Category Archives: Those Conversations

The gems. The reason you’re hear. The pearls that come out of the mouths of children. The moments that have us rolling on the floor with laughter… and forgiving the little dudes for everything.

“What have I done to deserve such off-spring? What? WHAT??!”

A61

Ender: I! DO! NOT! WANT! YOU! TO! WASH! MY! BUM! I! AM! TOO! BUSY!

Jane: I know. I know. But sitting in your own poop is not just gross, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for me to just leave you sitting in it. So–off we go.

Ender: I! DO! NOT! WANT…

Jane: I! KNOW! See, and if you tell me when you have to poop before you do it, I won’t have to…

Ender: I! WILL! NEVER! POOP! IN! THE! TOILET! AGAIN! EEEE-VVV-EEEE-RRRR!

Jane: AAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGHGH!

That’s not the punchline. What, are you nuts? That’s just the set up.

Flora: Do you think Ender will get out of this potty regression before Mom goes totally insane?

Cinder: I think it might be too late.

Ha, that’s not the punchline either. Read on:

Jane: I’m right here. RIGHT! HERE! If you’re going to insult me, can you at least wait until I leave the room?

Flora: A, we weren’t insulting you, and b, there’s no point to saying things like that if you don’t hear them, right?

Jane: What have I done to deserve such off-spring? What? WHAT??!

Cinder: Well, I’m not sure, but judging by what’s just happened with Ender, I think you traumatized us during potty-training.

Pretty good, eh? But not the punchline. Not yet. Almost there:

Jane: You little… Never mind. Whatever. I have a poopy bum to wash. And then I have to get back to writing.

Flora: She’s going to blog about this, isn’t she?

Cinder: Yes. And she’s going to make us look like the crazy ones.

Well… tempting. But sometimes, a straight report of exactly how it happened is so much more amusing… and effective.

Good thing we love them, right?

♥

I was keeping a “best posts I didn’t read this week” list for you but… um… it’s Friday and I still haven’t read them. Flood. I’m using that as an excuse for the next six weeks. “Why didn’t you do X?” “Um… flood?” I figure by September, the excuse will get old, but in the meantime… FLOOD!

P.S. Just so you know–we don’t like to be called victims or even survivors. We prefer floodies. And, when we’re all dollied up in designer rubber boots, haz-mat suits and wearing those weird little beanie hats and thick rimmed glasses: floodsters.

Floodsters. It’s a YYC thing.

Have a… dry… weekend.

xoxo

“Jane”

Drama-trauma-shwama: the boys are just the same

Banff

The most beautiful city in the world–that would be Calgary, Alberta, but you can call us YYC cause we’re so freakin’ hip–has the most beautiful view in the world, especially to the west: dramatic peaks of the Rocky Mountains, which keep their snow caps on throughout the summer most years, and certainly are wearing white hats in the first weeks of July.

But not this year. This year, the snow caps are gone, gone, gone–which, I suppose, explains the flood, at least partly. And as we are driving into this beautiful, beautiful view (it is, finally, a hot, hot, rain-free day in YYC and I’m taking the children in search of some sewage-free water… but, um, that’s also another story), Cinder, my 11 year-old, looks at its beauty, sighs with contentment, and says:

Cinder: The mountains are totally naked.

And it’s one of those “teaching” moments life thrusts at us, right? And I ponder, what should I say? How direct do I need to make the link between the lack of those snow caps and our flood, and do I need to go into climate change and global warming and do I need to talk about the politics around climate change research and the theories that emphasize thousand-plus year weather patterns and maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all, because Keerist, these children have had a rough three weeks, and they’re finally sleeping and do I really want to…

… when Ender, my three-and-a-half year old pipes in with:

Ender: Are the mountains naked because they want to take a bath?

And both boys howl, howl, like this is the funniest thing ever, and then:

Cinder: They stripped naked and then cannon-balled into the rivers, and splashed and…

Ender: And they splashed us, and that’s why we had the flood!

And they laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and then…

Cinder: Perverted mountains. They really should get dressed.

Ender: Look! I can see that mountain’s penis!

So, you know, the collective PTSD of their flooded community aside… I think the boys are gonna be just fine. 

♦

If you’re a Calgarian stumbling onto this blog for the first time, you are probably looking for unLessons from the Flood: We are amazing

If you’re a regular reader thrilled to see me back but wondering if I’m going to inflict flood stories on you forever and ever going forward… I’ll probably get over it. Eventually. But it was kind of an epic event around here, you know. If you need a flood antidote,  go read me rant about sex or that crazy viral post of mine about the biggest lie inflicted on parents or, ooh, I know, how about that post when I reveal the ultimate secret behind parenting?

