Bites of Pumpkinpie

From the last couple of weeks of being a three-year-old...

on turning four soon: I'm getting old, I say, I'm getting old.

at breakfast: Here's some banana for you, mommy. I ate some and I saved you the rest! (feeding me is a common theme for her - she also offers me animal crackers and so on, not to mention the many, many fake food or pretend food or mud food meals she's brought me, watching solicitously as I "eat" it. She always has. I, however, am not necessarily thrilled to be handed banana that has been gripped in her little fist. Ah, well, it's a nice gesture, I'll suck it up.)

On kisses: I don't like kisses, but I know you like to kiss me, so I let you give me three kisses.

at dinner: I'm going to eat my eye! Then pretends to scoop it out with her spoon, and closes the eye like it's gone! I laughed my ass off. The kid's a joker.

after dinner, before bath, on the toilet: I have a hundred pieces of poop in my bum and each is pushing the other to come out and they are going into a parade of poop! Again, me laughing. She cracks me up.

Walking to daycare, we spotted what looked suspiciously like mouse poop on a retaining wall she was balancing on. She insisted that no, they were chocolate eggs. Grossed out, I countered. So she told me the whole story of the bird. It laid some chocolate eggs, and the the humans came and took it away and inside and then it didn't have any baby birds inside the eggs and then the mother bird died. [Okaaay...] That's a very sad story! Poor mother bird! Did the mother bird die because her heart was broken when she was so sad her eggs were missing, Pumpkinpie? No, the humans took the NEST! Oh. You know, that's why mommy birds never leave their nest when they have eggs, so no one can take their eggs or their nest! Mmm-hmmm, but she was hungry.

Well, THAT I can understand! [What a crazy tale-spinner. She's covering every detail, here. I love it.]

Driving in the car: The CN Tower and those buildings are moving along with us!

On baths: If I take a bath two nights in a row, I will turn into a mermaid. You will have to take me to Mexico to live in the Mermaid Kingdom. (We do on occasion risk this one. We are brave, we parents.)

A selection of the Wisdom of Pumpkinpie:

Some people are one way, some people are another way. That's the way it is.

You get what you get.

Chocolate and milk go well together.

... and a bunch of other stuff I thought I had to try and remember and then couldn't. She is keeping me in stitches these days. I wish I had a tape recorder running at all times to catch some of it.

The Shape of Three: Reprise

It's been a long year, three. A year of growth and of shrinking back, of testing and pushing, of coming back together and sharing love, a year of the ups and downs of learning to be friends, a year of genderification, of telling tales and singing songs, of bossing and being bossed. It's been a long year of crucial development, and plenty of the growing pains that attend it.


It was a year marked by more struggles, more intense struggles, than we ever had over the year of two. Two was, in fact, easy, while three has been a battle waged over and over, a few weeks long, repeated every few months. A time of pushing and trying things out, of refusals to listen, of removing of privileges, of occasional threats or bribes. It has been tough at times, as she fights to establish an independence that she is not truly ready for yet, and we insist on retaining parental standards and authority. Still, the in between times have been sweet and fascinating to watch, as you become ever smarter and more girl-like, moving away from the toddler you were.


There were growing pains - like the "not your friend" epidemic that went around the class, with even her best friends telling her that at times, and her trying it out on me, much like she tried to bite me once after being bitten herself back around the 2-year mark. Equally painful for her, too, I imagine, especially when you are young, as she is. I explained to her that really, probably that friend just didn't want to play right then, but didn't know how to say that in a better way. That phase seems to have died down for now, but will no doubt rear its head again in school time and time again. Still, friend have become a big part of her life, and one morning not long ago, she counted them off to me on her fingers like jewels.

Along with this sort of testing of social bullying manoeuvres has come the bossing and the rules. Lord, the bossing. The kids boss each other, they complain about each other's bossing, they try to boss us parents, too. Which hasn't gone over well, as you might imagine. so she is learning more of the social niceties - askign nicely, waiting your turn to talk, and so on, though it is a work in progress, as children are.


There was the separation of girls and boys - she now claims to like to play with both, but most certainly she doesn't like the "big boys" in the playground, the ones who run too fast and occasionally knock over a smaller child like herself, though she is growing taller and faster and learning to hold her own better. She is also not fond of loud noises (except those of her own making, apparently), and they are, without a doubt, rowdier than she likes.


With this has come some sudden, osmotic knowledge of Disney princesses, something she never saw at home. Suddenly, she knew about them, their names, the colour of their hair, the type of dress they wear. When she started to ask me for princess stories, I would tell her my own made-up versions of the standards, sticking pretty close to the norm, but with some small tweaks here and there. Eventually, though, I began bringing home versions that I didn't mind. For Christmas, a friend got her a Disney princess tin and a calendar, which she pores over, begging me to tell her the stories of her princesses. Luckily, I know them well enough to oblige at the drop of a load of laundry. I still hold out on the movies, the Disney books, and the merchandise, but she is firmly planted in girly land these days.

