Ironic Mom

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?

Reason 1: It’s better than Kid-TV.

I’m not sure what your least favourite kids-TV show is, but we prefer to be patriotic in our loathing. On Canada’s homegrown Treehouse TV, 4 Square is the most despised program in our household, especially the segments featuring four dancers in unitards. If you don’t know this show, cross overly enthusiastic adults with the Teletubbies and put them in luge outfits. Add annoying music that snakes its way into your memory, and you have fodder for driving the sanest person loony.

Much like how Pavlov conditioned dogs, my husband taught our kids to turn off the TV before the 4 Square music starts. Once the TV screen flashes orange, Vivian and William sprint for the off button like two speed skaters accelerating when the gun is fired.

I mean, seriously, if I want to see adults in form-fitting uniforms, I’ll turn to the Olympics, thank you very much.

Reason 2: It reminds you that life with kids is one big event.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, there is so much repetition involved in parenting that there could be a Parenting Olympics. In fact, life with kids seems to be one big event that never ends, or so my mother tells me.

Following the Olympic torch relay? Try taking twins to the zoo or a mall without a stroller.

Carting lots of equipment? Try taking a road trip – or doing a simple errand – with two toddlers. Hello baggage, literal and metaphorical.

Coordinating the Opening and Closing Ceremonies? Try planning a kid’s birthday party these days, which has made the word “theme” a dirty word in my house.

Living on the edge? Try driving a minivan on a freeway when your daughter’s favourite stuffy has tumbled under a seat.

It’s safer to watch The Olympics with your butt on the couch.

Reason 3: It gives you more to aspire to than post-bedtime silence.

I’m a sucker for Olympics commercials. They’re almost as tear-worthy as ads for Hallmark or The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Or the winner of the final showcase on The Price is Right (I have a friend who tears up when someone wins).

And when (or if) that Canadian anthem plays, I may tear up. I figure it’s a healthier outlet than crying while my son has a tantrum in the middle of the mall (an actual event earlier today). It’s also more socially acceptable to sob in the privacy of your own home rather than outside Build-a-Bear while your son is writhing on the floor for twenty minutes.

Reason 4: For 17 days, it gives you something to talk about other than your kids.

If I watch the Winter Olympics, I will have something to contribute to conversations other than stories of how my lack of sleep is driving me batty. Not that I have many conversations with adults other than my husband, but still, even if I’m talking to him, I can say things like, “What did you think of that triple Salchow?” I will feel like an expert momentarily, until he tells me it was a double Lutz.

Reason 5: It’s an excellent way to exercise.

I don’t care what people say, but you can exercise while watching TV. I cannot watch downhill skiing without clenching my abs and leaning into the turns. I cannot watch a men’s or women’s gold medal hockey game without doing a few hundred squats from rising off the couch in excitement. And if Canada doesn’t win both hockey golds, thousands of us will be balling in a corner, in a nationally-inspired yoga move, also known as Child’s Pose.

The yoga pose Canadians will adopt if our hockey teams don't win gold.

Watching the Olympics just may be the original Wii Fit.

Here’s to putting the kids to bed early so I can watch even more Olympic coverage.

Photo courtesy of Daniel Case, used under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License

There should be an Olympic Games for moms and dads. Now there’s an endurance competition that’d test your focus. As a parent, not only would you get to compete, but you’d get to be your own trainer, nutritionist, psychologist, and sponsor. As an added bonus,  you always get play… even if you’re severely sick, injured or depressed.

So what sports would the Parenting Olympics have?

Sport One: Showering

In the real Olympics, showering occurs after the event; if you’re a parent, showering is the event. Although I can barely recall the time my twins were newborns, I can remember showering. When I managed to squeeze this in, it often involved two babies strapped into car seats on the bathroom floor. Shampoo, condition, soap, shave: in under two minutes. It puts the mental back in environmental.

Warning: Repeated Diaper Changing Can Cause Carpel Tunnel Syndrome

Sport Two: Diaper Changing

I’ve written about the ability of newborns to poo in Jackson Pollack patterns. But seriously, nappy changing is the 100 metres of the Mom-and-Dad Games. If you can’t diaper in under 9 seconds, go back to the starting block. And pay attention: there are separate heats for disposable and cloth.

Parenting Olympics: Juggling

Sport Three: Juggling

My mother frequently says that moms can cook a whole turkey dinner with one hand tied behind their back. With weeks of practice with your latest accessory, a baby on your hip, you stir the pasta, talk on the phone, and sign a form for your preschooler. This event runs daily…and sometimes hourly.

