Kindergarten, Planets, and Fist Fights
It’s not often my five-year-old twins end up in fisticuffs. For this I am thankful. It’s not that my refereeing abilities suck; it’s that if fighting were commonplace I’d have to actively parent.
The boxing matches have started the past three nights, after the good night tuck in. Evidently, William and Vivian, each surrounded by a menagerie of stuffed animals in their twin beds, thought this was a good time to debate what they’ve learned in their respective kindergarten classes.
I May Ban All Interplanetary Conversation
Night 1, Fight 1
So there I was sitting in the living room, drinking tea with a friend while Norah Jones crooned softly on the stereo. This peaceful tableau lasted about five minutes before being interrupted by murderous screams.
I climbed the stairs in three strides and started with my usual parenting question: “Hey, Hey, what’s going on here?” [For full effect, insert Canadian accent. If you don’t know how to do this, imagine the vowels are flat pancakes instead of perky cream puffs].
“He’s hitting me,” Vivian screamed.
“She hit me first,” William countered.
You know how this goes. The tennis game continues, with blame being volleyed over the net with surprising endurance. Then the time out, a metaphorical one, where I attempt to figure out what the real problem is.
“William says there’s lava on Neptune,” Vivian shouts.
“Lava?”
“I mean fire,” says Will.
“Fire?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no fire on Neptune,” Vivian says.
“Yes there is.”
“No there’s not.”
“Stop!” I shout.
I can’t remember how I resolved this, but I eventually got them into their beds and asleep. I do know that later my research assistant, Google, told me that an album by the heavy metal band Ancestors was called Neptune with Fire. I’m hoping that’s not part of the kindergarten music program.
Further research courtesy of my Physics friend revealed that one of Neptune’s moons, Triton, has volcanoes on it that shoot out something akin to frozen Nitrogen pellets.
But they couldn’t have covered this in Kindergarten, could they? What happened to learning about colours?
Night 2, Fight 2
Interplanetary Warfare, Take 2.
With both kids safely tucked in, I watched the Oscars, in spite of the fact that I’ve seen only one movie in the past three years. Somewhere during one of those categories that no one really cares about — like Best Make-up – the screaming started again. This time Vivian and William yelled and wrestled their way downstairs.
“Mom,” asked Vivian, “what’s the hottest planet?”
“Umm, I don’t know – Mercury?”
“See, I told you so,” said Viv.
“No it’s not! It’s Venus,” said William, clearly miffed.
“Well, Mercury is the closest,” I added, proud that I knew one scientific fact.
“But Venus is hotter!”
“No it’s not.”
“Okay okay. It’s a tie. They’re both hot. Now go to bed. Now!”
My husband later informed me that he thought Venus was hotter, something to do with the atmosphere. And he was right: Venus is indeed hotter as massive amounts of carbon dioxide in its atmosphere create a greenhouse effect.
Night 3
No fight, but both kids rushed into our bedroom to inform us that Pluto sometimes orbits closer than Neptune.
Now excuse me as I go scour Wikipedia, trying to prepare for tonight’s fight, which I’m predicting is going to be “Is Pluto really a planet?”
Not sure what I’ll do when they hit Grade One.
International Women’s Day, Movies, and Barbie Dolls
It seems fitting that International Women’s Day comes the day after Kathryn Bigelow became the first woman to ever win an Oscar for Best Director. Yes, the glass ceiling momentarily shattered last night at the 82nd Academy Awards: one small step for the director of The Hurt Locker, one giant leap for women in film. Or so we can hope.
To annoy me on International Women’s Day, my five-year-old daughter pulled out one of her Barbie dolls. Now we’re pretty much an anti-Barbie household, but we accept hand-me-downs. It’s how my kids get swords, cheerleading outfits, and other toys of questionable morality.
Yes, Vivian is the proud owner of five Barbie dolls, all of whom come with anatomical proportions that are impossible. Vivi’s lost some of their clothes and shoes, so they’re looking even more suspect. But the one who looks most suspect my husband calls Stripper Barbie.
