Tag Archives: Those Conversations

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Merry Christmas, from Mythbusters and Cinder

This is really hilarious, but also a little offensive, so if you’ve got bad language sensitivity, click delete / next now. It’s a story from August 6, 2009, when Cinder was about seven, and it’s our Christmas gift to you.

Christmas tree

We were on a crazy Mythbusters marathon, and Cinder and Flora’s absolute favourite episode, which they watched over and over again, was the Holiday Special, in which the Mythbusters test, among other things, the variety of products that are supposed to keep yer X-Mas tree greener, fresher, and needle-full longer.

Remember the episode? They put the trees in a bleach solution, spray one with hairspray, etc etc and one of them gets a “little blue pill” added to its water.

The little blue pill is Viagra, but they don’t say so. The announcer introduces it as the little blue pill, and then one of the Mythbusters does a “well, how do I describe this, people are probably watching this with their kids—Santa’s little helper?” and make a big deal out of it.

Viagra Clock

Anyway—the first time I watched the episode with me kinder, I said without much reflection, “Viagra? They must mean Viagra?” the kids asked what’s Viagra, I said, a little blue pill, apparently not being in a mood to discuss erectile dysfunction with a 7 year old and a 4 year old, and the episode continued.

Having committed the episode to memory over repeated viewings, Cinder at one point starts telling me what the bleach did to the tree (bad things), what the hairspray (pretty good, actually) and other stuff. I, having only watched parts of the show but once, have no real recollection.

“But you know what the best preservative of all was?” he asks.

“What?”

“The little fuck pill.”

“?????”

“You know—the little fuck pill.”

Words I did not expect to come out of MY seven year old’s mouth, ever—yet a strangely appropriate moniker for Viagra. And I’m naturally curious where and by whom he heard Viagra thus described (and am wondering if that’s something that came out of Sean or my mouth at some point? Cause it sounds like something we might say… but would we be so obtuse as to say it in front of the children? Well… maybe…)

“Where… what…” I start to phrase the question.

“You called it another name, remember? It sounded like Vinegar?”

“Viagra.”

“Yeah, Viagra. But on the show, they said, the little blue pill, and they wouldn’t say the name of it, because kids could be watching, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, so I figured it was probably called the fuck pill. Because that’s the word grown-ups never want kids to hear.”

“Oh…”

“But you know how I know it? Fuck?”

“Well…”

“Cause that’s what you and Daddy say whenever you break something.”

Merry Christmas,

Jane

who breaks a lot of glasses

More Broken Glass

Photo (More Broken Glass) by autowitch

More like this: Want to hear all the swear words I know? and Why parents swear

How I broke my children

It starts innocently:

Ender: I sorry, Daddy!
Sean: Um… why are you sorry, Ender?
Ender: I am sorry. I peed on your sheet. And now I sorry.
Sean: You peed on my sheet? Like, the sheet on my bed?
Ender: I did. I am sorry. Mama giving you a new sheet right now.
Sean: Oh, good.
Ender: I also peed on your pillow.

And I can’t tell you what Sean said next.

a pillow case (or pillow slip), with the pillo...

But I can tell you what Cinder said a little later when:

Ender: I! PEED!
Cinder: Yeah, so did I, Ender. Y’a know what the difference is? I peed in the toilet.
Ender: I peed on your foot.
Cinder: I know!

And then, their mother had a bit of a struggle with a project and:

Jane: Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Cinder: What’s wrong?
Jane: I’m just having a really hard time focusing on my work.
Cinder: I’m having a really hard time getting this Minecraft mod to work properly. Want to swear together?

And then, there was a horrible, horrible conference call, and the mother lost all moral high ground and self-restraint:

Jane (on telephone to editor): Fucking hell, I don’t fucking believe this==the [bleep bleep bleeps], they’re just [bleep bleep bleep], they’re [bleep bleep] and taking it in the [bleeeeeeep]…
Cinder (on extension): I’d like to apologize for my mother’s language. She’s having a very bad day.

[five minutes later]

Jane (to Sean): And then they [bleeeeeeeeeeep]…
Flora to Cinder: Wow, that was a new one. Are you taking notes?
Cinder: You bet.

It was, may I say in my defence, an exceedingly difficult day.

But I survived.

Although the children are probably permanently scarred.

swearing in cartoon Suomi: Kiroileva sarjakuva...

Click-a-lot: Novembers of the Past Retrospective & A Slightly Self-Indulgent Blogosphere Group Hug

November

First, an invitation to take a walk through my fake archive:

One year ago in November (2011): Just in time for Christmas-mania, a reminder of what the 5 best toys of all time are, via Geek Dad. Before Ender: or what the psychic said (one of my most naked moments). Being Ender. Ender says Rock. Of Daddies and Grandpas. Art of War: The Lego Contest. Get Less Today!

Two years ago in November (2010): Baby Seductor.

Three years ago in November (2009): Of Brains and Cartilage. He’s a Keeper.

Photo (November) by Cape Cod Cyclists

Second, a thank you to my blogging friends Tatu at Wonderland by Tatu and Little Poppits (who’s real name or preferred handle I haven’t ferreted out yet) from Little Poppits for very sweetly passing the Beautiful Blogger Award on to me. I should also offer a belated thank you to Taurus Mom Tells The Truth and Oliva at The Slama Family Project for trying to pass the Tell Me About Yourself Award and the  One Lovely Blog Award to me in the very first day of the blog (my archive is all fake. OK, not fake–all the stories are REAL–written in other fora, but I launched the blog with a ready-made archive. Because I’m that kind of overachiever.)