She has turned, this year, into such a preschooler, a real kid with real social interaction and playdates without interventions. Often enough, we parents can let them play without much interference, sending them off when they seek an ear for tattling. They can solve it themselves, we tell them, and mostly, they can now. So mostly, it works. We've even had drop-off playtimes with a few kids from her daycare circle, capable as they are all becoming of working things out. It's a lovely thing to see them, playing together, running off hand in hand.

She has at time taken great pride in her growing - riding a two-wheeler (well, 4 with the training wheels, but a Big Girl Bike nonetheless), choosing her own clothes, and keeping dry pullups overnight until we finally pulled the pullups altogether. She still resists growing up in some areas, hangs back for the closeness of having me help her dress, the ease of using fingers, not forks, the comfort of classmates she knows well. She wasn't thrilled to give up the pullups, proud as she was of their arid state each morning, but she was ready, and we try to push a bit here and there. I will need to push her more on the dressing, but hurried mornings make it tough to fight that fight every day, and I deep down don't mind the chance to hug her close as I slip her shirt over her head. For now, we have a sort of truce at her pulling on bottoms, me helping with tops. This summer, when Misterpie has time to go over it each morning, we may move to the next step, because I know that she can.

As she has grown this year, her already impressive speech and memory have grown to where she tells me stories word for word from her storybooks, correct a word out of place in my own reading, and makes up her own tales from a notebook of scribbles. She loves to rhyme words, as I do, and the storytelling and the song-making enchant me. I am thrilled to see her loving language and playing with it as a toy and a tool. I think it might be a bit like watching myself as a child, for I was notoriously language-happy myself.

It has been, as I've said many a time, tougher than two, tougher by a long shot, and yet it is amazing to see her now, a child, not a toddler, not my baby, but growing into a child who could run in a schoolyard, ride a bicycle, and gallop off with a friend without looking out of place. A picture sits on my desk at work from last summer, a picture that now looks babyish to me, with its softer, chubbier cheeks, its shyer smile, pudgier fingers, and shorter hair. She is growing longer of limb and body, leaner of face. Her longer hair makes her look older, and her expression, often as not, earnest.

It's been a harder year often enough, to be sure, one I am in some ways happy to see the close of in hopes of less struggling, and yet it has wrought changes that catch me off guard still, at times. I know the next year will separate her even further from my sweet, pliable toddler girl, make her even more herself. I welcome it, look forward to seeing her grow and learn and become, but the gap is growing wider, and now I find myself wistful for her tiny feet, softer, pinker limbs, and sweet miniature dresses in a way that I was not this time last year.

Tomorrow, my girl turns four.

Tail of the Week

Thanks goodness the tail end of the week is coming my way, even if I have to work Saturday this week. I am tired. And also still preoccupied, though getting better. So random bits are all you're gonna get today, sorry to say.

First off? Okay, the spiders are starting to tag team me, with two in one day being not unusual. Buggers. Have started new spider count and have to update nearly every freaking day. And they appear to be fascinated with Pumpkinpie's potty, and while I don't see the appeal, quite frankly, it is making me wonder if it's sewage vessels in general, and if so, are there spiders creeping about under my bottom when I'm in there, and OMG must stop my brain because I simply cannot hold it for the next many months until spider season lets up!

And shall I start a subway seat count? A lovely lady gave me hers this morning. 4.

Which also gave me some people watching opportunity... A large man with white mutton chop sideburns and a large belly sat to my right, a T-shirt embalzoned with the saying "Don't mess with the U.S." and a hat that bore the crest of the veterans legion and the word "veteran" on its front. A tourist up from stateside, I'm guessing? He didn't look like he was from around these parts.

And once the train cleared out, a man resting on the bench opposite closed his eyes for a while, and I noticed his face. An interesting face. A face that bore some hints of Al Pacino, but longer, thinner, more sensitive. Perhaps if you imagine Al Pacino as a different sort of artist - a painter or poet, maybe - it would be close. He reminded me slightly of someone from high school, but between some tiredness in his eyes and the grey of his hair, I think he may have had a decade or more on me. Nothing amusing here, he just had a look of someone who might have a story.

And finally, when I was picking up Pumpkinpie, I started talking with one of her old teachers, from a younger room of the daycare. I always really liked Teacher T, but haven't chatted with her for some time, with Pumpkinpie in different rooms. And I have to say - I know I'm a little biased about my girl, so it's awfully nice to hear someone else say they think she's sweet and bright! And to have your parenting complimented, even if I do say that the kid has made it easy for us. Misterpie likes to believe that we set a lot of things up early that helped make it easy, and maybe that is some of it, but I really believe that kids have their own personality, too, and that she could have been wilder despite all our routines and limits and so forth. It's a nice, thought, though, that nurture might play a big role. It certainly would give me more hope of having another little sweetie, if I could have as strong a faith in it as he does! But I'm worried that lightning can't strike twice, and this is aside from any gender differences. Sigh. Yes, I'm turning into a worrywart. But how can you not worry that the second will be crazy? It's classic, right? Ah well, I'm getting better at the accepting thing already, so there's hope for me yet.