But, point: even post-flood, I bring you penis stories, courtesy of Cinder and Ender. So, you know we really are gonna be all right.

♥

I’ve been a terrible blogging sister over the past three weeks, and as we recover from the adrenaline rush and work on rebuilding and all that, I’ll be a terrible blogging sister still. But here are some beautiful posts from this week that have graced my in-box. And that have nothing to do with floods. Or penises. And are written by beautiful, talented people:

Sarah Almond at The Sadder But Wiser Girl tells you you might have superpowers. Do you? Find out.

Jen Kehl at The Skewed View wrote something… totally different. Sabra. Powerful. Inspiring. Neither about floods or parenting. Enjoy.

Stephanie Sprenger searchers for her tribe on The Her Stories Project.

Kristi Campbell at Finding Ninee introduces you to a new blogger in her continuing, amazing Land of Compassion series.

Kimberly at All Work And No Play Make Mama Go Something Something tantalizes you with Part I of Popcorn for the Brave.

The award for grossest thing in my in-box goes to Deni the Reluctant Mother at Den State: Keeping Things in Perspective. I won’t spoil it for you. Read it. Gag. It’s a rare blogger who can outgross the mother of Cinder and Ender. Congratulations, D.

xoxo

“Jane”

(Photo credit, via Zemanta, Vlatsula)

Poisonous Volvo, Redux

We were uber-heavy on Tuesday, weren’t we? Today, you need to laugh, as do I. Actually–a little secret–as you read this, I’m locked in a hotel room in Banff with my laptop. Wrestling with existential angst. And winning. Meanwhile, for you, from Life’s Archives (December 9, 2006, and first appearing on Nothing By The Book on May 22, 2012), I present… Poisonous Volvo. Flora’s 2.5 and Cinder is five (Ender is still undreamt-of cosmic dust). They’re in the tub. And, cue action:

WAIT! Stop! Warning: yes, this is one of those penis stories. I have warned you, have I not, I am never profound and wise on Fridays? OK. Penis warning completed.  Read on.

Cinder: Flora, stop trying to grab my penis. Flora! No! Stop!

Flora: hee hee hee

Cinder: It’s poisonous. Poisonous! Like the giant red milipedes in the
South American rainforest!

Flora: hee hee hee

Cinder: It will bite you!

Flora: hee hee hee

Cinder: OK, Flora, I know you want to play with it. But you can’t. Only I can play with it. Play with your own.

Flora: Oh… no pee pee!! Brother! No pee pee?

Cinder: Oh, I forgot, you don’t have one. Well, maybe one day, if you are very good, I’ll let you borrow mine. If I can. Mom! (I’m in the next room) Can I borrow my penis to Flora for a while?

Jane: Um… no. It doesn’t work like that.

Cinder: I didn’t think so. Well, sorry, Flora.

Flora: No pee pee? Why?

Cinder: Don’t worry, Flora. I’m sure we can think of something fun to do with your… Mom! What’s Flora’s not-a-penis called?

Jane: Um… (Still haven’t decided if Flora should have a Volvo or a Gavina… OK, I know she has BOTH, but you know what I mean. Go for the Volvo today) A vulva.

Cinder: We can think of something fun to do with your vulva. Hmm. Let me think. Maybe we could attach something to it?

Flora: Yeaah!

Cinder: Or… we could stick something in it.

Flora: Nooooo.

That’s right, sweetie. You should keep on thinking that for another 15 years, okay ma-baby? Twenty, if you want to make your Daddy happy…

But wait. It’s not over yet. The next day…

Cinder: Flora! I will smite you with my poisonous penis!

Flora: Aaaaah! Run! Run!

You might think this is the punch line. But it’s not.

Sean: Well, if Flora turns out to be gay, we’ll know why.

Jane: Sean!

Sean: What? I think it would make the teen years a lot easier, don’t you?

Jane: Sean!

Sean: What? All I’m saying is, if she ends up a lesbian, being chased by her brother’s poisonous penis may be one of the reasons. And don’t you think you’d worry less about boys and teen pregnancy and all that?

Jane: What are you…

The punchline is coming… NOW:

Cinder: Ok, Flora. Now it’s your turn to smite me with your poisonous volvo.