As you can see, Stripper Barbie is topless and she has this button you can press that makes her hot pink skirt light up and spin. Whenever the skirt twirls, I’m reminded of Linda Blair’s famous head spin in The Exorcist.
Last week, Vivian was playing with Stripper Barbie and her back-up quartet when she decided to do show and tell.
Vivian held up Stripper Barbie and said, “Isn’t she beautiful, Mom?”
I ignored the question. “Which one’s smart?” I asked.
Vivi held up a fully clothed doll.
“Which one’s funny?”
Vivi held up another fully clothed doll.
“They’re all in a movie,” Vivian announced.
“They are?” I asked. I looked back at Stripper Barbie. “But where’s her shirt?”
“She doesn’t wear one. Not in this kind of movie,” Vivian said.
My eyes bulged, becoming bigger than Barbie’s boobs.
Great. Stripper Barbie’s in a porn flick.
Later today, in honour of International Women’s Day and Kathryn Bigelow’s Oscar win, Stripper Barbie’s going to go to the Great Beyond, also known as the landfill. And to appease my recycling self, I’ll take out the batteries first.
R.I.P., Stripper Barbie.
Band-Aids and Bad Parenting
I think a great gift for new parents would be stock options in Band-Aid. Let’s face it: if you have a young kid, Band-Aids are practically an accessory. They come in different sizes and skin tones – though I still have to wonder who has a Sponge-Bob-patterned epidermis.
In my early days of parenting, I was anti-Band-Aids. Tough kids don’t need ‘em, I reasoned. So I made a rule: no Band-Aids unless you’re bleeding.
No Band-Aids for You!
I thought this was quite clever, and it worked well enough when my twins were two. Our consumption of Band-Aids was below average. The rule enabled us to rake in a savings of about fourteen cents a month, enough to buy 1½ mojos.
When my cretins were nearly four, however, the Scrimp-on-Band-Aids, Save-for-College theory went south. One warm spring day, we went to the front yard where Vivian and William played with sidewalk chalk, which is the perfect craft for an Anti-Craft Mom like me since it involves no clean up (unless your kid runs onto the road and gets schmucked). But I digress.
So there William and Vivian were, playing hopscotch on their crooked squares. I think I was flinging grape-sized gravel off our lawn. And then came the screams. I don’t even remember which kid it was, but there was a knee injury. I inspected it, lest the screams make the neighbours suspicious.
“Mommy,” my child sobbed. “I need a Band-Aid.”
The knee looked like classic rug burn: pink and inflamed but not bleeding. “No blood, no Band-Aid,” I said.
I went back to flinging gravel pieces.
I’m not sure how much time passed until I noticed my kids were abnormally quiet.
I looked up and saw them huddled together, inspecting something closely.
I walked over.
Both twins were using their fingernails, scratching Twin A’s sidewalk scrape.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Nothing,” they chimed, the mantra of the guilty.
“Are you picking the scrape?” I asked.
Four eyes looked up at me. One voice answered, “We’re trying to make it bleed.”
“So I can get a Band-Aid,” the other added.
Excellent. Another parenting strategy that failed. I am a mother who encourages masochistic behaviour. That’s up there with my plan to bring two kids to Build-a-Bear to buy one kid a stuffed animal.
Thankfully tomorrow is another day, which means there’s a small possibility that I’ll do things right and a large possibility that I’ll do something that fast tracks us to family therapy.
Living Hypothetically: Mabel’s Labels BlogHer ’10 Contest
I love hypothetical situations: they allow me to proclaim with confidence what I’d do in a given situation when in reality, I haven’t a clue.
Take parenting. Before I had kids, I was an expert on motherhood. As a hypothetical parent, I’d observe and critique, vowing that I’d never plop my kids in front of a TV for the length of time it’d take a moderately fit person to run a marathon.
The company, Mabel’s Labels, has a contest asking one of these fascinating hypothetical questions: what would you post on your blog if the internet was experiencing an epic fail, possibly permanently? It’s like famous-last-words for those obsessed with blogging.
Here, then, are my final words which, for once, are not ironic.
Go outside.
Walk barefoot in dewey grass.
Swing.
Dance like you own your whole body.
Giggle.
