Kid Swears

Sometimes words that we would not technically consider “swear” words sound profane when they come out of a child’s mouth.   Lately the issue with Noah has been involving the word “stupid”.

Noah has been calling everything stupid lately.  This has prompted us to say, “Who says that???” as if someone has been cursing like a sailor around our poor naïve child.   It just sounds wrong coming from him.  It’s like he is saying “That’s sh&t!” when he says “That’s stupid!”

It’s 5 year-old swearing.  I’m not sure why it bothers me because when my sister and I were around 5 and 7 we had a habit of calling each other “pig ass”.  That’s much worse.  I wonder what my mom blogged about that one.

Anyway, although it is usually somewhat distressing to hear it, last night the “stupid” word made me laugh.  Noah has had a bit of a stomach virus lately and he has not had much previous experience with diarrhea.  So, as he was sitting on the toilet sounding like that Jeff Daniels toilet scene from the movie “Dumb and Dumber”, he could be heard cursing: “This poop is STUPID!!!  It is liquid poop!  It smells STUPID!” 

 Well, ah, technically it probably smelled like that other “S” swear word.

Anyway, this prompted me to giggle outside the door and then he was yelling, “Are you laughing AT MY POOP???”  Stupid move, mommy.  Pardon my swearing.

Maybe everyone needs an equivalent to a swear word.  Sometimes saying “Oh, sugar” just doesn’t cut it.  But hopefully Noah can find something that sounds a little less derogatory.  Suggestions are welcome.

What would a pioneer woman do?

For the last couple of months, every time I find myself overwhelmed by domestic responsibilities, I think, “Hmm. What would a pioneer woman do?”  This thought makes me feel like maybe I don’t have as much work as I think I have.  For example, when it seems like a hardship to get my kids into their snow pants and out the door, I think about the pioneer woman who had to shoot something and skin it to even make snow pants. 

Snow pants were probably the least of her concerns when she didn’t even have ELECTRICITY.  Think of all of the machines that we take for granted, too.  Like the dishwasher, the washing machine, the car etc, etc…. I feel like I can’t get anything done when I have all of these aids to help me.  How would I have survived washing my clothes on rocks and (gasp!) hand washing my dishes? 

Maybe part of the problem these days is that we have too much stuff to manage.  A pioneer woman, for example, wouldn’t have the contents of an entire Early Years centre in her basement for the kids.  She would just have one of those wooden paddles with a string and a ball attached to it.  That would be the only toy.  That and maybe some apple dolls.  Not a lot to clean up.

A pioneer woman would also have some good old fashioned chores to keep her kids busy.  Chores can tire little ones out a lot faster than an episode of Dinosaur Train does, for example.  Recently I actually did a little pioneer chore experiment.  A few weeks ago I was feeling desperate to entertain my children.  So, after supper when my husband wasn’t home yet, I sent them out on the front porch to bang muddy shoes against the brick walls.  “Yes,” I thought, “This is definitely the kind of physical labour a pioneer woman would have had her kids doing.”  When my husband arrived home he pointed out that a pioneer woman probably wouldn’t have sent her kids out in the frigid temperatures in crocs, and that she probably wouldn’t have ordered a pizza for dinner.  True. 

I wonder how happy the pioneer women really were.   All of our striving for personal space and time is a luxury, when you think about it.  I bet that if your average pioneer chick were to find herself in modern society, she would have a lot of “me time” to claim for herself, even though she would be doing all of this work.

 Most of the time I feel quite content  to be a modern person.  Except maybe when I want to churn a bunch of butter, go for a ride in a covered wagon, or whack a ball around on a paddle, and then I feel just a little bit envious of my pioneer ancestors.

Crazy Hair and Fat Lips

Do you ever feel concerned that CAS may contact you because of the appearance of your kids?  Me neither.  It’s just that my kids sometimes go out into the world with that “neglected” look.    Everyone can probably relate to being caught in a public setting with a kid with a ketchupy face, or green boogers stuck to their nostrils, but my kids have some consistent issues that go slightly beyond that.  But only slightly.