Flora: Aaaaah! Run! Run!

The genitalia of the Callosobruchus analis bee...

The genitalia of the Callosobruchus analis beetle. It is covered in spines from base to tip. Referenced in Rönn, J., Katvala, M. & Arnqvist, G. 2007. Coevolution between harmful male genitalia and female resistance in seed beetles. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 104, 10921-1092. and Hotzy, C. & Arnqvist, G. 2009. Sperm competition favors harmful males in seed beetles. Current Biology 19, 404-407. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Note: you are none of you allowed to make any kinds of connections between this post and Tuesday’s body image post. NONE. Thank you.

But speaking of which…

As you may have noticed,  Nothing By The Book’s Tuesday post  “Please don’t give my daughter an eating disorder. But you will. Yes, you will…”  set off a bit of an maelstrom. If you haven’t read it yet, and you’ve got a girl… or a body… give it a read. And if you do, spend some time on the comments, especially that by Tirzah Duncan of The Inkcaster.

And if you’ve got daughters and body image issues weigh heavily on your mind, check out these posts the commentators wrote/forwarded to me in the resulting discussion:

Introduction to Eating Disorders by Urban Moo Cow — Deb didn’t have any issues with her body… until her encounter with this whacked teacher

Body Image by Tao of Poop — Rachel’s daughter still loves her belly. For how much longer?

and, wow, this one:

My body is amazing from Villainy Loveless — this one arrived in my in-box via Tarot by Janine the day I was being ripped to shreds for my body image post on Reddit. Thanks, Villainy. Much love and appreciation.

And a big thank you for those of you who defended the post–and by extension me, Flora, and little girls everywhere–in the various fora where it was ripped apart. I have no stomach for such battles, but I appreciate your passion and indignation on my behalf very much.

Fight on. And love those girls.

xoxo

“Jane”

Of hot girls, Oedipus’ complexes (or lack thereof), and inheritances

Their muscles are tense, taut—arms out for balance—legs flailing—recovery! The kids and I are watching some dudes practice slack rope walking—an amazing feat. Looks like so much fun, too. And these guys are good, and getting better. And better. Clearly, it’s time to challenge them.

Flora: Wow, that really needs a lot of concentration, eh?

Jane: Yup.

Flora: I wonder what would happen if a hot girl walked by. Mom! Take off your jacket and go walk past them!

Cinder: I don’t think Mom qualifies as a hot girl.

Flora: Mom is so a hot girl!

Tightrope walking in park

Tightrope walking in park (Photo credit: Ivan Mlinaric)

Dear Cinder, if, at the will reading and funeral, why Flora inherited X, Y and Z while you’re just stuck with your share of my debts, remember this moment. Love, Mom.

On the plus side: he probably won’t marry his mother, eh? So that’s good. Cause we all know how that ends…

English: Sigmund Freud

Dear Flora, I know mothers aren’t supposed to have favourite children. But between you, me and the blogosphere, in this moment, you’re my favourite. Hands down. xoxoxoxo, Mom.

PS I’m taking up slack rope walking this summer. And not just so I can be distracted by the hot boys.

PPS Best funny from my blog inbox this week: Jen at Something Clever 2.0 says  The world is imperfect. But together, I think we can fix it. Spoiler alert: “Mechanical uterus. You know you want one.”

PPPS Most poignant post in my blog inbox this week: Kimberly at All Work and No Play Makes Mama Go Something Something takes mental illness out of the closet in Hide.

PPPPS Do any of you read all the way to the bottom of my posts? The ignorant slut wants to know…

“No, we were just being normal”

A67

Jane: ARE! YOU! TRYING! TO! DRIVE! ME! CRA-ZEEEE!?!

Cinder: Um, no, Mom, this is just us being normal. If we were trying to drive you crazy—Flora! Ender! Come how Mom what it would be like if we were trying to drive Mom crazy on purpose!

Flora: Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist. Moist.

Ender: I pooped my pants. And you can’t clean my bum. I pooped my pants. And you can’t clean my bum. I. POOOPED. M-AAAAAA-YYYYY…

Cinder: I know a song which will annoy, which will annoy, which will annoy / I know a song which will annoy, which will annoy, which will annoy / I know a song which will annoy…

Jane: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Cinder: Now do you see the difference?

Jane: Fine. Yes. You were just being normal. Today, your normal is driving me crazy. Go and be unnormal—and, I don’t know, quiet. Repressed.

Flora: Here, Mom, chocolate? And, I think Ender really did poop his pants.