Make snow angels.
Sing.
Deliver cookies to a neighbour.
Listen.
Stay for a cup of tea.
Smile.
Lie in a sunbeam.
Cuddle.
Picnic in your backyard.
Somersault.
Follow a leaf blowing in the wind.
Breathe.
It’s a bit of a poet’s shopping list for the Carpe Diem Supermarket. But in all seriousness, these are the things I love more than blogging, more than teaching, more than writing. These are the games of children, and if I can settle myself in the moment, which ironically is what blogging does for me, then time ceases to matter.
Perhaps parenting, hypothetical or not, is more about adults becoming childlike than children growing into adults.
Now excuse me, while I go unplug.
Gender and the Olympic Games
The Olympics are over. For me, this means I have to go back to parenting. No more abandoning my kids in front of a DVD player with the instructions, “Call me when it’s time for bed.” No more eating dinner in front of the TV in the basement, which we euphemistically call “having a picnic.” No more outdoing our neighbours with the size of our flag.
Canada's most patriotic garage door
Yesterday, after reading and commenting on Natasha’s post, “The Canadian Women’s Olympic Hockey Scandal,” I started to think about gender and the 2010 Winter Games.
The statistics for Team Canada, at least, are impressive. Women made up 44% of Canada’s 206 member Olympic team. Fifty-six percent of our medals, whether individual or team, came from female athletes.
These stats are fantastic. I am encouraged that we are moving toward an even playing field for women in sports.
We are, right?
But what surprised me is just how many gender-related issues there were at the 2010 Olympics.
Consider this:
- The beer drinking and cigar smoking of the Canadian women after winning hockey gold proved to be controversial, sparking letters to the editor across the country. It still would have made the media if the men’s team had partied on the ice at Canada Hockey Place, but it wouldn’t have garnered as much attention. As a society, we hold women to a higher moral standard that does not include partying after being crowned the best in the world. It might be a strange thing to argue, but women have as much right to kill brain cells as men do. It shouldn’t be a story.
- If Jon Montgomery, winner of the gold in men’s skeleton, were female, the media – and possibly the IOC — would have been all over the sculling of a pitcher of beer in public. Instead, he’s lauded as the poster boy for easy-going Canada, which he deservedly is. I just don’t get why a man can chug sixty ounces of beer given to him by a stranger, but a woman can’t have a can from the locker room.
- Women were not allowed to compete in ski jumping. Apparently, the Olympic committee decided that female ski jumpers aren’t good enough to participate, never mind that they have their own World Cup. Yes, forbidding women to ski jump at the Olympic Games will really encourage more girls to get involved in the sport.
- Johnny Weir, US figure skater, was criticized by some media for being feminine. While it’s conceivable that the media might criticize a woman for being masculine, the implication would be different. Calling Weir feminine is to suggest he’s “lesser than.”
So what’s the lesson? There may not be one. But there’s still work to be done before our daughters and sons are full partners in this world of sport and media.
Now, it’s your turn: does gender bias still exist in sports?
Bizarre Baby Names
It all started off innocently enough. William had brought home a school library book entitled, A Porcupine Named Fluffy. This is a picture book that we used to own, but my twins have a Bachelors of Loving Things To Death and a Masters in Destroying Anything Else. Given their two advanced degrees, I had recycled the remaining pages of this dear book a year ago.
A Porcupine Named ???
William has a penchant for things familiar. Even at age five, he still enjoys watching the Baby Einstein DVD on occasion. I liken it to my affinity for Kraft Dinner: I know I’m beyond it, but sometimes it reminds me of easier days.
So, there I was, reading A Porcupine Named Fluffy, seated cross-legged on the couch with a twin under each armpit. Rereading this once-favourite was a trip down memory lane for all of us, and the conversation about the protagonist, a female porcupine, continued even after I got up to unpack the dregs of Vivian and William’s school lunches.
“I think they should name the porcupine Prickly,” William said.
“No,” Vivian said, “they should name it Prick.”
“Prick’s not a girl’s name,” Will replied.
Nope, definitely not, I thought, scraping mushy apple core from the inside of Vivian’s lunch bag.