A short interlude for the Beautiful Blogger Award Rules:

The idea behind the Beautiful Blogger Award is to recognize some of the bloggers we follow for their hard work and inspiration.

1. Copy the Beautiful Blogger Award logo and place it in your post.
 (Done. And what a technical achievement on my part.)

2. Thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog.
 (Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I know there’s a tendency to dismiss these things as an incestuous mutual love fest. But you know what? Moms need that. And Tatu and Little Poppets’ nominations came at a really tough week in my life, and were so appreciated.

3. Tell 7 things about yourself.
 (Coming just below)

4. Nominate 7 other bloggers for their own Beautiful Blogger Award, and comment on their blogs to let them know. (And that’s going to be a toughie… only seven, eh? I’ve only been digging around the blogosphere for a very short while, but I’m gathering a beautiful tribe around me.)

Seven things about me you probably don’t need to know…

1. My children can get me to do pretty much anything they want if they make Bambi eyes at me. Damn you, Calvin & Hobbes. I’m a permissive parent. And I’m ok with that.

2. I once interviewed former Canadian prime minister Brian Mulroney wearing a snot-covered skirt and no underwear. Because, during the “We don’t want you to go! Why do you have to go?” taxi ride to the airport, the toddler snotted all over my skirt and the pre-schooler took my change of clothes, undies and all, out of my carry-all. Fortunately, they did not abscond with the recorder. (If you’re Canadian and you care about the context for this story, it’s here in full. It’s kind of funny if you’re into Canadian politics. And writer-self-de-construction.)

3. If I ever make good on my threat to freecycle everything I own and travel the continent in an RV, I’m taking my Vitamix with me.

4. When I grow up, I want to be Rex Stout. Except for the beard. And the streak of misogyny. What I really mean is, I want to create a character as compelling as Archie Goodwin. Sometimes, late at night, I fantasize that I’m the woman who finally snared Archie Goodwin. We get married and yes, move into the brownstone. Nero Wolfe hates me… but over time, grudgingly comes to respect me. Until I start having babies…

5. My favourite Jane Austen hero is Henry Crawford. I would so reform him. But I worry I might be too tall for him… He’s barely five eight. I’m just five nine… but I have a thing for footwear of a certain type. Um, moving…

6. My house is only clean when I’m depressed and frustrated. When I’m happy and engaged in my work and my life—and when the children are at their most creative and engaged—the floor is crunchy, the walls are splattered with paint, the stove is spattered with deliciousness, the kitchen table is covered with art scraps, papers, science experiments and cookie crumbs, and the entry way is over-crowded with wet and muddy shoes.

So yes, if you ever come into my house and it’s sparking, the appropriate response is, “Honey, what’s wrong?”

7. There are exactly 98,437 reasons I love my husband, and the three beautiful children we made together are right up there, but most important of all is the fact that whenever he goes grocery shopping, he comes home with chocolate and whipped cream for me. That’s love, baby.

Seven Beautiful Bloggers

So because the award came from WonderlandbyTatu and LittlePoppits, they’ve each named a few of the people I’d be inclined to put on the list right away (Keeping It Real, MomTimes4, Best of Two Sisters, Motherhood Is An Art and Roll Over and Play Dad among them), but the purpose of the game is to spread the love, right? So, please let me introduce you to:

1. Fish Tank Mom. Marie’s my real-life soulmate and partner in crime, unschooling mom to four boys who offers me her unconditional love, support and wisdom no matter what I do. She’ll do the same for you through her posts.

2. Book Of Alice. She doesn’t know it yet, but blogger and writer extraordinaire Christine is raising my Ender’s future wife. I’m waiting until I know her a little better before I start the marriage negotiations.

3. Cloudy With a Chance of Wine. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think WonderlandbyTatu and LittlePoppits are absolutely, unquestionably beautiful bloggers. Cloudy’s more of a kick-your-ass with an uber-sexy-boot blogger–which I think is the most beautiful of all. Someone else, I just saw, beat me to nominating her for something, but tough titties. This woman almost cast as a hooker in a Chinese soap opera. I need to give this award to her.

4. Wonder Farm. Patricia Zaballos is a former teacher, current writer, and all-around amazing human being who writes on alternative (or creative? or just awesome) approaches to education–one of my first cyber connections, and one of my most intellectually rewarding ones. And she’s just written a very exciting book! Check out her beautiful body of writing.

5. Confessions of a Mommyholic. Janine is also swimming in awards right now, so I will immediately exempt her (as I do all of you) from any compulsion to continue the madness and pass yet another one one, but I need to introduce her to those of you who don’t know her. She’s nothing like me. Her blog is nothing like mine. I adore her. I think it’s because she’s so thoroughly genuine… and I value and envy that quality.

6. World School Adventures. Amy and her family are living my dream. They’re currently in Thailand. I try to enjoy and not covet their adventures. Mostly, I fail. Mostly, I covet. And you will too.

7. An Untidy Life.  A brand-spanking new blogger. Mom to three funky boys, and one of the most fascinating people I know in real life has just started blogging about her family’s learning adventures, and I’m so thrilled. Connect with her. It will be a worthwhile experience.

And that is that. With the authority vested in me, I absolve all nominees from feeling like that need to perpetuate the award unless they really want to and will enjoy the process.

Come back to Nothing By The Book on Monday for an arrogant exposition on freely given attention.

xoxo

Jane