Next up, ruminations on the year of three. See you Saturday.

Bloggers=Awesome

You people are so fantastic. Truly. I laid out my ugliest, brattiest, most anti-boy-prejudiced stuff out there because I needed some help desperately, and you guys... Instead of giving me the virtual smack upside the head you justifiably could have, you told me how scared you were, too, how weird and foreign it seemed to you, too, and how okay, how well it all turned out. Not one of you, not one, took me to task, but more of you than I've ever seen before came out to tell me what you loved about your boy or to just plain tell me it would be okay, I would be okay. That you love your boys and are sure I will, too. Thank you for that. Thank you so much. I can't even tell you how I appreciate that.

I know I'll get my head around this. I'm sure it will be fine in the end. I'm just not sure how to get there, and this sort of thing - well, you're helping, though I think time and resignation will have to be what really gets me there in the end. And I have time - some four months or so - to work on the acceptance I need to find, and I think also, to mourn a bit for the fact that I wasn't ready for the end of sweet little-girlhood quite yet, but it's here before I hoped. That makes me really, very sad, there's no denying. Because Pumpkinpie, she is growing into a big girl, and I was so looking forward to filling those sweet little dresses one more time, kissing tiny dimpled knees and fingers and smoothing golden hair on one more little girl child.


Plus there's this: I have to say, you all keep telling me how boys are sweet and fun and creative and interesting and loving and, well... my mental reply keeps being that Pumpkinpie has been, is, all of those things. And mostly, as I say, except for those occasional testing periods, she has been easy. Easy-going, adaptable, and really, entirely lovely. So these arguments aren't entirely selling me on the concept, but it's nice to hear that people feel those things about their sons, because it gives me some hope that one might come close to my girl's wonderful self.

Meanwhile, I'm finding myself watching little boys in the park, looking for signs that maybe the boy world isn't as divided into rowdy brats or scrawny weenies as it seems from the outside, where there aren't boys. And I'm hoping that maybe in a neighbourhood known for left-leaning, progressive, slightly crunchy types, maybe we will be surrounded by parents who, like me aren't, for the most part, going to be cool with gunplay and bullying, and that it might be easier to find an in-between, for a nice boy to find other boys like him to play with.

I'm also hoping to find that I'm more adaptable than I give myself credit for. Because here's one more ugly, bratty fact about me: I'm a planner. A serious planner. And really, this is the first thing that deviates from the plan that I haven't been able to fix or change through waiting or taking a short detour or putting in a lot of hard work to bring it around. In my whole life, that I can recall. Gross, right? Well, things have gone "wrong," but I've always been able to wait it out or find another way or just plain make it come back around through sheer force of will or effort. And because of that, my first reaction to a setback is to try to plan my way out of it and back on course, but clearly, that is just not an option here! What the hell to do when I am stuck with a result and can't turn it my way somehow? So I'm hoping to find myself, once I absorb the shock of it, more easily swayed off course than I think, more accepting than I seem to myself right now. I know I'll get there, I have to get there, it's just a matter of how long it takes and how hard it is. To be honest, it might be good for me in the end to know there's stuff I just can't "fix." Not that I'm there yet, not by a good shot - I might count myself close when there goes by a night when Misterpie doesn't wake in the wee hours to find me sobbing - but I just want to say again - I really appreciate the help, guys, and the understanding. Thanks. So much. So much.

Oh, Boy.

I am at a loss, here, people. I don't know what to do - well , there's nothing to be done, and maybe that's part of my problem. I don't know what to say, really, that isn't awful somehow. But the bare fact is, I don't know how to stop being terribly disappointed to find a boy inside me.

It's awful, but true - I don't like boy children. I never have. Oh, I know it's not PC to say it, we're not supposed to have a preference, whatever. But I do. I really, really, do. And I don't know how to handle this, despite trying to prepare myself for the possibility. I knew it was, in abstract, a possible outcome, but really, when it comes down to it, I never really believed I'd get that roll on my turn. It wasn't in the plan. I just never could picture it. Me, with a boy.

I never had any doubt that I could love another little girl as much as I love my Pumpkinpie, who has my soul captured entirely. Heck, I fall in love with other people's little girls all the time, but never their boys. I never had any doubt about how I would parent a girl, about what I would want for her and how I would teach and guide her. And I know it shouldn't be different, in theory, but it is. I just don't know how to picture loving a little boy like this. I don't know how to parent a boy in a way that will be somehow equal, somehow fair to both, without trying to squash a boy's boyness. I don't know what I would want for a boy, a man, in the end. I can't see being the mother of a boy, a man. I just don't know how to start thinking about a boy. Especially without crying. (And how am I supposed to tell relatives next week that I'm pregnant without being visibly upset?)