Later that day, I picked up the newspaper and read an article about the top baby names of 2009, at least according the vital statistics branch of my province, Alberta. William, my son’s name, ranks 9th overall, as 197 Albertan boys were given that name last year. Vivian is more unique, with fewer than 20 babies sharing that name. Interestingly, more than two times as many girls were named Kennedy, possibly demonstrating that Alberta just might be the 51st State.
But neither Kennedy nor Vivian are unique monikers. You want unique? Try these for girls: Peanut, Epic, Fyre, Mischiefs, Twinkle, Comfort.
And for boys? Bison, Chaos, Whip, Mystery, Draco, and – for all you NHL fans out there – Ericlindross (yes, one word).
After reading the lists of bizarre names, I’m starting to think that Prick is sounding pretty good.
Raising Normal Kids
This parenting thing baffles me. Generally I’m so lost in a labyrinth of fuzz that I don’t even bother to think about it. But today, I’ll wander back in.
A recent MRI of my brain (post-childbirth). Yes, my head is rectangular.
In many ways, I don’t have high expectations for my twins. I don’t expect (or want) them to be the top of the class, famous actors, or even Olympic athletes, although I have fleeting moments when I feel like pushing them down an icy luge track, with or without the sled. More than anything I want them to be normal, or (do I dare say it?) average.
This won't be one of my kids, unless I lose it and push them down the track
I think my own perfectionist tendencies fell off the cliff when I was pregnant. It was not an easy pregnancy – two bouts of mandatory bedrest in a foreign country, far from my own mom. After the first crisis (bleeding at nine weeks), I panicked. When our Thai doctor did the scan, I just wanted him to say the word “normal.” Or, as he said in his accented English, “Nor-MAALL” (to get the approximate punctuation, it rhymes with “Sore-GAL”).
Every appointment from that point on, I would come armed with a paranoid woman’s list of concerns and he would gratefully answer, “Nor-MAALL, completely Nor-MAALL”.
Later, my husband would imitate me, “Doctor, I’ve grown a third eye and there are mushrooms sprouting from my ears.” “No worries,” my husband would continue his impression, “it’s Nor-MAALL.”
It was then, during those stressful months, that my husband and I hung up our Going-for-Gold armchair parenting mentality and switched to something more lackluster. We weren’t planning to Own the Podium; we were hoping to cross the finish line.
Thankfully, we did. William and Vivian were born with Apgar scores that were good enough.
Now, nearly six years later, I still try to retain this Ode to Nor-MAALL. It’s hard, though. The current parenting culture seems to pressure parents to schedule their kids with activities that would rival the agenda of a CEO. It’s confusing, though, because in striving for Nor-MAALL I don’t want to raise underachieving kids who don’t have the confidence to push themselves.
What do you think? How hard do you push your children?
Fat in Thailand
There are stories that become part of a family’s lore. These are the stories that are pulled out at dinner parties like an old, time-tested joke. Even if people know the punchline, it’s a guaranteed laugh.
The story of my husband taking our five-week-old twins for a stroll in our Bangkok neighbourhood may be one such story. I wasn’t present, but somehow it’s become my story too.
* * *
August 2004 — To give me an hour alone in our apartment, my husband decides to take our twins out in the stroller. After he ferries them down in an elevator smaller than our refrigerator, he deposits Thing 1 and Thing 2 into the limousine stroller (which is too long to fit in the elevator).
It is important to note that Bangkok is not stroller – or wheelchair – accessible; it’s barely even pedestrian accessible. If you’re on a fairly quiet street (relative to Bangkok traffic, that is), you push the stroller on the actual street. If you’re on a busy street, you brave the sidewalk and steer around street stall vendors and over two-foot curbs.
On this fateful day, my husband opted for the middle-of-the-road approach, literally.
Deep-Fried Duck, anyone?
So they’re off, bypassing the Chinese-duck-soup woman, the fruit guy, the truck with the squawky loud speaker selling vegetables, the traffic, the elevated sewer grates. You get the idea. It’s mid afternoon which means, like most other times of the day, the sun is relentless and the air is heavy. Breathing can cause you to perspire. If you do the push-the-twins-in-a-stroller obstacle course, a full-scale tourist sweat is guaranteed.