Happy Friday.

xoxo

“Jane”

P.S. Dear future girlfriends, boyfriends, and perhaps spouses of my children: I’m sorry. Yes, it’s all my fault. And if you think you can fix them—ha. Good luck with that. You’ve just got to love them as they are, you know.

P.P.S.  “What the hell is this? I heard you were this profound, sagacious, over-flowing with widsom mama. I mean, last Tuesday’s post on the “It Gets Easier” Lie was brilliant! That’s why I’m here!” Um. Sorry. I’m only ever insightful and wise on Tuesdays, and then, honestly, not every Tuesday.  On Fridays, we laugh, always. Or at least try not to cry. But if you want serious, have you read my almost-viral (she has delusions of grandeur) Tongues Off My Facebook post? If not, you might want to. Cause it rocks. And if you want hard-core attachment parenting ranting, I refer you to Why Isn’t It Natural? a heart-wrenching wail about why no little about parenting seems to come to us :naturally.”

P.P.P.S. Some things from this week’s blog box I really enjoyed:

Rachel at Tao of Poop reveals she has a past!

Kimberly at All Work And No Play Make Mommy Go Something Something confesses that she’s a snail killer.

Jenn at Something Clever 2.0 tells you how to cure writer’s block.

P.P.P.P.S. And thank you for Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday’s delusions of viral grandeur. I enjoyed them immensely. Now back to web obscurity…

 

They live for these moments

The Royal Tyrrell Museum of Palaeontology in Drumheller, Alberta, is one of the most amazing places on Earth. It is now Ender’s favourite place to humiliate and shame his mother.

I don’t mind so much that he keeps on calling the dinosaurs dragons. Really. He’s the child of an anthropologist; he’ll understand the theory of evolution better than 98 per cent of the American adult population.

The penis obsession–“Is that the dragon’s penis, Mom? Wow!” “No, that’s the hip bone. See, that’s one of the really cool things about dinosaurs, how their hip bones…” “I think it’s a penis!”–is starting to wear a little thin.

Just a little. (Girls don’t do this, by the way. But as Flora is saying more and more often these days, “Girls are just better.” Sssh. Not in front of your brothers. To resume the narrative:)

So there we are. Rubbing shoulders with prehistoric giants, and then strolling down to the Cambrian Period, and experiencing the microlife of the Burgess Shale. Except the microlife is presented in 12x in its real size. And includes this:

English: Reconstruction of Ottoia, an extinct ...

and this:

English: Reconstruction of the fossil priapuli...

and as one group of high school Japanese tourists comes around from one corner, and a group of white-haired senior citizens from the rural Alberta Bible belt rounds the other one, Ender howls, at the top of his lungs:

“Penises! The most giant penises ever! Is this why they are in a museum, Mama? Because they are so big? Cinder! Cinder! Look! GIANT! PENISES!”

As his mother tries to decide whether this is a moment where you boldly meet the eyes of the 70-year-old grandma whose grandchildren would never ever ever say the P word in public (actually, they don’t know what it is, “We call it a wee-wee in our family, thank you very much”) or giggle with the 16-year-old Japanese boy who never thought he’d get to hear a native speaker pronounce penis (“So the ‘i’ is actually an ‘uh,’ why?” “Latin root word. Guess what the proper plural should be?”), his elder brother decides to do the only thing that could possibly make this situation  more embarrassing for her:

“That’s right, Ender. Giant, giant, giant penises. Aren’t they cool? Too bad yours will never get that big, eh?”

And then, to me:

“I suppose you’ll use this as another reason to not take us to the penis museum in Iceland. You’re so lame, Mom.”

You’d think I’m not that easily embarrassed. And you’d be right. Yet every once in a while, they manage to make me blush redder than… um, delete totally inappropriate metaphor here. Sigh.

More like this (God, there are so many more like this): And, of body parts again; and, on Undogmatic Unschoolers, Sometimes, what they know is embarrassing.

♥

And a lovely thank you to Stephen Greene at Head of the Herd for naming Nothing By The Book for a Sunshine Award. I’m terrible at passing these on–I think I’m in two-digits-worth-of-arrears already–but it’s always lovely to get the nod from a fellow writer. Stephen writes a great blog about expat and bilingual parenting–and all sorts of other stuff–as he lives with his family in Curtiba, Brazil.