Sport Four: Car Seat-Stroller Relay

I’m pretty sure some childless hermit invented the majority of strollers. For amusement, try wheeling one through a snow-packed parking lot, extracting your child, tethering the crying babe to the car seat, and collapsing the stroller. Deductions for any swearing.

Sport Five: The Modern Day Pentathlon

Here are the five events of the mommy-a-thon: get child dressed, fed, into snow gear, into minivan, to daycare or school. Bonus if child does not cry. Automatic medal if neither of you cries.

So when your kids fall asleep and you manage to flop in front of the TV to watch psycho Winter Olympic athletes careen down perilous slopes, just remember that most of them couldn’t do your job either.

What parenting sport have you medalled in?

Photos courtesy of  Rick Fawcett and fdecomite, used under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License.

I’ve spent a couple days trolling through emails from 2004, the year our twins were born. We lived in Bangkok at the time, and email was the way we communicated with people from home. What is interesting is how little the base personalities of William and Vivian have changed in the five years that have now passed. I find this comforting and a right-bit scary.

Thai Flag

Here are five excerpts from emails I wrote in the opening six months:

Memory One: June 17, 2004 (Age: 19 days)

Greetings on Day 19 of our new one-day-at-a-time worldview. My short and long term memories seem to have gone the way of the placentas. We are in the process of applying for Canadian citizenship for our babies, a “formality” that involves four pages of questions such as “are you married?” and “eye colour.” Apparently it takes six months to process these applications, which begs the question: are they currently citizens of nowhere?

Memory Two: July 23, 2004 (Age: 2 months)

We are amused daily. Vivian has more facial expressions than Andre Gagnon. William, when he’s sleeping in the crib he and Vivi share, does this interesting break-dancing move: he uses one of his eyebrows as a pivot point while he hurls both legs in one direction. Eventually he ends up rotated ninety degrees and sometimes even kicks Vivian in the head. Then we see (and especially hear) more expressions from Vivi. We continue to swaddle Vivian because she sleeps better (not because it makes her defenseless against her brother). She does attempt a nightly David Copperfield escape routine, but she usually conks out before she succeeds. She is energetic and fearful of missing anything, so that if her arms and legs are free, she flails and wakes herself up. We used to swaddle Will, but with his big head arched back from his body (his favourite position), he looked like a human Pez dispenser.

Memory Three: September 10, 2004 (Age: 3+ months)

The troops are getting more and more interesting. Will has decided that humans might, after all, be worth smiling at, though he still prefers grinning at inanimate objects such as ceiling fans and the plastic basket on the change table. Vivian, with her intensely competitive personality, has learned that when in her rocking-lounger-chair she can kick the roller balls with her feet at about 90 mph, providing her fists are clenched and her tongue is sticking out. Yes, Vivian has unfortunately inherited the stick-your-tongue-out-while-you-concentrate habit from me (I am still scarred by the memory of my organ recital when I was nine-years-old. Some old bird came up to me afterwards and pointed out how it was “cute” the way I stuck out my tongue while I played).

Memory Four: Oct 16, 2004 (Age: 4.5 months)

William is doing his own trial version “crawling,” as is evident by the blisters on the ends of his toes. He doesn’t quite have the arm thing down, but he can cover some ground. Vivi isn’t quite doing the crawling thing but does hoist her butt so high in the air that she topples over. She has rapid mood swings that range from happy to “assertive”. My favourite is the scream-really-loud, turn your head, then fall into a deep sleep (all in under 10 seconds).

Memory Five: Nov 18, 2004 (Age: 5.5 months)

Vivian is very close to crawling. She rocks in the crawling position for hours, it seems, and has recently began to extend her legs so that it looks like she’s in the starting blocks for the 100 meters. (Bad news, Vivi: poor genes means that it’s unlikely you’ll ever run the 100 in less than a minute. Try the big thigh sports: speed skating and sprint cycling). William spends hours in the free-fall position (also reminiscent of Superman flying). Will prefers to roll, especially when we’re not looking, prompting comments such as “How did you get over there?” He loves babbling and, unlike his sister, he actually has an inside voice.

Since my memory – like my placentas – is long gone, I say thank you to email’s “sent” file, the dinosaur’s version of a blog.

(cc) Brandon Fick, used under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License

To the delight of parents everywhere – and to the consternation of teachers– this past week meant back to school. For Vivian, my daughter, the first day back in Kindergarten afforded her the opportunity to write resolutions using inventing spelling. She has five wishes for 2010, and her hopes make me both smile and cringe.

