster Award to Nothing By The Book. Their blog is “dedicated to the uncensored mommies of Chicago” and their motto is “We don’t sugar coat anything here.” And they have kick ass tweets ( @MayhemMommyTJ).

I’m eight awards or possibly more behind doing the proper reciprocity thing, and with each passing day… Well. If you really want to know seven random things about me, read this my last Blogosphere Group Hug and find out how I once interviewed the prime minister of Canada sans underwear. For blogs that deserve to have the awards passed on to them–check out the blogs I follow, bottom of each page of the blog. Cause, you know, I only follow good ones.

♠

More proof we all raise the children we deserve…

…or, at least, proof that I’m raising the children I’m raising. You know what I mean:

I.

Cinder: Here, Mom, eat this.

Jane: Oh, sweetie, chocolate. Thank you. What’s this for?

Cinder: Well, you look kind of sad and cranky, and I thought I’d apply the chocolate proactively instead of after you yell at us. Clever eh?

II.

Jane: I’m sorry, Ender, I’m just not myself today. A little sad.

Ender: Oh, don’t be sad, my mama, I love you too much.

And yeah, she’s a little better right away. Who wouldn’t be?

III.

Flora: Mom? You know what we should do tonight? Leave the boys to watch a movie with Daddy, put on some lipstick and go to the library.

Jane: Oh yeah?

Flora: Yeah. I think it’s what we both need. Now, where’s your lipstick?

Jane: This isn’t just a plot so you get to put on some lipstick, is it?

Flora: No. It’s a plot to get away from the boys. Have you not been here today? They’re freakin’ annoying!

Box of Chocolates

Sort of like this, but not really: Are your children the way they are because they’re unschooled?

AND DID I MENTION (oh, yes I did. Well, here I go again): I’ve got a guest post today at Oh Boy Mom, Go have a peek. It’s about learning to value gender stereotypes… when they happen to be true for your children.

How un-helicopter mothers parent, part deux

1, 2, 3 Tae Kwon do

Jane: Jeezus Keerist, what the hell are you guys doing? Stop! Stop right now!

Cinder: Mom! It’s sooo much fun!

Jane: If you’re going to keep on doing that, go down into the basement so I can’t see it. Go! Now!

Cinder to friend: C’mon, let’s go.

Friend: She really means that? We can keep on doing this in the basement?

Cinder: Yeah. But—like, if there’s blood or someone seriously gets hurt, she’s going to be massively pissed.

Friend: How pissed?

Cinder: Like epically pissed.

Friend: What will she do to us?

Cinder: Lecture-lecture-lecture-lecture-blah-blah-blah. It’s awful.

Friend: Would she get bandaids first?

Jane: I’m right here. Listening!

Cinder: Well, what will you do if there’s blood?

Jane: Lecture-lecture-lecture-lecture-blah-blah-blah until your ears fall off. Then I’d go get the bandaids. So—no blood.

Friend: I’m never really sure if your mom’s really cool or kind of weird.

Cinder: Me neither. Let’s go before she really thinks about this and changes her mind.

 

Boxing gloves in use in a professional kickbox...

A. You don’t want to know what they were doing. I’m still pretending I didn’t see it.

B. There was no blood. Thank the gods. More miraculously, I don’t think they broke anything…

C. The Cinder knows his mother well, doesn’t he? Yup. He sure does.

 

Photo 1 via Zemanta: 1, 2, 3 Tae Kwon do (Photo credit: Claudio.Ar). Photo 2 via Wikipedia. And what they were doing… way worse.

Kids’ birthday parties: how to do it without stress and angst

birthday balloons

Flora is hosting a birthday party sleep-over extravaganza for 12 little girls. They’re about to descend on the house in, oh, 45 minutes. I’m sitting on the couch, legs up, drinking coffee (yes, it’s laced), eating chocolate, and chilling by writing this post.

Here’s why.

The little girls are coming to have fun, eat hot dogs, cake and pop-corn, watch a movie, and snuggle in sleeping bags on my living room floor to celebrate Flora’s eighth birthday and their special relationship with her.

They are not coming to inspect the cleanliness and order of my house.