♥

And if you’re leisurely strolling through the blogosphere today, these are my three favourite parenting posts from this week:

Don’t Get Upset When Your Five-Year-Old Acts Like a Five-Year-Old from Leah Vidal at Little Miss Wordy

Don’t Be a Judgy Wudgy from Stephanie at When Crazy Meets Exhaustion

and

Reassessing Happiness Research: Are New Parents Really That Miserable? by Jessica Smock at The Her Stories Project, part of the Evidence-Based Parenting Carnival

I’m not gonna tell you

Flora: Why’s Mom dancing?

Cinder: She either filed a story–got a new story that doesn’t suck–or got paid.

Jane: I’m that predictable, am I?

Cinder: Possibly something really bad happened to someone she hates, and she’s happy about that.

Jane: Jesus. This you think of me?

Flora: Well, what was it? Did that Lord Voldemort guy die?

Jane: I’m not gonna tell you. Beasts.

♥

I’m not gonna tell you either. But I’m deliriously happy. Fulfilled. Stoked. Thrilled. Various other adjectives of excess, preceded by excessive adverbs, that, were they usually to appear in my prose, would get ruthlessly slashed out even before they got to an editor.

What? You almost all said that it was better not to know.

English: Classic ballet-dancer Español: Bailar...

In case you’re in Cinder-and-Ender-penis-stories withdrawal, pop over to Undogmatic Unschoolers and read Sometimes, what they know is embarrassing.  

Teaching kids about money, sort of

An example of a cheque.

You know the kids have been raised in a self-employed freelance household when you hear this:

Flora: Mooooom! The mail’s here, and it looks like it could be a cheque!

And you know they really pay attention to what’s inside those little envelopes when you hear this:

Cinder: Fuck, no, it’s the visa bill. Mom? Are you ready to look at this or should I hide it for a while?

And you know they really, really understand much too much about your finances when you hear this:

Cinder: So, is it a big enough cheque to zero the line of credit, or just big enough to cover rent? Or, like, cover rent and go out for sushi and something?

But when you hear this from the three-year-old, it’s probably time to tone down on the finance discussions before the children:

Ender: Mom! Mail! Cheque! Maybe from those fucking bastards who haven’t paid you for seven months!

♥

To all of my friends, online and real-life, who lust after the life of a freelance writer… it has its high points, I won’t lie. I wouldn’t trade it for a 9-5 office job for the life of me. But sometimes, the idea of a regular, predictable bi-weekly paycheque is beyond intoxicating. And dental benefits? Oh, god. Dental benefits. I’m swooning…

Turning No into Yes: Jane gets played big time

Semi-sweet chocolate chips

Setting, foot path in our off-leash dog park. Actors: Jane. The kids. Dogs in background. Random stranger on foot path.

Random stranger on foot path: Are those dog treats?

…and I look at her, and I look at the metal bowl in my hand, and I chew and swallow, and say:

Jane: Um, no, chocolate chips.

RSOFP: Oh. You feed your dog chocolate chips? I thought chocolate was bad for dogs?

Jane: Um… yeah, these are for me.

…and this is the moment where she gives me The Look, and I feel the urge to explain that we were all out of all other chocolate in the house, see, no bars, no individually wrapped Hershey kisses, nothing left in the Hallowe’en or Easter stash, nothing except for baking chocolate chips, and it’s sort of warm out, and if I had just taken a had a handful of them on the walk, they would melt and be all gross and squishy, so of course I’m carrying them in a bowl…

…but then I realize that there is nothing I can tell her that transforms me from the “the crazy lady with bowl of chocolate chips I met on the hill,” a central character in a story she’ll be telling all and sundry soon. In fact, if she’s a blogger, she’s already composing the story in her head. And if she’s not, she’s trying to encapsulate me in 140 characters for Twitter. Or for her Facebook status update…

So I just keep on chewing and walking.

Question: But why were you going for a walk with a bowl of chocolate chips?

You really want to know? Perhaps that’s the point of the story, in fact. See, it started like this:

Cinder: Mom? Can we go out for burgers at Peter’s Drive-In tonight?

Jane: No, baby, not tonight.

Cinder: Why not? What were you planning for supper tonight?

Jane: Um… planning… um… well… let me think about it, ok? I’m not saying yes–but let me think about it.

Cinder: And see, Ender, this is why, whenever an adult says, ‘No,’ it’s worth your white to ask, ‘Why not.’ But it can’t be a whiny, high pitched ‘Why not’ like you use when you usually say you want something. It has to be this very calm, reasonable ‘Why not,’ and then you kind of make Bambi eyes while you do it…

Jane: Jesus, Cinder, I’m right here! If you’re going to give your brother lessons in how to manipulate his parents, shouldn’t you wait until we can’t here?

