Faking It

Today I walked behind the local Metro store and some big trucks were unloading, with their engines still going.  This noisy, sooty, smoggy environment made me think of travelling in urban Europe, and for a moment I pretended that I was indeed on a European backpacking trip.  Since my travel opportunities are somewhat limited with 3 very small children, I thought maybe there might be some other opportunities in everyday life to imagine that I am in fact on vacation (and not just walking around the same loop in Whitby, over and over.)  Here are some strategies I have compiled:

Fake it with Suntan Lotion.  Well, the thing is that there is probably no such thing as “suntan lotion” anymore, since we are trying to avoid the effects of the sun.  But you know what I mean.  Remember that coconut-y smell of suntan oil in the eighties?  There must be some sunscreen today that mimics that fragrance.  All you would need to do is slather it on and close your eyes to pretend you are in Daytona or something.  Or maybe pretend you are in the eighties.

Hang out near people who are smoking Marlboros.  This, also, is not a healthy piece of advice.  But don’t you associate this smell with some European destinations?   Perhaps a “Marlboro scented” can of air freshener or something would be slightly less harmful, and create that same effect of being on a train in France.

Wear a Fanny Pack.  While this piece of advice sounds rather fashion-backwards, imagine how adventurous you would feel taking your bank card out of a fanny pack at Walmart?  Okay, that doesn’t sound so adventurous.  But if you carried your passport around in it, maybe you could trick yourself just a little bit.  I suppose you could just wear one of those secret fanny packs and save yourself some embarrassment.

Watch television from Upstate New York stations.  My family went to Florida several times growing up.  I associate TV with an American accented announcer with the idea of a holiday.  Is this sad?  Well, nevertheless, if I watch the Buffalo news I can catch the sound of a reporter saying “TANAWAHNDA” and “99 DAHLLARS” and feel as though I am travelling in the States.

This is all I can think of at the moment.  But imagine my bliss as I put all of these wonderful techniques into action this afternoon.  Jealous much?

Gymnastics Good Times

Have you ever signed your son up for gymnastics?  If so, did he gaze around the room while the instructor was talking, and then take off towards the balance beams when the rest of the class was supposed to be jumping from butterfly to butterfly on the floor?  ME TOO. 

I am in danger of making some gender-biased assertions here.  I’m just going to do it.  I think it is maybe easier to take your girl kid to gymnastics.  That is why I was really hoping that Noah’s teacher would see me there with Emma a few weeks ago.  I was like, “See?  See?  This is my kid too!  I have one that can do it!!!”   

I guess it’s not that Noah can’t do it.  It’s just that he seems interested in pursuing different things while we are there.  He is easily distracted by all of the contraptions and I’m sure that the scientist in him is trying to figure out how things work when he is staring at them instead of paying attention to the teacher. 

A few weeks ago he admitted to me that he and his buddy were engaged in some very intellectual discussions while they were having their lesson in the “small gym”, which is off-limits to parents.  It’s a good thing, probably, because I didn’t have to witness this conversation:

Best Buddy: “Who FARTED?”

Noah:  “We’re in the TOOT Museum”.

Ew.  Gross.  I totally would not want to go to the Toot Museum, let alone do gymnastics in it.  I can imagine that if Emma was there she would be doing a flexed-arm hang that would be the winner of the Canada Fitness Test, and she certainly would not be talking about Toot Museums.

I suppose the gymnastics performance could be just related to the skill levels and focusing abilities of my two different children, and has nothing to do with gender.  The fact that gymnastics behavior is not gender-related is proven by “Who Farted”’s younger brother, who follows all instructions perfectly and performs very well.    It is also demonstrated by the fact that all the girls who take gymnastics in the Toot Museum with Noah don’t really seem to have great skills.

What do you think?  Has your boy ever embarrassed you at gymnastics?  Better yet, has your girl ever done that?

3 is the new 2

This weekend a friend asked me if I felt more tired having 3 children.  I said I just felt more “distraught”.  “Could you cut the drama queen act?” she said.  Actually, no she didn’t.  But maybe she could have.

I am finding things a tad more overwhelming with 3 children as compared to 2.  I think this could have to do with the stage we are in, though, because right now Maia is not fond of being put down and my other 2 children are fond of dismantling everything around them and my dog is fond of shedding and getting fungal infections.

Anyway, my friend’s question got me thinking about the whole idea of having 3 kids, and how it scares the vas deferens right out of some people.  I came from 3 kids, so it was not as scary to me, but I think my husband found the concept quite intimidating, when we found out we were pregnant with number 3.   And rightly so, I might add. 