They are not coming to do a 45-minute craft that requires three days of pre-planning and pre-cutting.

They are not coming to enjoy themed hors d’oeuvres or a fancy meal.

They are coming to play and love Flora.

And so, I chill.

Our day, in preparation for the party, looks like this:

Each of us spends the morning doing our usual chill thing. Cinder and Flora play Minecraft. Ender destroys the living room (aka plays Lego, trains, straws and connectors and strews poppy seeds and bread crumbs everywhere). Sean reads a book. I hang with friends on Facebook and catch up on the blogosphere and poke around on Twitter. We eat breakfast. Chill some more.

Post-shower, as a nod to the sensitivities of little girls, I give the bathroom a pretty thorough clean and instruct Cinder not to pee for the remainder of the day. I back off when he threatens to pee off the balcony instead.

The day unfolds as a lazy Saturday should (Sean and I hide upstairs for a while to, um, “talk,” because you know, that won’t happen at night). After we eat lunch, I give the kitchen a fairly thoroughly clean—wash all the dishes and put them away, sweep the floor (I don’t even thinking about mopping it, because I will have 14 kids eating ice cream cake, chips and pop-corn in the house all day).

At about 2:30, Sean takes Flora and Ender on the crucial pre-party errands—to pick up the cake (outsource what you suck at and don’t enjoy is one of my life maxims) and a new pack of markers and cardboard masks that Flora decides she needs to have for the party.

As soon as they leave, I nap. Oh, yes. A delicious twenty-minute, no-three-year-old in the house nap.

Then, finally, I spring into action. With Cinder’s help, I de-Ender the living room (trains, Lego and straws-and-connectors into their bins. Big sweep of the floor, thoroughly covered with all manner of crap. Rejig of the furniture to create the “camp-out” space Flora wants.

I leave Cinder in charge of putting up the streamers (Flora asked him to do it, “because you’re so good at it, Brother!”), and go to prep the entry way.

Here’s what I don’t do: I don’t take away our five pairs of snow pants, snow suits, mitts, gloves, boots etc. etc. etc. I just make sure all of our shoes are on the shelf, so there’s plenty of room for 12 additional little pairs of boots, and there’s a space to deposit 12 coats and mitts. I do sweep—entry ways are foul things, are they not?—and I do briefly ponder mopping—it really needs it—but then I come to my senses. Each of those little girls will be wearing snow boots covered in snow and mud, and will take them off in the entry way and drip crud all over. Let it be, let it be. I clean after. (Maybe.)

And I’m pretty much done. I go up to the kitchen, and put the requisite bowl of chips on the table (I do fancy out and plop a table cloth under it—this ensures I don’t have to thoroughly scrape the kitchen table that triples as craft-table and science lab). Add a plate of carrots, pears, and oranges. A cutting board with cheese. Put the hot dogs, buns, and ketchup beside the stove.

Pour myself a cup of coffee… and go put my feet up.

It’s going to be a pretty crazy, intense night. I will have to facilitate, redirect, soothe. Keep the Ender amused and non-destructive. Ensure everyone feels welcome, included, safe and loved.

I’m not going to set myself up for stress and failure by exhausting myself before it comes.

I’m not throwing this party to impress Flora’s parents’ friends—or Flora’s friends.

I’m throwing this party because I love Flora and it’s what she wants.

And her friends, they are all coming only to play and love and celebrate Flora.

And so, I chill.

Although… with guests due to arrive in 10 minutes, I should probably go put on some pants.

xoxo

“Jane”

(January 12, 2013, 4:45 p.m.)

(Photo credit via Zemanta: jessica wilson {jek in the box})

P.S. I’m hopping at You Know It Happens At Your House Too’s Don’t Be a Bloghole Hop over the next few days. Link up with me!

The sweet sound of silence, not

Cedar Waxwing, Cap Tourmente National Wildlife...

Or, the more things change, the more you feel you’re living in a time warp…

First, step back into the past.

Sunday, January 13, 2008. Flora is three. Cinder five-and-a-half. And Ender undreamed of. We three are walking along our hill and spot some unusual birds―migrants, I think―Cinder thinks they were redheaded warblers and yellow-bellied warblers or maybe finches―and we try to get a closer look. Fail miserably, scare them away.