Start 'em Young: Resolutions of a 5-Year-Old

Vivian’s 1^st Resolution: do my numbrs bedder.

A perfectionist-in-training, Vivian has high standards, too high. When I asked her what’s wrong with the numbers she currently prints, she said, “My 3’s could be better.” They’re already more legible than any doctor’s penmanship. This resolution is from the child who practiced “sitting down” fifty times one day (when she was eight-months-old).

Vivian’s 2^nd Resolution: Reed bedder.

This resolution may seem admirable, but she’s starting to read my tweets. I’m getting paranoid. What happens when she reads my blog?

Vivian’s 3^rd Resolution: I hope to go skating.

If sledding is the highlight of her month, you can imagine how she’d feel if we ever took her and William skating. But to take them skating in the same year that we took them sledding?  I mean really. Wouldn’t that be just a bit over the top? It’s not like it’s convenient or anything, with the community rink at the top of our street.  It’s not like we’re Canadian and that skating is a freaking right of passage. Seriously.

Vivian’s 4^th Resolution: I hope to get less stuffees.

Tired of too many stuffed animals in their bedroom, last summer I asked both Vivian and William to select five stuffies to “give away,” which turned into a euphemism for “secretly throw them in the garbage.” Yes, I may have led them to believe there were needy children with no stuffies to cuddle. Evidently, Vivian hasn’t forgotten, and she’s hoping to do more humanitarian work this year.

Vivian’s 5^th Resolution: Eat less junk food.

Okay, is this kid five or twenty-five? It’s not like she’s even had soft drinks or a chocolate bar. Well, that may not be entirely true. She and William did plunder our pantry early one morning. They found my secret stash of 100-calorie chocolate bars (you know, the ones you can eat four of because they’re low-cal?). Well, judging from the amount of chocolate on her face, she got a good share of the booty.

Given Vivian’s ability to focus and get the job done, my money’s with her on keeping her resolutions. She, together with her brother, can outwit, outlast, and outplay me anyday.

Memory 1: Seeing the Ocean

My kids haven’t seen salt water since they lived in Thailand, and that was before they could walk upright. Because we now live in a landlocked province, they’re not exactly sea-savvy. We’ve grown tired of them asking “Is that the ocean?” every time we drive past a slough in a farmer’s field. So, we decided to spend Christmas 2009 in that famous ocean state, Arizona, and threw in a side trip to Southern California.

Sea Dancing in the Pacific...pre-wipeout

The Great Part: Vivian and William held hands and watched the waves lap at their feet while the sun set over the Pacific. The surfers in the background completed the holiday backdrop.

The Not-So-Great Part: A slow but persistent wave swarmed the kids, sending Vivian into a salt-water-face-plant. I believe the surfers heard her wails. Anyone like the

Memory 2: Co-Sleeping

When you have twins, co-sleeping isn’t a huge option, or at least it wasn’t for me. In the odd moment my newborn twins weren’t breastfeeding, they were either on the floor amusing themselves or they were in their crib. On this vacation some five years later, however, co-sleeping became our reality. A trio of issues — sick kids, small beds, and big parents in need of a diet — meant a nightly debate over whose turn it was to sleep with mommy.

The Great Part: There are few pleasures that rank up there with cuddling with a warm-bodied little one.

The Not-So-Great Part: On more than one night, I awoke mid-sleep-cycle, gripping the edge of bed like it was the final handhold above an Everest crevice. My little five-year-old, about a quarter of my weight, had successfully completed a hostile takeover of the bed.

Memory 3: Intergenerational Play

The Great Part: There is something special about watching kids interact with your own parents. For me – and for many people of my generation – it’s the chance to see your father be an involved grandparent rather than a distant dad. Watching my mom was a reminder of great parenting techniques, such as how to use distraction as a crisis management tool. Sometimes I think she’s clairvoyant, anticipating disaster and then averting it through her “Come see this” strategy.

The Not-So-Great Part: Witnessing three generations vomit (see the latter part of Memory 4).

Memory 4: Sharing

The Great Part: In the confines of the RV we’re staying in, I watched Vivian give William two pairs of her cards so that their game of Fish would end up tied. Later that day, mere moments after she was walloped by a wave, Will offered to lend his dry jacket to his sister. “I’ll share with you, Viv,” he said, removing his coat.

The Not-So-Great Part: On the plane, we listened to the girl in the seat behind us vomit her way to Phoenix. Hours later, in the rental car on the interstate, Vivian upchucked everywhere. If you ever wonder what happens to new-car-smell, I’m pretty confident it’s trumped by barf. Vivian continued to spew every thirty minutes till late that night, at which point she became catlike, noisily dry-heaving a hair ball. The next victim was William, who outdid his sister by adding three new symptoms: earache, high fever and rash. And then came the adults. By the time my husband had gagged his way to wellness, half our holiday was over.