Cinder: It’s kind of more fun to do it in front of you. And then, Ender, if you really want to seal the deal, you offer the Mom some chocolate…

Flora: One step ahead of you, bro. There you go, Mom. Sorry, we’re all out of the good stuff, but I found the chocolate chips. And I even put them in a bowl for you.

And that’s why I was on the foot path, with the dog and assorted children, and a bowl of chocolate chips. Which they didn’t attempt to share at all.

And as we are nearing home:

Cinder: So, what do you think, Mom? Peter’s–where, even if we all get milkshakes, it’ll be less than $40 or so, and no need to tip, or sushi? The last time we had sushi, it was like $102 with tip and tax, wasn’t it? So, what do you think?

Goddammit. Little manipulative beasts.

What do you think they had for supper that night?

♦

Some fun recent stuff from Undogmatic Unschoolers:

How wrestling, Lego and Star Wars all help raise readers

Growing readers, organically

♣

A sample of what I’ve been doing for a living lately: Making productivity measures sound sexy. Or at least… funny.

♥

P.S. I might have a chocolate addiction. Fine. So be it.

P.P.S. Bloggy friends, I will be back in commenting form as soon as it starts raining from the sky, and not from the clients. I’m going to try to hop here today:

…cause some of my favourite people hang out there, so if the world cooperates, I will see you at your cyberspaces today. Fingers crossed… xoxo Jane

It’s better not to know. Right?

Mistake number one: I don’t look for the tongs until after I heat up the oil past the point of no return and toss the battered fish in. The timer is ticking and I can’t find the tongs. Not anything that would do the job in their stead. Tic-toc-tic-toc. Panic! Yell:

Jane: Has anybody seen the tongs?

Cinder: The kitchen tongs?

Jane: Yes!

Cinder: The ones you use for cooking?

Jane: Yes! For godssake-where-the-hell-are-they?

Cinder: I think I’ve seen them the bathroom.

The timer is ticking, the oil is boiling, the fish is frying—I race. Up the stairs. Bathroom. Yes! There they are, on the floor beside the bathtub. Grab ‘em. Race them the stairs. Stand at the stove. Pause for a minute. Because, after all, this is my house. The house of Ender and his penchant for grossness.

Jane: Does anyone know why the tongs were in the bathroom?

Flora: What?

Jane: Why were the tongs in the bathroom? Did one of you take them up for take bath toys out of the bathtub or…

I pause. I don’t want to say it. Thinking it.

But  the clock is still ticking… and I say…

Jane: … or were they used to fish something out of the toilet?

A horrible silence answers me. A silence that, in not denying, affirms. A silence that pounds in my ears like a drum—the timer on the stove is now counting down seconds—until Cinder says:

Cinder: Does it matter? I mean, you’re going to wash them really well anyway, right?

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is proof, by the way, that while they possess 50 per cent of their father’s genetic material, 90 per cent of their behaviours and habits around food and cleanliness, anyway, come from my modelling and not his genes. Were Sean, the man who will not eat floor peas, in the kitchen right now, the conversation would go like this:

Sean: Jesus, give me those—no, I don’t want to touch them—just put them in the garbage, I’m going to run to Safeway and get a new pair—I’ll be back in 20 minutes—just turn the oil off—we can eat supper 20 minutes later—I can’t fucking believe you were going to use those to flip our food!

…

Later:

Cinder: Delicious fish.

Flora: Mmm, really good.

Cinder: Do you like the fish, Daddy?

Sean: So good.

Jane: I’m so glad.

And it’s all fine. Until:

Ender: There are my pinchers! I’ve been looking for those everywhere!

…and he stomps off. Upstairs. Where the bathroom is.

Cinder: We could follow him. Then we’d know.

Jane: But do we want to know?

Sean: What are you guys talking about?

Flora: Wasn’t the fish delicious, Daddy?

Sometimes, it’s better not to know. Don’t you think?

However, because I really, really love him, I am buying a new set of tongs. Which I will hide in the same place I keep the meat mallet.

Pair of food tongs.

Sometimes it goes like this…

Don't worry, you'll always be my friend...

Sometimes, it goes like this:

Ender: I don’t want to help build it. I want to sit here and you build it all by yourself.

Sean: I don’t want to build it all by myself.