Now my husband is generously proportioned. Plus, he’s in Thailand. To put this in context, I generally wear a medium shirt at any Gap. Plop me in Thailand and I can’t even fit into an XXL top from any Bangkok department store. So, my husband, being big, is supersized in Thailand. This is our fifth year in Bangkok, and –nice as the Thais ares — we’re both more than a little sick of looking out of place.
It’s minute forty of the stroll. My husband’s dodging another tuk tuk and turning the corner, which is as easy as trying to steer an overloaded supermarket cart that has two locked wheels. His shirt is stuck to his back, he’s squinting in the sun, and he’s trying to ignore the jingle of the ice cream bike that’s never quite out of hearing distance.
He’s approaching the motorcycle taxi drivers. On this corner, there’s about twelve of them, outfitted in matching vests, joking with each other, playing the odd game of checkers with bottle caps. They’re doing what they do: entertaining each other while waiting for customers.
Bangkok Motorcycle Taxi Drivers
Smiles on, they watch as my husband heaves the twins past them. They look at the stroller, and chat to each other in Thai.
Then, as my husband trudges further along, one says, “Hey, farang! Fat!”
My husband pauses. He knows farang means foreigner. And he’s sick of the fat jokes.
“Ya,” chimes another, “fat!”
My husband stops and looks back. “What did you say?”
“Fat!” one repeats.
My husband yells obscenities at them. I would exceed the word limit of this blog if I bothered to list them all.
He takes a short cut home.
Later that day, we share the story with a Thai friend. She proceeds to tell us that “fat” (or something very near to that pronunciation) means twins in Thai.
Cultural confusion 1, Cultural harmony 0.
For our remaining months in Bangkok, my husband avoids the motorcycle drivers…especially when he’s pushing our fat.
Bizarre Search Engine Terms
One of my favourite blogging hobbies is to look at the search terms people use to get to my site.
Since I’ve only been blogging since November (which, granted, is forever in terms of the internet), no one finds my site by searching for “hilarious mom” or “sarcastic parent.” But they find it by searching for bizarre enough stuff, like “angry little people,” “two leg dogs,” “having a baby is like funny,” and “σκορπιος ζωδιο” (?), as well as the terms described below.
Weird Search Term 1: “annoying Christmas letters”
More people have found my blog this way than by searching for my actual name. Also interesting is the fact that many of the searches for “annoying Christmas letters” came in January, which leads me to the conclusion that a number of people are incensed at their 2009 holiday mail.
Weird Search Term 2: “choking on a weeble”
I sincerely like to think that this search was conducted by a parent or journalist conducting research on the safety of toys. My fear is that someone whose toddler was blue in the face took the time to google this, seeking instructions on doing the Heimlich Maneuver. That weeble is unlikely to wobble out of your child’s trachea on its own while you read my latest rant on the year’s worst toys. Call 9-1-1, people.
If your child is doing this, don't google "choking on a weeble"
Weird Search Term 3: “bangkok pregnant sex”
It scares me that this trio of words sends someone to my blog. It scares me even more that someone searched for this. I mean we all know of Bangkok’s infamy, but what sort of Thai vacation is someone out there planning?
Weird Search Term 4: “congealed twins”
If you’ve ever been to a church pot-luck dinner (or to my grandma’s house), you’ve had Jell-o with things (pineapple, shredded carrots, fruit cocktail) suspended in it. Well, my image of congealed twins is not unlike this. Tempting as it may be to temporarily silence my five-year-olds during their moments of intense loopiness (like during The Tantrum), I have not yet succumbed to throwing my twins in the bath with Costco portions of pectin.
Congealed Twins: add pectin and stir
Drawing by Sam Burke
Weird Search Term 5: Leanne Shirtliffe [colleague’s name] marriage
Someone googled my name plus the name of my colleague with the word “marriage” beside it. Now I am married, just not to my colleague. We’re good friends, my kids adore him, and he’s also a friend of my actual husband. Proof positive that inquiring minds, though often wrong, are highly inventive. I’m starting to think that blogging just might be more entertaining than reading a tabloid.