With my almost 3 year-old daughter Emma it is the hair that is the problem.  She has hair that is similar to mine.  It is curly and fine, and tends to dry out quite easily.  This type of mane does not take well to the “in-between stage” that she seems to have been in for about 18 months.  It actually looks pretty crazy.

Sometimes her mop provides comedic opportunities, such as the other day when she insisted on wearing a headband around her forehead and a belly top and her hair looked like it belonged to a teased-up cougar from the eighties.    But when I am trying to accomplish a more professional look for her we run into big trouble. 

I don’t know why, but I feel like she needs to look a little bit professional to go to Nursery School, and most of the time it just ain’t happenin’.  Her hair often looks matted down in some areas and sproingy in others, all the while accomplishing that arid look.  It looks pretty trashy.  And it doesn’t help that she won’t accept barrettes or pigtails.  Wait.  That’s not true.  She will accept pig tails but she pulls them out about 10 minutes after they have been done and then parts of her hair stand in poofy balls that remind me of Princess Leia, but the scuzzy version. 

This morning I spritzed her hair and loaded it will gel and it was still a bit wet when we went into the school.  Two of her teachers complimented her, and I’m wondering if they were thinking, “Maybe her mom is not as neglectful as we thought!”   Luckily my own hair was hidden under a hat.

With my 5 year-old Noah it is the constant scrapes and bruises that make me wonder if people are judging me.  This morning I sent him to school with a fat lip.  He accomplished this yesterday by biking directly into a fence.  He also has a scar on his forehead from pushing a truck into a brick wall and needing stitches.  This scar seems to become re-aggravated on a weekly basis so that he constantly has a red bump on his head.   

I remember when he was two and he had a big bruise on his cheek, my friend who is a social worker looked at him and said, “It is extremely hard to get a bruise on the cheek”.  Not for Noah.  He has had several.  He has also scraped off a major layer of skin on his nose, bruised his ears and pierced right through his own tongue.    Right now he also has some concerning looking bruises on his back that he has some how accomplished on his own, but they make you think twice about putting him in a bathing suit.   

Luckily anyone who has known him for more than 5 minutes can see why he may be covered in scrapes and bruises.  He is just that kind of kid.  You know it has been a serious fall when he actually cries, because he is so accustomed to falling.  One time he biked right into a chain and clotheslined himself.  I waited a second, fearing the worst.  He just got up and said “Ta Da!” like he meant to do it.  He is going to give me a heart attack one of these days.

I don’t think my baby Maia looks too bad.  Generally I keep her well-clothed and puke-free.  Sometimes she has a bit of sweet potato on her eyebrow but then, don’t we all?  Maybe that will be the only neglectful looking thing about her.  Or maybe there will be something I haven’t even thought of yet.

Pretending to have a column

I love my children beyond words but sometimes I need to hide in the closet to drink a coffee, you know?   
 My intention is to reach out to other moms who might be wondering how to apply their educations while cleaning out the crevice beside the stove during nap time. ( I am making it sound like I attend to these types of cleaning duties regularly.  The last time I did this was in 2006, when my son was 9 months old.  He is now 5, and I have a 2 year-old and a 6 month-old as well.  If you come over, please don’t look in the crevice beside the oven.  I’m sure it is infested with dog hair and stray magnetic letters, to say the least.)
This week I found myself googling “feminism and housewives”, in an attempt to see if there is a solution to the classic conflict of women wanting to “have it all”.  I am home on parental leave, and intend to go back to work in about a year and a half, so I am only dabbling in the stay-at-home mom thing.  But then when I go back to work I will be dealing with another set of challenges and I wonder what the answers really are.  How do you commit to young children and still feel like you are actively engaging your intellect at the same time?  Well, one of my solutions is to write a blog.  Pretend that I am a journalist or something.  It’s either this or drinking. Kidding.  Sort of.