Ender: Why? Because you’re ugly?

And the adult can’t decide whether to throttle the child–“Don’t! Remember, we love him! We made him! He’ll grow out of this!”–or to cry.

And sometimes it goes like:

Flora: Mom? Do you want me to make you an egg?

Jane: No. I’m not hungry. I’m just going to sit here and be cranky and miserable. And resentful. And just generally pissed off at the world.

Flora: That’s it. I’m making you an egg. You so need some protein.

… and the adult wonders who the heck is the adult here?

And then it goes like this:

Flora: There you go. Don’t you feel better just looking at it?

Jane: Oh, my sweetness. Yes, I do.

Flora: I always feel better when you make me something delicious to eat when I’m feeling cranky.

… and the adult decides she’s clearly doing something right at least some of the time. Not all of the time, mind you. But, you know, enough of the time.

♠

Q: What’s with the goat picture?

A: I don’t know. My brain hurts. I’m analyzing deal trend data, drinking too much coffee, and practicing excuses for all the deadlines I’m planning to break next week. Goats. Cute. Like Ender. Plus they lay eggs. No, wait, they don’t. Um… look! Shiny thing!

Photo: Don’t worry, you’ll always be my friend… (Photo credit: 2-Dog-Farm)

♦

Q: And what colour is your hair now?

A: Wouldn’t you like to know…

Have a great week everyone. Me, I’ll be breaking deadlines. And a few hearts on Bay Street. Apologies in advance.

“Jane”

He really will eat anything

Never, ever take advice from me on potty training. Or dealing with a biter. Or household organization. But on food… I really think I got food right. I don’t think any of my children will have eating disorders. Certainly none is a picky eater. To wit:

Ender: I want some of that!

Cinder:  Really, Ender? Do you know what I’m eating? It looks like chocolatey-cereal, but it’s actually rabbit poop.

Ender: Really?

For the record–no. It really was chocolatey cereal. Koala Crisps. We may eat with vermin at the table, but we’re not that gross.

Cinder: Really.

Ender: I never try rabbit poop. I want some!

Cinder: Well, we’re all out. If you really want some, we have to go the Common and gather some up. That’s what I did.

Ender: OK!

This is the point at which a good normal mother would say, “For heaven’s sake, Cinder, just give your brother some of your cereal!” Or, better yet, get the poor three year old some cereal. But not this one. This one just sat there and took notes:

Cinder: OK, dude. Go put on your coat and shoes.

Ender: I hope rabbit poop is delicious.

Wait, did I say I got the whole food thing right? My kids are going to need therapy, aren’t they.

Sigh…

Rabbit ! / Kaninchen! (Photo credit: Robobobobo)

Rabbit ! / Kaninchen!

It’s good to be loved. Sob.

File under “It was supposed to be a compliment”:

Flora: Mama! Look at this picture I took of you, it’s really, really great!

Jane: Wow… that is actually a really good picture of me. Except for my tired, puffy eyes…

Flora: But your eyes always look like that, Mom.

And we both look at the picture for a while. And then she looks at me. And back at the picture. And at me. And:

Flora: Wow. Imagine how beautiful you’d be, Mom, if you weren’t tired.

It’ll happen. It’ll happen soon, I know. There was this one day last week…

File under “Please, add insult to injury”:

Ender: I do not want to hold your hand! You wash my bum with your hands, and they smell BAD!

Sob.

In possibly related news, if I wash and moisturize my hands any more, I might be diagnosed as having emergent OCD. Or something like that…

And finally, to everyone who contributed to “I Just Want To Pee Alone,” and in particular the brain trust behind the title:

Jane: I don’t care! Go whizz off the balcony! Take a dump in the yard like the dog! Water the neighbour’s tree! I don’t give a flying fuck what you do, just let me have the bathroom to myself for fiiiiiiiiive minutes!

Cinder: Geez, what’s up with Mom?

Flora: I think she wants some privacy.

Ender: Does she want to be alone together with me? Mama? Do you miss me already? I’m right here!

It’s good to be loved. Right?

♥

A self-indulgent moment to chastize the blogosphere: I can’t believe you all sided with Flora on the pink hair. What’s wrong with you people? Good thing I didn’t say I was going with majority vote. (Although I did sort of promise Jenn at Something Clever to go pink, didn’t I… Oops.)

Today, the hair looks like this:

Photo on 2013-04-09 at 16.36

And that’s its boring au naturel shade, with a rather frightening amount of grey-white replacing the platinum blonde. I’m trying to love it. I don’t even mind the grey-white, not really. The boring brown, however, is just not doing it.