I'm just not prepared for this. I'm not prepared for a child who isn't as perfectly cute and sweet as my girl - I just don't find boys cute like that, 9 times out of 10, even the ones who are cute for boys. I'm not prepared to have to wipe poo off a weird wrinkled little scrotum. When I see other moms doing that, my first thought is unfailingly, "Yuk. I hope I never have to deal with that." And how the hell am I supposed to teach a boy how to pee in a potty? I'm not prepared for that, either. And I'm not prepared for nursing a boy - it seems weird to think about having a boy at my breast, especially when Pumpkinpie never was. I don't know why, it just does. I'm not sure I'm prepared for someone who may take longer to learn all the things that came quickly and easily to my bright girl - speech, walking, potty training, which I never even had to do - as boys are famously slower than girls with this stuff. I'm not prepared to chase around a rowdy boy - honestly, I hate unbridled rowdiness, it strikes me as entirely unnecessary, but boys? Are rowdy, on the whole. Even nice boys. They're just rougher. They have big, paw-like, meaty hands, even as toddlers, so different from my girl's daintier fingers. And then they turn into tween and teen boys, which are just odious. They are yucky and awkward and ugly and smelly and messy, even the nice ones. Even Misterpie, who is an absolute gem, snores and has stinky feet and belches like a pregnant woman. I'm just not prepared for how to deal with this creature being my child. And let's face it, the few that aren't like that are the ones who get bullied around at school, and I don't want that for my child, either. In the end, I just don't know where the line is between the obnoxious boys and the weenies who are their targets, or how to walk that line as a parent, how to steer towards something I can't even put my finger on.

And Pumpkinpie. Pumpkinpie so badly wants a sister. We have told her, in abstract conversations, that parents don't get to chose, so if we had another baby, it could be a boy. She was accepting, but way underwhelmed by that possibility. How to break it to her? I so badly wanted a girl myself, I don't know how not to seem disappointed, too. I find myself feeling hopelessly envious of people with two girls right now, and irrationally wondering, "How did they DO that?" I keep looking at her, hugging her to me, my little girl, and thinking how much I wanted another one of these. I know there is not guarantee that another girl would be just like her, but it seems closer, not a whole world apart like a boy. I know people tell you how much boys love their mothers, but Pumpkinpie, she throws her arms tight around my neck, saying, "I love you so much, mommy." How can anything beat that? I just want another Pumpkinpie. How can a boy be like that? Smart, articulate, cute, sweet, and just the right size to fit in a snuggle? Could one even come close? I know, I know. I'm being silly.

And I know full well I'm probably offending some people here, but I am being brutally honest, because I need some help over here. I need a new headspace, a new perspective, a push on the way to figuring this thing out, accepting it and figuring out how to go about it. And I'm hoping you can give it to me. Anyone? You have boys? You are growing one, too, and have come to terms with that? Help me, here. Did you have these problems? How did you work through this? And oh, please, tell me I have a chance of this boy child being half as sweet as his wonderful big sister who really, is about as nice, as loving, as cute a child as I could ever hope for, barring those occasional periods of testing her limits. I know, as I say, there are never guarantees, even with another girl, but... I don't even know where to begin. Please. Tell me the good things.

When kittenpie was but a kitten...

A little while back, mad challenged everyone to posting a photo-bio. Well, as I've said before, I don't do current pictures of anyone, but I got to thinking how much I loved seeing her baby/kid pictures - so cute! So funny to both flash back to the 70s and see a blogger you know in a whole different light - sort of how we now see their kids, actually. So I thought I could at least have fun putting up some pictures of my kitten days...

My mom always said I was a happy baby...

with cheeks like Winston Churchill.

I still have the horse - Pumpkinpie rides it sometimes.
How nice to be able to give your girl a pony, even if it is a bit broken in.

My much-beloved granny. Always one of my favourite people -
you can just see how happy I am to be with her.
That rocking chair lives in my living room now,
but I rocked Pumpkinpie in it, and will the Bun, too.

I must have been not too much younger than Pumpkinpie is now in this one. I was, for the record, ambidexterous, not a leftie. I've settled on right.

This is one of those pictures in my family -
one of the classic shots of me as a kid.

Along with this one.
I think of this as being so me.

And one from high school, blurry enough to not make me nervy.
I don't look like this now, trust me!

Instead, I am redder and shorter of hair, chubbier of everything, and much more likely to wear something a few inches longer. This was, I should say, dressing up and goofing around, not everyday wear - I was way more casual, and still am.

So now I've shown you mine - can I see your baby pics, too? Pretty please?

Weekend in Review

Saturday night was fun - we didn't move locations and all, so it wasn't as crazy as I was remembering from BlogHer, but I love seeing my bloggirls, and there were more of them out than I have ever seen before! The promise of Redneck Mommy sure does bring 'em out, I'll tell you! Some of them I didn't even get to, but I did get to chat and catch up with Blue, Metro, Motherbumper, HBM, Sandra, Mimi, Mama Tulip, Crazymumma, Babbler, Lisa B.(who I had lunch with all afternoon on Friday - seriously, I got on the subway at 5!), and I know there were others who I am shamefully forgetting... It was a little loud, so my throat is feeling it, but I love me some blogger lovin', so it was good.