Cinder: Next time we have to bring binoculars. And we have to be very still, and very quiet so we can get closer to the birds. Hmm… that will be a problem. Mom, we’re going to have to get a bandaid for Flora’s mouth.

Jane: What?

Cinder: A bandaid. For her mouth. So she can be quiet.

Flora: Cinder! I! DO! NOT! WANT! A! BANDAID! FOR! MY! MOUTH!

Cinder: I’m sorry, Flora, but I don’t see another solution. You have to be very still and very quiet to watch birds. I know you can be very still, but I don’t think you can be very quiet.

Jane: Flora likes to talk.

Flora: That’s true. But I don’t want a bandaid for my mouth. Maybe you could just leave me home?

And now, almost five years later to the day. Cinder is 10 and a half. Flora is eight. And Ender is three and change. We four are walking along our hill. Looking at leaves, branches and trees. And… is that a bird? Is that a cedar waxwing? No way! (For the record, I know nothing about birds. Cinder and Flora flip through birding books more than I do. But we all get excited about the little flying rats.) We move in for a closer look. And…

Ender: Birds! Birds! Birds! I love birds! Birds are my favourite! FA-VOUR-EEEEET!

Flora: Shoot. They’re gone. Next time, we’ll have to get binoculars so we can get a closer look.

Cinder: Good idea. And maybe a gag for Ender’s mouth.

Jane: Cinder!

Cinder: What? You think there’s any chance he’ll stop talking long enough for us to sneak up on the birds?

Flora: Cinder! That’s terrible! How you could even think about wanting to gag poor Ender. He just loves birds And…

Cinder: Maybe a gag for Flora too…

It’s hard to be the one silence-loving sibling.

•

Something useful from the World Wide Web for those of you with toddlers: Five Low- Effort Toddler Games, on The Hair Pin.

And a congratulations to the talented Stephanie Sprenger at Mommy, for Real for raking in the blogging awards last Thursday, and passing on the “fabulous Liebster” to me. And putting me in such fabulous company: check out the other blogs she flags, they look great. I will get on to the proper pay-forward eventually. Really. In the meantime, thanks, Stephanie!

And, writing in at last minute: another congratulations to Little Poppits for drowning in awards, and a thank you kicking the love this way. Sweet.

Happy Monday, everyone. May this week rock.

Gender-bender: is that a boy or a girl?

Do your children fit visual gender stereotypes―people’s expectations of what a girl, a boy should look like? Mine didn’t, especially when little, long-haired, and sporting Princess dresses and combat boots.

One of my most vivid memories about this mis-fit takes place at a swimming pool in March, 2007. Cinder is not-quite 5, Flora is 2.3. Ender’s just a speck of unclaimed cosmic dust.

Setting: swimming pool in Banff National Park. The story unfolds thus:

My long-haired boy and long-haired girl, wearing identical great white shark swim shorts and shirts (they insisted on identical ones–Flora tried to sell Cinder on pink mermaid bikinis, but he said mermaids weren’t real and sharks were, and that was that), had spent the last few days (in said swim outfits) being variously and randomly called boys, girls, boy and girl rightly and wrongly. None of us really reacted much, because, well, whatever, right? Finally, here and now, after a lifeguard told Cinder and me to “make sure she could touch the bottom when the waves came,” Cinder tossed his head, looked up at her, started to say, “I’m a bo…” then turned to me, and said,

“Mom? Shouldn’t there be a word that means both boy and girl? You know, like she and he, but one that’s both she and he, so that people can use it when they don’t know if someone’s a boy or a girl or when it doesn’t matter if someone’s a boy or a girl?”

There should.

But there isn’t.