Stay tuned.

How you know you get the kids you’re raising

A67

How you know my kids are brilliant:

Flora: Who invented swearing?

Cinder: Shakespeare.

How you know I’m kind of insufferable:

Jane: Actually, it was probably the first caveman who ever dropped a large stone on his big toe.

How you know my kids take it in stride:

Flora: Mom, not everything has to be about evolution.

Cinder: Shakespeare invented the word “puke.” That beats “ugh ugh ugh my toe” hands down.

How you know that they are just as annoying as your kids; maybe more:

Ender: Cinder! You suck! You suck, suck, suck, suck, suck! You all suck. Except me. I! Do! Not! Suck!

Cinder: Are you sure, Ender? Are you really, really sure?

♥

An Interlude for Blogosphere love:

1. The inimitable Julie DeNeed at Life According to Julie 2.0 1) invented the most awesome new blogging award and awarded it to Nothing By The Book and five other bloggers way funnier than me. But the reason you should meander over to her blog and read that particular post is because you will never, ever be able to think of  elevators in churches the same way again. Enough said. Just… go.

2. While I wasn’t paying attention, Nothing By The Book clicked over the 100 mark and how has 110 Facebook fans. Sweet! Thank you. And welcome! And as I do not have 110 mothers, I know at least some of you like NBTB purely on merit and not as a result of consanguineal or affineal obligation. Score for me.

3. I’m scaling down to one or two posts a week these days. Which means I’m only visiting your blogs once or twice a week. Because the sun is coming out and I’m Vitamin-D deprived. But I’m still reading. Especially you. You know who you are.

P.S. In purely personal and irrelevant news, I’m cutting off the last bits of platinum blonde, and crowd-sourcing a new hair colour. What do you want to see? Blonde, brunette, or redhead? Flora’s voting pink…

And if you didn’t read Tuesday’s post, unLessons from The Posse, get thee over there now. It’s one of the best things I’ve written in a while.

Persevere,

“Jane”

 

 

And, of body parts again

Child-proofing fail of the month, perhaps year:

Flora: Cinder! I found Daddy’s penis in Mommy’s bed. Is yours going to be detachable too when you get bigger?

Shoot me. Shoot me now. This one’s for you, Julie DeNeen.

Sales pitch fail of the month, perhaps year:

Cinder: But Mom!

Jane: For the last time! We are not going to Iceland to go visit a freakin’ penis museum!

Cinder: But Mom! They have a whale penis bone! A whale penis! Think how much Ender and I would learn!

Thanks, Iceland. Thanks a lot. (And yes, there really is an Icelanding Pallalogical Museum. On Cinder and Ender’s bucket list.)

Goal for April

Less anatomy talk. Please, children? Please!

… but while we’re talking anatomy, Here’s King Missile, with Detachable Penis:

Why your children should never, ever learn the facts of life from their peers

Egg

Cinder: And that’s just how you were born, Ender, hatched out of an egg just like that penguin.

Ender: Cool!

Cinder: I’ll show you the egg shell after we finish the show.

Ender: Did you sit on me to hatch me, or just Mom?

Cinder: Mostly Mom. But we all helped.

This is the point at which I should interrupt. Right?

(Photo credit: John Loo)

Blogosphere Love Interlude

Ute at Expat Since Birth is passing the Liebster Award onto Nothing By The Book, and I gratefully accept with my usual disclaimer that I am terrible, terrible at fulfilling the requirements of passing these things on. But let me introduce you to Ute if you do not read her already, and encourage you to wander over to her blog. She lives in the Netherlands, speaks too many languages, has three marvellous children, and writes beautifully about, well, life, really. You’ll like her.

Back to regularly scheduled programming…

Ender: Waaaaaaah! Waaaah! Waaaah! I! Never! Want! To! Grow! Up!

Jane: What the heck happened?

Flora: I told Ender that if he’s a good little boy, his penis will grow into a vulva.

Cinder: That’s just evil. Really, really evil.

If you’re laughing and want to laugh more, you should go read Poisonous Volvo.

If you’re appalled and wondering if my children ever talk about anything other than their body parts… um. Sure. Yes, they do. Sometimes they talk about the apocalypse and potty training. Also, World War II. But, yeah, mostly they talk about their body parts. Even when it sounds like they’re talking about geography.

Sorry.

“Jane”

 

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.

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.