I would have liked to go out with everyone on Sunday, too, but when I work Saturday, I really can't give up my only weekend day to see my family and do some stuff around the house - like a whole whack of laundry, some floor scrubbing, and other glammy stuff. Damn. Totally should have gone out instead!

And! Went and got fitted for a baby sling. I didn't have one last time, but Miss Pumpkinpie didn't love the Bjorn, and I thought I'd try both this time. But wow, there are a lot out there, and the fitting charts always seemed to have me falling between sizes, so I went and sought professional help from the lovely people at the also very nice Baby On The Hip store on Queen E. that a friend recommended. So now I have this to look forward to wearing around:
I love the bright orange and aqua!

As I was on my way there, I was offered a seat on the bus, without even being obnoxious, but my maternity shirt gave me away. Really, maternity wear is so shameless! And I was fine, really, not rushed and overheated like on my morning subway rides, and said I was okay, but he insisted again, and it just seemed churlish not to sit down when someone was being so nice, and so I did. Which was nice, after all.

And Pumpkinpie demonstrated today that she knows how to spell her long, 9-letter name, and told us she would now like to learn to write it. Hmmm. Her fine motor is not great, but showing improvement lately, so maybe it could work. Ish. She has turned out a couple of awesome drawings this weekend, including this number, Girl Under a Rainbow,

as well as one of herself in bed, so detailed as to include hilariously oversized nostrils, at which I stoically did not laugh.

And finally, as I was getting dressed for that errand, Pumpkinpie saw me tugging on my maternity jeans, before I had a shirt on. They are the older, uglier style left over from my last pregnancy, with one of those stretchy panels that do nothing but highlight your big belly, necessitating covering them with a longer shirt. So she noticed this, and reached up and patted my tummy.
Pumpkinpie: Mommy, you have a big belly.
Kittenpie: Yes, I do.
PP: Why?
KP: Um, I had a REALLY big lunch. I had soup and TWO salmon sandwiches. You only had soup and one sandwich, right?
PP: Yeah, and look how big MY belly is! [sticking it out as far as it will go]
KP: Right. Not as big as mine, is it?

Um, yeah. Good thing it should only be about a week and a half before I can spill, because I'm not so thrilled about lying to my kid! We have still to decide, though - tell her before her birthday in two weeks, or hold on until after? It might be a nce thing - she has, after all, been asking to be a sister for over a year now, but then, it's her birthday, right? What you you do?

Redneck Mommy's Coming To Town

So hey, remember last July? When we went to BlogHer and had all that fun and I said it was a good thing Redneck Mommy didn't live here because she was gobs of fun but she got Sandra and Metro all wound up and it would be nonstop trouble? Well, if you live anywhere in the vicinity of Toronto, you might want to lock up your sons, daughters, and good china, because headed our way like a hurricane is that very same lady. And I use that term loosely. And when I say loosely, I mean -----
SKREE!

Ohmigod, stop her! Get her off the air! I don't care what you do instead, tell knock-knock jokes if you have to, just shut her up before we get sued or have our license pulled!

Ahem. What our newscaster, who has suddenly taken ill, was telling you is that we have breaking news of an upcoming visit to our fair city of none other than the distinguished blogger known by the ironically amusing title of "Redneck Mommy." A selection of other fine blogger will be joining her and host Sandra for a soiree to honour her visit. No doubt, an elegant and improving evening will be had by all.

Please direct any complaints about the above segment to our station manager. Thank you, and good night.

-----------------------------

OMG this is going to be nuts. I hope I make it through the night despite being dog tired and working all day, because I hate missing anything!

Lament of the Big-Bellied

I know. I know. I said this wasn't going to be all about the activity in my uterus, but the thing is - it's not restricted to the organ at all, is it? If it was only that, we could carry on easily with our lives until at least the last few months, but instead, everything, everything is taken over by the little sucubus going on in there. Some of it, well, not so pretty. If you are not interested in too much information or laughing at my expense, you may want to leave now, because I once again need to vent a bit about the less-than-pleasant parts of this business. And as most you know, little is left sacred when you are with Bun. So.

I am, generally, a fairly reserved person, unless you get me going, and even then, I do not possess crude party tricks and raunchy talents that I like to show off in public for the entertainment/ edification/ grossing out of others. It's just not me. I leave those sorts of impressive displays to, let's say, Mama T, with her alphabetical burping skillz. Normally.

But suddenly, I am blessed with the capacity for loud, rumbling belches that would make a frat boy green with envy. Even Belushi in Aminal House, you ask? Lightweight. I am not as amused, however, as I suspect he was, by my own newfound talents in this area. The upside is, it seems that only dinner really sets me up for it, so at least I can keep it at home. (Can you magine? My new handle: The Belching Librarian. Because belch is the only word that does this justice, truly. Burp just does not cover it.) Still - it means that I peak right around and just past storytime. So the charming example of proper behaviour that I am setting for my daughter includes regularly interrupting favourite read-alouds for ear-splitting passage of esophagial gas. And my sweet husband is further treated to our scant time together being peppered with resounding expressions of air. Niiiiiice. Calvin would adore me as a playmate, at least.