2013: Flora, 8, is ultra-feminine now, hair to her waist, and almost always in a dress these days (with pants or leggings underneath, “In case I need to kick someone’s ass in a hurry, or run away from Aunt Josephine.”). No one’s taken her for a boy for a long time… Cinder, 10.5, has always been such a boy-boy in behaviour and choice of clothes (or weapons), but he’s got blond, curly hair that he keeps long (if never brushed and generally, frankly, dreaded) and eye-lashes to die for. He still gets called a girl on average once a week. One day, I will capture the resulting eye-roll in a video. Wonderfully, he still doesn’t care. And Ender, 3 and change, is just where Flora and Cinder were in the shark suit story: he’s got long hair, so it doesn’t matter how butch he looks or acts, he gets called a girl. Especially when Flora dresses him in some of her favourite “hand me down” clothes. Or the Princess dress.

There should be a word that means boy or girl (man or woman) that you can use when you don’t know the gender of a child―or when you just don’t care.

But there still isn’t.

More like this: The Return of the Princess dress.

You can still talk about play: What is play?

What is play?

Italian educationist Maria Montessori (1870-1952)

This isn’t so much a post, as an invitation to debate…

Pre-amble: One of my close friends and influential thinkers in my life is a Montessorian, both teacher and parenting coach, and generally speaking, there are many aspects of the Montessori perspective on early childhood and early childhood education that speak to me. (And I’m completely enamoured of The Michael Olaf catalogue. I want it all, my thing against stuff, and buying stuff, notwithstanding).

Point: Here’s what throws me every time I dance with Maria Montessori, and that is her “observation-conclusion” that play is what children do when they have nothing better to do.

Counterpoint: Let’s start with Johann Huizinga, author of Homo Ludens–Playing Man, who argued quite passionately and to me convincingly that play is what makes us human, what created civilization…

My children play—I play—not when we have nothing better to do, but when we are free to do the thing we really, really want to do. (In my case, “play” equals—writing, reading, biking around in circles and day-dreaming. In their case, “play” equals… well, everything. From video games to art to building forts out of ice or toilet paper rolls.)

So a big question to the brilliant minds visiting here: what is play? How do you define play (and I suppose by opposition work?) in your life, in your family?

BTW, this is where the Montessorian in my life expounds on her stuff: Full Circle Parenting. It’s, ultimately, a very different approach to life, parenting (and education) than I’ve chosen to chart for my family in the specifics… but the underlying foundation of respect and focus on the bonds between members of the family is the same.

Photo: Maria Montessori (1870-1952) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Of the apocalypse, euphemisms and (un)potty training, 2

I.

Jane: I don’t understand. I don’t understand how two people who love each other as much as I know you two do can fight so much!

Flora: Oh, Mom. Don’t worry. We’re just like Sadie and Carter. (Sadie and Carter Kane, from The Kane Chronicles.)

Cinder: Yeah, we fight all the time…

Flora: … but we cooperate when it matters.

Cinder: Yeah, we’d totally work together to save the world. Right, Flora?

Flora: Right… Ouch! Why’d you punch me?

Cinder: The world is not in peril right now.

The Revelation of St John: 4. The Four Riders ...

II.

Cinder: Mom! I taught Ender a new word!

Jane: Oh, dear God. Do I want to hear this?

Cinder: Ender! What do you say?

Ender: Butt sack! Butt sack!

Jane: Butt sack?

Cinder: It’s a euphemism. Do you want to know for what?

Jane: No.

III.

Jane: Ender, beloved, the potty is right there. Why did you pee on the floor? Again?

Ender: I hate potty. I never pee in potty again.

Jane: Why?

Ender: Potty evil.

Jane: Cinder!

Cinder: What? Why are you assuming I told him the potty was evil?

Silence.

Cinder: Well, it’s not like he was using it much anyway.

IV.

Flora: Moooom! Maggie’s drinking pee!

Jane: What? Oh… no, that’s okay, that’s water.

Flora: You… gave… Maggie… water… in… Ender’s POTTY?

Jane: Well… it’s not like he’s using it these days.

(first published June 15, 2012)

+++

Blogosphere Love Payback Moment: I still haven’t properly reciprocated to the funny Momtimes4 for the Very Inspirational Blogger Award,  and now the ridiculously awesome and hilarious Jenn from Something Clever 2.0 has passed on The Liebster to me. Thank you, lovelies–it’s always nice to know you’re not just throwing words into the ether, right? And I’ll dot the T’s and cross the I’s–wait, that doesn’t sound right–of the pay-forward when I can do so with some focus and concentration. In the meantime: thank you much. And keep on laughing. Because it’s cheaper than drugs or therapy…

Involving children in our odd 21st century work lives

Hmm, I wonder who's face that is?