When we first had Maia, I thought "3 kids is no problem!"  That lasted for about 5 weeks or so.  I think it lasted until she stopped going to sleep 15 times a day.  I am incredibly happy to be blessed with 3 lovely kids, but IT IS SO MUCH WORK!!!!!  How DOES the octomom do it, I ask you?

There seem to be more people having 3 kids than I would have thought, though.  I think I know why.  It has to do with those stickers that people have on the back of their cars.  You know the ones with the little white silhouettes that basically advertise how many people (and pets) you have in your family?  They inspire competition.  Every time I see one where there are 4 children, I think “Oh yeah?  I can do that!  And I can get 2 more dogs too, lady.”   So, that is my theory as to why families are getting bigger.  

I don’t really have much of a point today.  This is a bit of a meandering blog entry.  But I’m tired and I felt like posting SOMETHING.  Next time I will be more poignant.  I have to go to bed before somebody wakes up.  My bets are on Emma.

A thought

If I ever got hired for a job called “Sock Matching Associate” I would probably get fired on the first day.  Maybe there would be so few people willing to fill this position that they would keep me around out of desperation.  Then I would have to quit.  Sorry, Sock Matching Boss.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

My mom died in 1994 so I have spent a number of Mother’s Days just feeling sad.  This year I am grateful.  Here is what I would say to her.

Thank you for teaching me how to hide food.  Remember how you would put those cookies in strange places so that we couldn’t find them?  In truth we always knew where they were and we would be helping unload the groceries and be like, “I’ll just put the chocolate chip cookies away in the dropped ceiling, where you usually put them, Mom.”  So maybe you weren’t that good at hiding food.  But I am increasingly feeling like there are people coveting every morsel of chocolate I eat, and I need to figure out a way to hide it.  Thanks for making me feel like this is normal.

Thank you for encouraging me to wear lipstick, even when I had to play a tuba at a band concert.  You said that I was a reflection of you, and now I get it.  (And it was actually a reflection of me, but one that you were trying to make look suitable.  Sorry to say that I still don’t wear lipstick, though.)

Thank you for teaching me how it is entirely possible to cut up your bank card in front of a teller in order to make a point.

Thank you for dressing me in that strange harem-like red pin-striped number to do my speech on “reincarnation” in grade 5. 

Thank you for laughing at my jokes.

Thank you for teaching me how to be a friend.

Thank you for yelling “I’m trying to take a S&%T!” at us through the bathroom door.   Seriously, Mom, this same thought has gone through my mind so many times in the last few years.  I was wondering if I should post this on a blog, and if it would bother you.  But the thing is that this is one of my most useful parenting memories because every time I feel like this I can remember that you must have felt this way too!  (And as I remember it, you only said it that once.)

Thank you for teaching me to be brazen if people seem to be taking advantage of me.  I like to apply this to door-to-door scammers.

Thank you for fighting breast cancer so courageously.  Even when you were sick you still put us first, and you were such an incredible model of strength and tenacity.

Thank you for sending me to camp.

Thank you for giving Noah your dimples.

Thank you for teaching me how to make squares and spinach dip and for fostering a love of soft ice cream.

Thank you for being an incredible mom.  I miss you every single day. 

You got an education for THIS.

Perhaps you have sat on the toilet crying and thinking, “I got an education for this?????”

Well, I have realized some important aspects of undergraduate education that have prepared me for the role of parent.  Here they are:

1.        All-Nighters.  You know how you would procrastinate and then finish an entire essay on the night before it was due, or spend the whole night up studying for an exam?  Do you remember the squinchy-eyed feeling you would have when you were trying to get through the next day on coffee fumes?  Who knew that would be exactly how you would feel as a parent of young children?  Perfect training.

2.       Kraft Dinner.  The student diet is the ideal model for the toddler diet.  As an undergrad I learned to cook macaroni and grilled cheese and without these skills my mommy cooking repertoire would be sadly lacking.  I just thought of something.  I should TOTALLY get Emma into Ramen noodles.

3.       Being comfortable wearing track pants 24/7.  Okay, I suppose that in university it was more about  wearing pyjama bottoms and waffly long underwear to lectures.  (What, you didn’t do that, you say?  Well, humour me.)  Now you can get used to rotating through 3 different pairs of lululemon pants that are technically meant for exercise.  Kind of like jogging pants.  I mean, who actually jogs in those bulky things, I ask you!   Anyway, this track pants mentality is probably very familiar to you already, and you can thank your university experience for that.