Memory 5: Seeing the Excitement in Their Eyes

The Great Part: There is a truth inherent in the cliché, through the eyes of a child. I had forgotten about the miracle of flight until I heard my kids’ play-by-play commentary. And then there’s the excitement of Christmas…brought to households by the magic of marketing and consumerism.

The Not-So-Great Part: By the time we flew home, Vivian and William’s new toys were packed away and barely missed, and airplane awe was replaced with an are-we-there-yet mantra.

And fortunately for all of us, we were nearly there, proving yet again that although it’s good to go away, it’s also great to come home.

From our vomit-free household to yours, Happy New Year.

Let’s face it: this holiday season, many of us will have the task of getting kids-hyped-up-on-chocolate to fall asleep beside us in hotel rooms or in a grandparent’s spare bedroom. This is no easy task; if it were, someone would’ve won the Nobel Peace Prize for Parenting.

Saturday night, in a desperate attempt to get my five-year-old twins to fall asleep in a hotel room, I pulled five strategies out of my parenting-backpack. They all failed.

Strategy One To Get My Kids To Sleep: Make It a Competition

This works well with any siblings, but especially with twins, who’ve competed for everything since womb-space was an issue. I’m desperate to get into a book – or just have hallway noise to contend with – so I say, “First one to fall asleep gets a million points and wins.” My kids stop their game of tag-on-a-bed and flop down into a corpse-like pose. Then Vivian rises from the dead to say, “Wait a minute. If I’m asleep, how will I know I won?” Chaos ensues.

Strategy Two: Contain the Problem

“Get under the covers now,” I order. Like two well-trained turtles, they go under the covers, all the way under. They proceed to build a fort. I could call it a kingdom since the only language they speak is Giggle. When this strategy doesn’t work, I shift to a more extreme version of containment: musical beds. I switch places with William.

Strategy Three: Unite the Troops with a Common Enemy

“There are people trying very hard to sleep on the other side of the wall,” I say. Both kids stop, look at the picture of bison hanging on the wall.  “They might be very grumpy if they can children giggling,” I caution. Not sure where this attempt went awry, but both kids double over in a fit of laughter.

Strategy Four:  Issue the Penultimate Threat

“Okay, it’s not funny anymore. Mommy’s serious,” I say. Now, I’m not a certified pyschologist, but I know enough about human (mis)behaviour to know that this is the final statement of those with the authority of a gnat.

Strategy Five: Bring in Reinforcements

At this time of year, skip Daddy and bring in the heavyweight. It’s why I love December, really. “Mommy’s going to call Santa.” This shuts ‘em up for a few minutes, but not for long, so I pick up the phone and dial ho-ho-ho. I fake a call and, while Meryl Streep does not have to worry about being dethroned this March, I’m convincing enough for two five-year-olds.

Sixty minutes have passed since I implemented Strategy One. The passage of time has the desired effect on Vivian and William’s volume level. Vivian dozes off first. Ten minutes later, from my look-out post, I spot Wiliam commando crawling at the foot of his bed, sneaking his way to his twin sister in an attempt to rescue her from slumber. He is sent back to isolation, and finally succumbs to sleep. As do his parents. Mercifully.

Tip 1: Don’t.

So what’s wrong with vacationing in your house? There’s nothing wrong with it, besides the fact that your kids want to kill each other because they’re routine-bound and besides the fact you’ve started to wax poetic about the lives of your childless friends. Take it from someone who took her twins on two round-trip, trans-Pacific flights before they were thirteen months old: don’t.

If Junior can't complete it in ink, do everyone a favour: stay home

(cc) KitAy, Used under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License

Tip 2: If you must travel, wait until your kids can complete the New York Times Crossword in ink.

And, unless your kid is Ben Pall – a 14-year-old who created a crossword that was published in the Times last month, then you’re safe for a few years. By the way, Pall could recite the alphabet at the age of two…backwards. Freak.

A Remote: More Essential Than Your Kids

(cc) Rick Audet, Used under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License

Tip 3: There’s only one button that matters: repeat play.

It doesn’t matter if your kid can recite all the words to Finding Nemo. After all, look at Ben Pall.

Tip 4: If you have a choice, travel before Christmas.

Your arsenal of discipline-techniques increases greatly if you can use Santa as a threat. Put him on speed dial. If you have to travel outside of December, throw out nutritional expectations and food pyramids. Candy makes a great second-level threat.