One of the goals I have for my little bums is for them to grow up connected to the world of “adult” work: to be witness to the work, to participate in it, to understand it. You know. All that stuff that as paleolithic and neolithic kids they’d just absorb as a matter of course. But in the twenty-first century, if you’re engaged in intellectual, creative or professional work… well, it’s tough. You’re just at the computer. (Occasionally, somewhere else, naked, writing with marker on your leg…)

Every once in a while, though, an opportunity presents itself. We’re both more actively seeking them out for our Cinder now. Here’s one of the first ones, from February 19, 2008, with a questionable moral. Enjoy.

2008. There is currently a plate of doggie doo drying in my kitchen. Not REAL–thank the gods! But Sean is shooting a commercial for a new type of pooper scooper on Saturday. One of the challenges we’ve both seen in the recent while is letting Cinder into our work world—Flora’s still not really interested, “housework” and neglecting our garden is more than enough. My work, unfortunately–hunched over the computer or glued to the telephone, not an awful lot of room for help from a six year old (although he answers the phone very professionally now and doesn’t always manage to hang up on the people before passing them on to me 🙂 ) Sean’s work–the same, although Cinder loves to and does help load and unload the car when they’re off to a shoot, etc.

Anyway—the pooper scooper commercial requires fake doggie doo, and so yesterday afternoon, Sean, Cinder and Flora set up a poop factory. Ingredients: instant coffee, corn syrup, and wetted cardboard. Damn realistic stuff.

At the end of the production, Cinder looked at Sean with big eyes and said, “I didn’t realize being a filmmaker was so gross, Daddy.”

Back to 2013: So what does a 21st century boy who’s got a filmmaker for a father choose to pursue as his first career? Making Youtube videos, of course. I’m pretty much equal parts proud and appalled.

How do you include/inform your kids about the adult workworld?

What do you want to be when you grow up?

English: Paleontologist Matt Smith at work, Jo...

Flora turned 8 last week, and she’s seriously rethinking her career plans. It’s adorable. I am celebrating her life angst (Flora: “But can one be a veterinarian AND a paleontologist AND a museum curator AND an artist? AND maybe a horse-trainer?” Jane: “Yes. Possibly not all at the same time, but you know, life is long.”) by revisiting a conversation from the summer of 2008. Flora was 3.5 and Cinder just over 6, and they already had career plans they were happy to discuss with one of their aunties.

Auntie: So, Flora, what are you doing to be when you grow up?
Flora: I’m going to be a paleontologist, and dig up dinosaur bones.
A: Wow… well, you certainly live in the right area for that.
(We’re in Calgary, a stone’s throw away from Drumheller and the fossil rich badlands)
Flora: Yes, but I’m going to be a paleontologist in Patagonia.
A: Patagonia?

Patagonia. It’s where all the dino-digging action was in 2008.

Cinder enters the conversation: I already have a job. I do it every day, whenever I feel like it, for as long as I like.
A: Cool. What is it?
(Me–really curious. And really no idea as to what the answer would be?)
Cinder: Blowing up things.
A: Blowing up things? Cinder, you’re scaring me.
Cinder: Oh, nothing too dangerous. Mostly just baking soda and vinegar, you know. It’s so much fun, and I can do it over and over again, and try to make different kinds of explosions. And sometimes I add other stuff to it.
A: Maybe you’ll be a demolition man when you grow up.
Cinder: What’s a demolition man?
A: Someone who blows up stuff–like old buildings.
Cinder: Or blasts tunnels through mountains, or to make highways?
A: Yeah…

— conversation steers back to pinecones and what-not for a while, takes a side-detour to helicopter-flying–he has helicopters on his pajamas and she suggests perhaps that could be his job, but he’s not interested, although Flora pipes in that being an airplane pilot would be a pretty good job, and flying a plane, as well as riding a horse, are good skills for a paleontologist to have “because you never know.” After a prolonged interval, Cinder returns to the topic of his job.