And if it were only that, while embarrassing and ridiculous enough, it might be livable. But of course, of course, it's not. Because, as Joy would put it, there's a mighty wind blowing. Seriously. It's so bad, I totally crop-dusted the cat last week. Poor Ginger didn't even see me coming. I may or may not have singed her whiskers a little around the edges.

To make matters even worse, air is about the only thing moving through me, if you know what I mean. This is rarely a problem in real life, but man, is it uncomfortable. Plus, it means spending more time on the throne of Damocles.

So I'm at 17 weeks, here. How much longer does this go on? Am I almost there yet?

It's Your Thang - Do What You Wanna Do

A while back, Mouse commented that my job seemed to be a calling - like I couldn't but recommend children's books. It's the truth. I hate seeing lost people in the children's section of a bookstore - I am compelled to help them find something good.

In fact, I think people who follow a passion into a profession might find this freuqently - my sister, a stylist and fashion girl, on occasion finds herself helping out fellow shoppers, like one lady in Winners who was the recipient of her professional advice. Like Sisterpie's boyfriend, a chef, who had some trouble staying out of the cooking business over Christmas, though he was hoping to. Like Jana, who passed me a Lily Allen CD after a enjoyed hers. And Metro, recommending books all the time.

The truth is, I can't help it, and I bet none of them can, either. You have a passion, you want to share it. I wasn't really being slippery and dodging the questions when Mad asked me what me favourite read for 4-year-olds was. I just can't stop at one, is all. I'd hate for someone to miss out on something great.

When I stayed home with Pumpkinpie for my year, I was immersed and entirely consumed by the challenge of keeping up with the tiny little naps she took and the pumping and the diapers and the feeding and the walks and the night wakings and the everything, everything that comes with new babies for the first ten months, until it started to calm down as she grew a bit more scheduled, a bit more independent, and our days got easier, less of a grind. And I noticed, as I was able to start raising my head for breath now and then, that I was missing my work at the library.

It is part of who I am. Oh, I read plenty of stories to my own child, but it's just not the same as engaging a full room full of kindergartners. Talking to other moms in the park, I am not in my element, but at work, I am in a defined position, and giving advice on reading is not only accepted without being weird, it's my job.

So when Marla asked me, in the same series of questions, what I would tell someone who was considering my job? Well, I would tell them that they should follow the thing that makes them tick. If it's libraries, they'll know it when they try working in one, and when they cross the threshold of library school, it will become a sure thing. I was amazed and delighted by library school. It was full of people just like me. As I've said many times before, it was like the mother ship had come for me. I'd bet that other people have felt the same way in a crowd of people who live for the same thing - other music buffs for Jana, other fahionistas for my sister, other foodies for her boyfriend. I bet Metro's feeling a bit of that, too, at both school and work.

It stuck with me, what Mouse said about callings, and I keep thinking how right she is, and how lucky I am. Because no matter how it may drive me bonkers at certain times, there's no where else I'd rather find myself at work, at least 3/4 of the time - which I think is a pretty good ratio for any job. Passion? Hell, it's come creeping over into my hobbies, too... I just can't help myself.

Good thing I have those MBT - er, make that Better Than a Playdate - girls to help keep me busy! And while I'm at it - go check out the new site and spread some love. They've worked hard on it, and I am loving the new look.

Meet the Author

I've been reading a new author - a grownup author! Not really a new author, but one I just discovered last month while researching for a column on New Yorker authors for MBT. An author of short pieces and columns and books made up of anecdotes, mostly.


Calvin Trillin is, I suppose you might say, a humourist, but not in the broad, hardy-har sense that the name implies. Instead, he has perfected a humour that I can't describe without thinking it sounds like a nice white wine - dry, light, mature, with a slightly sweet and refreshing taste to it, never the bitterness you can find in some. He writes about lots of things - travel, food, his family, politics, things he's noticed in newspaper articles. I started out by reading a book about his late wife, then moved into a book about traveling with his family over the years, and am just now polishing off a second book of collected columns. And looking forward to the stash of more of his work sitting in my book box. So far, not one wrong note, just enjoyable, wry observations.


What I am also noting is that I quite like him. He's a touch old-fashioned, perhaps, certainly at least a generation older than I, if not a bit more, but he doesn't fall into the curmudgeonly role that some older men take on in their commentary. (Rooney, I'm looking at you, mister! Oh, and Don Cherry? Yeah, you too.) Instead, he often comes across as bemused, a simple-ish man in spite of his obviously intelligence and wide travels. I actually highly recommend him for a little light reading.