Let the fun continue.
Now it’s your turn: if you’re a blogger, what bizarre search engine terms have brought visitors to your blog?
Tantrums and Knuckleheaded Parenting Ideas
I thought I was done with tantrums.
I mean, my twins are nearly six, and we’ve had one year free of embarrass-mom-in-public moments.
Most tantrums I barely remember, my body activating the Parenting-Amnesia reflex, the one that enables moms and dads to crawl out of bed the next morning at 5:45.
There are some vague memories of tantrums floating around my hippocampus, though. I can recollect fireman-carrying my son out of a bookstore when he was three, screaming and kicking through the Children’s Section, the Self-Help Section, and then the Fiction Area (how I wished it were fiction). I can remember dragging my daughter’s arm through the library turnstiles, knowing the rest of her body would follow….all to that two syllable Meltdown Soundtrack of “Mommmmeeeee,” screamed with the urgency only children can.
So needless to say, I was gobsmacked by my son’s twenty-minute tantrum at the mall last week.
After post trauma analysis, this meltdown revealed a cause-and-effect relationship:
KNUCKLEHEADED PARENTING IDEA = TANTRUM = OPPORTUNITY FOR PARTIALLY-REDEEMING PARENTING MOMENT
Allow me to elaborate.
Knucklehead Parenting Idea, Part 1:
My kids were quick enough to potty-train during the day, but ultra-slow to demonstrate bladder control at night. I should have left well enough alone: they’re water drinkers, their doctor said not to worry, and the pull-ups did the job. But, tired of spending 50 cents a day on diapers, I introduced The Reward. In this case, Build-a-Bear: you know, that chance to spend $40 on a stuffed animal wearing a baby shirt?
Of course, Vivian, being extremely competitive, rose to the challenge. She was night-trained months ago, and never forgot the Build-a-Bear promise.
Knucklehead Parenting Idea, Part 2:
Take both kids to Build-a-Bear to purchase a reward for one kid. Yup, this follows much the same logic as opening a can a beer in front of a newly recovering alcoholic. I explained to William that we’d get him a Good Brother Award somewhere else (“At the Dollar Store?” he asked, genuinely excited). But when he saw the machinations of Build-a-Bear and the menagerie of stuffies, he freaked out. A good mother would’ve predicted this tantrum. Not me. If I once saw the glass half full, it was now empty and cracked.
Tantrum:
Full-on, writhe on the floor, scream, beg, jump-up-and-down, cajole. The thing was, I partly agreed with him. It was unfair. So I called my husband for moral support – or to ask for permission to get William a Build-a-Bear too. My husband encouraged me to stand firm. More tantrum. Screaming. To one passerby mother, I said, “Want another son?” She looked at me with schadenfreude. I called my husband again. He said he had no idea what to do. But that brief adult contact gave me my idea.
Opportunity for Good Parenting:
“We’ll go buy you two toys, William!” I said, mustering as much enthusiasm as I could. He stopped writhing and said, “You’re not listening to me, mom.” Fair enough. I paused, trying to repress my solve-all-conflicts gene. He continued, “It’s not fair. And I’ll never get Build-a-Bear. I still pee in my pull-up. I try not to, but I still do.”
What a freaking awful mom I am I was I sometimes am. Epic fail. On so many levels here.
Like this is fair
So I listened, so we went to a department store, so the Patron Saint of Stressed-Out Mothers smiled upon me: we found an $8 stuffy with the name “William” on it. There was no Vivian teddy bear, nor was there a Leanne bear. But there was a William. Finally, he felt special and appreciated. A chocolate mini-egg rounded out Toy 2. And when we returned to Build-a-Bear, the kind worker (who witnessed the tantrum at her store front) did a give-your-bear a heart ceremony on his stuffy too.
Good to know that I have to go through this one more time…when William gets his Build-a-Bear after his nighttime pull-ups are history. Not to mention every night when he sees his sister’s gigantic pink bear named Heartsy.
Ironic Mom (a.k.a. Leanne Shirtliffe)