4.       Cleaning up barf.  Once when I lived in residence the cleaning staff went on strike and it very apparent that there was a lot of puke to clean up.  The binge drinking kind of puke.  Now, as a parent, it is just the kind of puke that your daughter does all over herself in the car. 

5.       “The Frosh 15” I think this was also tenderly named “Rez Butt”.  I have the frosh 15 planted firmly (actually, rather jiggly) around my abdomen at the moment.  Post-partum good times.

I’m sure there are more.  I’ll let you know when I think of them.  This is all I have time for between screams.

Nobody told me

There are a few things nobody told me about being a mother.

Nobody told me I could feel like I have won the lottery AND dropped through the rabbit hole all in the same day.  In the same hour, really.

Nobody told me what would happen to the skin on my tummy.

Nobody told me I would vacillate between wanting to have a career assembling light products at home so I can be with my children more and wanting to have a career as a CEO of a multinational corporation so that I can hire people to be with my children more.  Unfortunately my skill set does not lend itself to either of these careers.

Nobody told me how to wash little girl hair.

Nobody told me about the knees on little boy pants.

Nobody told me that I would actually say “What is WRONG with you?” to my child and expect a cogent answer.

Nobody told me that I could be so in love.

Nobody told me that my bladder would give out when skipping rope or running.

Nobody told me about those baby hairs that grow back about 6 months after you give birth.  For evidence, check out Katie Holmes’ wedding pictures, where she looks like she has some messed up mini-fringe bangs.

Nobody told me that some days I would be living in a bird’s nest of paper scraps, baby toys, dog hair and granola bar wrappers.

Nobody told me how proud I would feel sometimes just having one of my children sitting on my lap.

Nobody told me how I would post an “I love you mom” card on the fridge because it is basically a pay cheque for me.

Nobody told me I would not have a union rep, or at least an ombudsperson to talk to.

Nobody told me to write all of this down but I think it’s a good idea.  That way my kids won’t think they are going crazy when they become parents.  Or, they’ll think they are going crazy, but they will know it is normal.  This IS normal, right?

Blaming it all on Modern Family

The other day I was sitting with a friend and we were chatting about how we measure our homes against some kind of invisible standard.  We were trying to figure out where we get the idea that things should look perfect with 2 or 3 little kids running around the house, destroying things like vermin. 

We talked about “Leave it to Beaver” and “The Cosby Show” and those idealistic environments that we grew up observing.  ON TV.  Why is it that we remember the TV homes better than we remember our own?  I think that perhaps my mom got things under control just around the time that I started having conscious memories, because I do NOT remember our house looking like a toy bomb had detonated on a barnyard floor.  Of course, I do remember this lady named Agnes who came and cleaned the home, which could have had something to do with it.

So this got me thinking about where the images of perfection are coming from these days.  People try to urge us not to pay attention to air-brushed models and impossible standards of physical beauty in magazines.  I think perhaps the same could be said for the home environments presented on TV.  We watch an orange juice commercial and feel inadequate because our kitchens don’t look like that.  Even people who have lives that are seemingly “out of control” have all stainless steel appliances and beautiful back splashes; "Reality" TV shows are shot in million dollar mansions.

I think the show Modern Family is depressing me a little bit.  Sure it does depict some different family set-ups and tries to reflect a more diverse demographic.  But maybe it should be called “Modern Wealthy Family” or something like that.  The homes are stunning and even the one with the 3 children may be busy but immaculate.  Really, Modern Family, REALLY?

So then there is the idea that maybe we should all just let each other see our homes as they really are, and not clean for an hour before company comes over.  (Okay.  I am making it sound like I am only cleaning for an hour to seem like I have it more together than I do.  More like 3 hours.)  Anyway, I don’t think that is ever going to fly because people want to have pride in their homes.  I get that.  It’s just that I don’t know what the solution is.

Perhaps we need some more robot appliances.  Sometimes I feel like my robot vacuum is another person who has come to help me clean the house.   I could start calling her Agnes.  I need a robot duster (Shirley?) , laundry folder (Madge?) and table clearer (Robbie?)  too. 

The other invention I have thought about is called Mommy Blinders ™.  It is basically like these blinders that you would put on a horse, but moms wear them around the house so that they don’t have to see all the mess.  You can just stay focused on a miniscule part of your home without having to take in all of the additional clutter.  Wouldn’t that be great?

I’m not sure what will really solve this problem.  Sitting here typing a blog post while I drink a coffee probably won’t do the trick.  And I certainly don’t want to stop watching Modern Family, because I secretly pretend they are my funny friends.  Okay so now it’s not a secret.  What to do.  What to do.