But his books also opened another question for me. Where was his author photo? We make, upon meeting someone face to face, certain judgments about that person and their personality. I find that someone with an open face draws me in immediately - I like that person before I know why, or if I'm right. On the flip side, i've noticed people with a thinner mouth,. for example, tend to look pinched, stressed, angry, or aggressive in a way that puts me off immediately. Michael Douglas is a prime example of this. with a fuller lip, he might be handsome, but instead, he looks mean to my eye. (God I wish I had some photoshop skillz so I could test that theory.) So I am sort of left curious - what does this person look like? Would I like him right away if I met him? But I haven't seen an author photo.


It's interesting to me, the business of author photos. Because of course, authors take on a certain persona in writing, even more so in the sort of writing Trillin does than in, say, a novel. But in posing for a studied photo, an author is making a definite decision about how s/he wants to appear, what s/he wants people to think about him or her. And it often makes me wonder why they want to appear in certain ways, for many of them are contrived to the point of the absurd. I am, for example, as suspicious of authors in tweedy jackets or carrying pipes as I am of professors with elbow patches - they seem to be playing a role that shows how they envision themselves as Author, rather than beign who they are. It seems pretentious in the extreme. Same goes for authors posing in bomber jackets in front of airplanes, white scarf flying the the breeeze. Okay, we get that you want to be seen as some sort of wild adventurer, independent and daring. I've seen that one more than once, rolled my eyes each time.


Even someone who doesn't seem to have some sort of fantasy they are playing out or persona they are putting on is making some decisions. I recall Rebecca of GGC talking about how she came to include her son Archer in the author photo for her book - out next Tuesday, by the way - that is about her experience in becoming his mother. And her finding it hard to select what to wear. Because you know, the book is about finding your way as a free spirited mother - someone who was wilder, and is trying to navigate the way to being a mother without losing yourself. Well, what do you wear for that? You don't want to be too crazy, because you've matured into motherhood a bit, and don't want to turn off people who see style as at odds with motherhood, nor do you want to be too "mom" when you are talking about not being sucked into the soccer mom role, but retaining a good bit of your own edge. How are you going to work that line? She noted, herself, that posing was tough, because she wanted to look herself, not like someone trying to look like someone they thought they should look like. Well, exactly, I thought.


But then what to make of an author who seems to have decided not to take it on at all? What to think about that? Is he modest? Ugly? Hoping not to put off any one demographic, since as a columnist he is better off the more people he appeals to? It's left me pondering about what he looks like in my mind's eye - and I think he's coming off as an older, bespectacled fellow with greying hair, a man of medium to light build, a man who would wear a cardigan or sports jacket over his buttoned shirt, even at home. A family man who would wear slippers as he read the newspaper, and a robe over his pajamas. Fairly mild-mannered, but always with an dry observation or an amusing tale to share. A hit among his friends, the perhaps quiet at a party. Someone quietly handsome, but not too dashing who might be played by a Jimmy Stewart or Cary Grant later in his career when looking for more subtle work, I think, a character they could downplay. In fact, something of a caricature of a mild-mannered fellow at home in the late fifties, early sixties, when things were just a bit more formal - exactly the sort of father you'd expect to see on a TV show of that era, in fact.


But then again, I may be wrong.

Curiosity Damn Near Killed The Kitten(pie)

Our house, being an old house, is full of strange mysteries. In tearing down the walls in the fabled third floor reno, for example, we found both gas pipes for lighting and knob-and-tube wiring for electricity. Both apparently original, buried behind layers of old plaster and lathe. Why both? Good question, no apparent answer.

Well, here's another one. Directly above the toilet in our tiny bathroom is this:


A sort of hole, leading to I know not where. Our speculation is that it might have been some sort of venting, or perhaps was the outlet for the chimney of a water heater or a tiny stove that heated the bathroom? There is a spot on a wall downstairs that looks like a pie pan plastered onto the wall over what was likely a stove chimney outlet, so that's possible. But whatever it is, it is, as I say, situated above the head of the person using the upstairs facilities at our house.

Which is why I should never have looked up the other night when I was balanced atop the toilet seat, reaching into the medicine chest that sits on top of a tall cabinet, out of reach of small hands (and nearly out of reach of my own). I was going for my night-time dose of Diclectin, but nearly needed a valium, too, after I spotted this:


Can you see it? The webbing up in that dark hole? An evil lair, if ever there was one, no? And those of you who have been pregnant will remember how very much time you spend toilet-bound in that state. It's only a matter of time before the next bathroom arachnid attack, I tell you. Only a matter of time.

Lucky Lady

I have been, I must admit, a bit buried in my own misery lately, with my head up my own arse. This winter has been long and dragging and without warm spells to break it up, without even very many sunny days to help lift the mood. Winter always brings me down a bit, but this year has been worse. And of course, the tiredness and the sickness that grind you down, week after week make it tough to accentuate the positive, no matter how much of a lovely sunbeam you normally are. So truth be told, I haven't felt much like myself.