Tip 5: Seriously, don’t do it.

Way-back-when, my husband and I used to go on a date every Thursday. That was when we viewed this parenting thing as a phase, a blip on our couple-o-meter.

After hibernating for four weeks following the birth of our twins, we resumed weekly dates. We’d take our newborns to restaurants in our neighbourhood in Bangkok – where we lived at the time – and the lovely Thai staff would fawn over our babes, take them into the kitchen, and bring them back every ten minutes to show us they hadn’t dropped them into a vat of Pad Thai. Meanwhile, we’d stare into each other’s eyes, trying to think of non-baby topics to discuss.

Thursday: The Day Formerly Known As Date-Night

(cc) Adapted from Joel Lanman, under a Creative Commons ShareAlike License

Fast forward a year. Vivian and William are now one and we’ve moved back to Canada. Soon date nights become like our disposable income: extinct.

In the four years we’ve been back living in Canada, we’ve managed a few dates, each one ending with the refrain, “We need to do this more often.” And we need to. How do I know? There are a number of neon signs that indicate it’s time to go out with your beloved. Here are five:

Mr. Darcy 1, Edward 0

1.  You watch Bridget Jones’ Diary and BBC’s Pride and Prejudice for the twenty-somethingthtime.

Whether it’s Mr. Darcy or Mark Darcy, it doesn’t matter. Colin Firth is the thinking woman’s Edward. We don’t need teen vampires with transluscent skin, we need Colin. Or maybe we need a date, even with our own husband.

2.  You’re looking forward to cozying up with your heat bag.

Seriously, if you’re in your thirties like me and you’re addicted to a wheat bag (it warms my feet faster than my husband), it’s time, it really is.

3.  Romance means watching an E-Harmony commercial together

So my husband’s flipping between the basketball game and the comedy channel, when an E-Harmony commercial comes on. For whatever reason, we watch and provide a running commentary.

Commercial: “Are you looking for the love of your life?”

Me:  “Nope. Gave up on that a long time ago.”

Husband: “We don’t need E-Harmony, we need E-Sarcasm.”

4. Your kids suggest getting a babysitter.

My kids love getting a babysitter. A week ago Vivian said, “It’s a great day. I was the class leader, and you put candy in my lunch, and we get a babysitter!” My kids love their babysitter because she plays tag, does crafts, and builds castles for hours on end. It’s one big playtime. I’m pretty sure she never says, “It’s time for independent play,” or “I need to work on the computer now,” my two favourite dismissive phrases. It doesn’t matter that, when my husband and I do hire a sitter, we can enjoy an Italian meal in fewer than ninety minutes.  We’ve perfected marriage-style speed dating.

5.  You write blogs posts in bed. G’nite.

It’s the end of Black Friday. From corporate America’s perspective, this means today was the biggest shopping day of the year, offering retailers a chance to jump from a deficit (red) to a profit (black). From a parent’s perspective, however, Black Friday means the opposite: bankrolling Santa’s shopping spree will send my VISA card into a one-month hemorrhage; I’ll still be taking care of the oozing debt when the $10 batteries die for the fifth time.

Let me get this Christmas shopping thing straight: I have to buy my kids a present from Santa for a staff Christmas party, another present from Santa for the actual day, stocking stuffers from Santa, and a present from their dad and me. My VISA and I are seeing red. As in red like Santa.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I could find quality toys that were affordable. But one look at this year’s list of Best Toys of 2009 reveals that Santa’s quality control experts were on a twelve month coffee break.

Here Are the Top 5 Toys of 2009 That Really Suck:

1. Fisher Price Smart Cycle Extreme. Okay, instead of taking your kids for a run around the park, going sledding, or playing a game of soccer, you can sit them in front of a DVD on an exercise bike and count their calories while you drink a latte. Now I’m all for preoccupying my kids while I do something else (like write this post), but an exercise bike for kids is clearly a sign of the apocalypse. What next, the mini-Martini mixer? Rumour has it that before the corporate bigwigs named it the Smart Cycle Extreme, they contemplated calling it the Junior Couch Potato.
2. Elmo Tickle Hands. There’s a reason why Elmo wasn’t on the original Sesame Street. He’s annoying, as androgynous-squealing-fur-balls tend to be. This year you get the opportunity to pay the same amount as a full-size Elmo and receive only the hands. Plus, one of the hands is made of cloth, meaning you actually have to make the sound effects yourself. And the price? Ouch, that tickles.

    

   

   The Original Elmo, after his hands were taken

3. Read more…