Cinder: I also like setting fires.
A: What?
Cinder: Pretty safely, you know. My friend and I, we use magnifying glasses sometimes to use the power of the sun to burn things and make smoke. It’s pretty cool.
A: Cinder, you’re really scaring me. Blowing up things, setting fires…
Cinder: Oh, I like to do other experiments, where things don’t blow up, too. But sometimes I accidentally make noxious fumes.
A: So what are you going to be when you grow up?
Cinder: Oh, just me. And keep on doing stuff. [pause] But I’ll probably be taller.

And can I possibly add anything to that?

Photo: Paleontologist Matt Smith at work, John Day Fossil Beds National Monument (NPS Photo;  Wikipedia)

More like this: Be the Fossil on UndogmaticUnschoolers.wordpress.com

And  big thank you to MomTimes4 for nominating me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award on her blog yesterday. I will pass on the love properly later in the week, but xoxoxo to a lovely lady in the meantime.

Waiting for the right time: why you should stop putting it off and have your babies now

English: Babies are always the same.

I spent a fabulous weekend recently partying with some fabulous people in their mid-to-late 30s who were all childless and waiting for the “right” moment to start their family. At the end of the fabulous weekend, I went back to my partner and our three squiggly kids, who covered me with sloppy kisses, and they went back to… waiting for the right time.

It’s a very popular notion among in Western society today—waiting to have children until the time is right: until you have your career at the right point, the right house, the right car, the right balance in your bank account… I personally believe there are few cultural fallacies that as potently contribute to people’s unhappiness. What point in your career is the right point? What amount of money is sufficient? You could always make more (and spend more)…

But then, we’re a family where the money comes from freelance writing and film-making, so really, waiting for financial stability as most people define it was never in the cards in the life plan. And if I were to do it all over again—if anything, I would have had the little bums sooner and closer together.

If you’re reading me, you’re probably not waiting to have children—you’ve got them. Do you think they came at the right time? Do you think they came too early? Or did you wait too long?

The adjustment to parenthood and familyhood is never easy. Is it easier if you go straight into it after a short period together as a couple… or after years or decades of “couplehood”?

Life happens as it does, and so many of our life choices aren’t really choices. Ya’ can’t have them babies until you find the right partner. Ya both need to want them… ya both need to be on the same page… ya both have to think it’s the “right” time.

But if your idea of the “right” time is the “perfect” time, the “ideal” time… well. There’s no such thing.

(Creative Commons photo with the tag: Babies are always the same. Ha ha.)

Hey, if you’re in your twenties and cringing at this, visit The Rambling Amazon and read why she doesn’t want to have kids right now for a counterpoint.

How un-helicopter mothers parent

A16

Jane: Jeezus, that was a bad fall–he’s been down a while. Do you think he’s conscious?

Marie: I see his hand twitching, he’s fine. Well, unless it’s a seizure.

Jane: Doesn’t really look like a seizure… oh, there, he’s getting up. So what were we talking about?

He was fine. They were all fine. Each of us came home with as many kids, with as many intact limbs, as we left with. It’s all good. How was your weekend?

…

In-between neglect… I mean, parenting and taking really good care of my children this weekend, I found out fabulous Anka at Keeping It Real made me her Real Deal Mom for the Month of January. How awesome is that? I think it was because of the How I broke my children post. Because it doesn’t get any more real than that… Have a stroll through Anka’s blog, and if you have a mama (or sanity) blogger you love you’d like to nominate for the Real Deal, she’s love to hear from you.

…

More like this: You know he’s his mother’s son and You know he’s his mother’s son, part deux

The NBTB post everyone was reading on the weekend: The naked truth about working from home, the real post

The NBTB post everyone (ok, three people, maybe) was searching for last week: On existential angst and 9-year-old- boys (aka Love Letter to the Boy Who Will Set the World on Fire)

…

Mildly appalled by Jane and Marie’s behaviour and wondering how we would have behaved if someone really was hurt? Read my friend Stacey’s post When Children Get Hurt about her processing of just such a scenario.