But then, this past week or two, there have been hints that spring is around the corner - the snow is receding, we had a warmer, rainy day yesterday, there have been a couple of days that have been brighter, if chillier, and I have taken the chance here and there when I can to soak up those few rays on my face - it feels good, and gives me hope I can hold on a little longer, knowing that spring is getting ready, just around the corner.

The sickness, too, is not gone or even going fast, but is off and on, leaving me with moments of feeling more like myself, despite the newfound feeling of being pregnant as my belly fills up with baby and things begin to stretch.

The irritability that had me hating the company of my own head last month has passed, and while I am not always a model of the patience I'd like to have, between that and Pumpkinpie's latest testing phase passing over, she and I are in a better palce together.

And this morning. This morning, after I dropped her off, I had a little time, even if I factored in the blood test I had to get before heading to work. I had a little time to sit and read with a cup of tea at a coffee shop before I went to go and let someone slip a needle in my arm, and I took it.

I ordered up the cup of English Breakfast tea that has replaced coffee most days now, squeezed between crowded tables to a bar that ran along the window, hoisted myself onto a seat, and shuffled it forward to rest my elbows on the long table before me. I sat, opened my book, popped the top from my too-hot tea, and looked out at the street as the sun beat through the window. Like a cat, I felt the sun warm me, streaming through glass, bouncing off my light blue shirt, running caressing finger of gold over my cheeks, and pinching my eyes a little shut against its comforting brightness. It soothed me, made it unnecessary to bury myself in a book, when I could simply bask a little, feel a touch more like the me I prefer to be. I rarely go to this coffee shop, preferring another, and it gave me a new view on the street that I walk every day. I watched as I soaked, and really looked at the section of road, the stretch of two- and three-storey buildings that line the street, shops below, apartments above, and though how lucky I was.

How lucky to live in an area I love with every part of my being, that is as much a part of me as any person, that has been part of my surroundings and my life since I was a mere five years old. Lucky.

Lucky to have the time to stop and enjoy the sun on an otherwise busy day with a warm cup of tea in my hand, book before me. Lucky.

Lucky to have a child who walked to daycare happily, hugged me tightly, then scampered into her room to play with her friend without another backward glance. Lucky to have a daycare I love that is also convenient. Lucky to have made some parent friends there whose children and mine get along so well. Lucky to have had a morning with time for walking, even if I was hurrying her along a little more than I like to when I have time, because it was chilly.

In so many ways, lucky. And most of all, so happy, so lucky, to be feeling it again.

7:00 am Fashion Emergency

Heard in my bedroom at 7...

Misterpie: kittenpie!
Kittenpie: Whuh?
MP: Is it Tuesday?
KP: Un-hunh.
MP: It's 7:00!
KP: censored due to adult language

Half an hour late, he woke me, having slept in himself.
At a time when every morning is a fashion crisis about trying to dress around my growing belly without looking like a pregnant person. Luckily, he helped with Pumpkinpie while I dealt with my closet situation.

Oh, it's not just that I'm vain. It's that I work in a newer location with people I don't know that well, so I've decided I don't want to tell everyone until I'm sure it's a go, and all the testing is passed. I know some of you will think I'm crazy for that, for still keeping it on the DL at 16 weeks, but here's the thing - in my old branch, with staff I know and love, I would have told them a few weeks ago, but now, I have a few weeks to go - about three, if tests all turn out okay - before I want to go public. We haven't told family yet, either, just some friends. Basically, we're following that old advice about only telling the people you'd be willing to share bad news with, too.

Which means trying to balance some maternity clothes that aren't too obvious with some normal clothes that are a little looser to create something that just looks a little pudgy. It's a pain, but hopefully Misterpie will be able to pick up my blouses at the cleaners' tonight and get me through another few weeks until I can give over to what are unquestionably maternity clothes. Which will be a bit of a relief, in some ways.

My success rate, however, is debatable, and depends on the day. We went to dinner for easter, and I wore a dress. On returning home, I looked at myself in the mirror and asked Misterpie, "Do I look pregnant in this? You can be honest, here." (I always feed him the acceptable negative answer, ie. "or not so flattering" because I want an answer that is honest and that I can live with - it's a policy of mine not to make him feel like it's a trap or set either of us up for being grumpy about my occasional need for an opinion.) The answer - yes. Usually, a looser button-up shirt is good disguise, and doesn't look like much is going on. I asked Misterpie the same question this morning before I left, but he thought I could pass.

I happily left the house a short, flippy jersey skirt and a Tshirt with a little cardigan over it - it's warmer today! I stepped onto a crowded subway, and let my belly out a little, since no one from work was around and I would have to stand a few stops until Yonge Street. Apparently out is getting more, well, out, because one observant and sweet young lady offered me her seat. I took it, gratefully, because I was feeling less than stellar after bolting out of bed and rushing through the morning. I'm hoping it was my attention-getting rainboots that drew her eye in the first place, but there it is. My first subway seat. Which half of me is highly appreciative of, and half of me is dismayed about.