The Old Pumpkinpie-in-your-face Joke

Pumpkinpie has always been a silly kid, a ham without a doubt, but some days, she is just ridiculous. These are all from one hour block last weekend. I kid you not. She was like a coked-up monkey with ADHD.

- In the process of getting dressed she is found at one point in my room at the end of my bed, holding one foot up in the air with her hand and hopping up and down on the other as if springloaded. Did I mention she was stark naked? Stark raving naked, more like.

- Soon after, clad on the bottom half only, she tells me she can make dolphin noises (which she does), and that she can swim like a dolphin. She throws herself on the ground, tucking arms under torso and pushing up on elbows and knees to wriggle across the floor. What? I say, Dolphins don't even have arms, silly. In response, she stuck her hands out to the side and began flapping them like flippers. And then I died laughing.

- A song was playing on her "radio." I can wiggle my fingers, I can wiggle my toes, I can wiggle my elbows, and eeeven my nose... Pumpkinpie says to me, as I make her morning oatmeal, Wanna see me wiggle? I have to laugh. Are you kidding me? I ask. I know you can wiggle! You are wigglier than a bag of snakes! To which she proceeds to tell me about the time she saw a snake juggling five cakes. No kidding. I call her on that - her tales are growing wilder every day, and girl does not know when to bail out of it, either. I point out that snakes have no arms or legs with which to juggle even one item. Never one to admit defeat, she thinks fast. Well, it was... it was in a semi-circle, and it was, um, it was juggling with its tail and its head!

All at top volume, too. As she nears age five, she seems to have lost the ability to moderate her decibel level. Makes me understand now why Dora the Explorer's mother throws her out of the house to go play in the jungle - that kid shouts all the time, too. Though I still think it would have to have been a pretty bad day to tell her to go find a nice friendly bull to play with...

Proof Positive

Last Saturday night a whole bunch of us Toronto bloggy peeps went to go see one of our own - the fabulous NoMo - in a play at a local theatre. The play was Proof, by David Auburn. Yes, the same one that was made into a movie with Gwyneth Paltrow a few years back, which was big enough that you can't ignore it when you talk about the play now, but which I didn't see - more about that later.

The theatre is a lovely little theatre that I should be embarrassed to admit I didn't even know was 5 minutes from my house - in the summer, I could walk it - and the set was well done - simple, yet full of detail that made it feel exactly like the back yard of a slightly neglected house. The overall feel of the set and the size of the room was intimate, yet not so close as to take away the remove from the play itself.

When the play started, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the acting. I have often found stage acting to be a bit... large, perhaps? I get that it's a different thing than film acting, which asks for much subtler nuance, but I sometimes feel it gets overplayed instead. In this case, I found the actors perfectly pitched to the size of the room. Enough that everyone was getting the effect, but not so much that it seemed overdone to people closer to the front. I bought the actors completely, my only hesitation coming in the first moments of NoMo's performance because I was seeing her as her in the moments before she started speaking, and her character's brusque manner is at odds with her own, but that quickly fell away as the character drew me in.

The play is a funny one at the same time as being tragic in aspects - I literally both laughed and cried. The jokes worked well, the earnestness of the math student Hal came through as a puppyish eagerness that made it seem like he didn't know most of it was funny, which only added. The comments about the crazy partying mathematicians made me laugh and comment to Blog Chocolate next to me that it sounded just like librarians.

The tragic moments were the thing that had made me avoid the movie when it came out. I wasn't ready to see something about mental illness, especially not in a parent. I'm not sure I would choose to now either, if it weren't for NoMo starring in it, but I know I've come a ways, so I figured I could take it. So yes, I choked up pretty hard when the father's brain failed him, I felt the daughter's pain and sorrow, but this is part of what made it great. That juxtaposed with the laughter made for good balance. Plus, I knew that the ladies I was with knew the backstory and would understand if I was a mess for a bit, but it was good, the balance, so I was fine, which I think speaks to the playwright's skill as much as anything.

I came away feeling impressed. With the set, with the lovely little theatre, with the acting, and with the play itself. I might even be curious enough to see the movie some time, but then, why ruin a good thing?

If you'd like to be impressed, too, go see it. The East Side Players are performing Proof at the Papermill Theatre at Todmorden Mills until March 7th.

Right-Hand Man

I have read posts around the blogworld previously about how the notion of a "push present" is anti-feminist, an anachronism, a throwback to the days when dads didn't have to do a thing but pace in the waiting room, hand out cigars, and maybe keep a photo on his desk at work. I didn't agree when I read it, and I still don't, but not just because I am happy to get some jewels.

First off, I do quibble with the term "push present." It's not just about the pushing, and I don't say that just because I didn't end up doing any of that. (Which Misterpie noted one day when he thought I was making reference to pushing instead of the bit of fetus-inflicted damage to which I was actually making reference. - No really, he did. Oh yes, he did. Foolish man.) To my mind, push present suggests that it is a sort of payment or carrot to get the woman to do the pushing, and well, we all know how untrue that is, right? Not to mention that some woman have pretty easy deliveries, others really hard ones, so if it was about that, well, you see how that might be problematic, right?

But I will agree with part of that notion - the fact that it is in part a thanks, and an acknowledgement. A thanks for performing something that takes a lot out of a woman, something that even in the easiest of pregnancies and births inflicts a lot of physical strain and emotional ups and downs on a woman, and thanks also for doing it for the benefit of both parents, as a family. Having a child is something that ideally in a family situation was agreed upon by both parents, whether the agreement came before the pregnancy in the form of planning or afterwards, when the pair decide to go ahead and make a go of it. So it is something that they will both be a part of in the end, but since the mother bears the work of creating the baby, I think a little thanks is not out of place here. It is, I think, also an acknowledgement that no matter how involved, no matter how sympathetic or understanding or supportive your partner, unless they are a mother too and have already borne a child, they have no real access to what's going on, and even if they are, their ability to really help is severely limited. So yes, I think I nice thanks is appreciated, at least by me.

The other thing is that I see the mother's gift as not so much just a little thanks, but also a really nice way to mark something special, a wonderful occasion that occurs only a few times in a parent's life. So when I think of these gifts, I'm not thinking of something that she'll have for just a short time - not this year's it bag, for example, or a pair of shoes she's been eyeing. For me, it's got to be something she'll keep forever, see daily, and pass on to her children.

My mother, when I was born, was poor as a mite, but my father made a point to buy her a really nice, good-quality rocking chair. That rocker moved with her many, many times in her transient younger life, a time during which many things were left behind, but not that chair. She rocked me in it, rocked my sister in it, and when I was ready to have children of my own, she gave it to me to rock them in. In it, I rocked Pumpkinpie in the dark many a night, willing her back to sleep. It now sits in the Bun's nursery, waiting for him to move in when it is finished - any time, now. That piece of furniture is special, and a wonderful gift for her and for me. A perfect baby gift.

For me, it's about jewelry. Something I will wear each day that has meaning. Like a baby ring - in fact, for the Bun's birth, I asked for a sapphire and diamond band, as my children were born in April (diamond) and September (sapphire). Something I'll wear every day, something that tangibly represents them, something precious, and something that I will pass down.

So push present? Not so much. A mother's gift, a milestone marker, a celebration, a thanks. All those things. And I don't think any of those are anti-feminist. So Misterpie decorating my right hand? I'm right on it.

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It is also, I should note, the third anniversary of this lil ole blog o' mine.
And if that isn't cause for celebration, what is?

It has, after all, been a great thing for me. A fun place to write about things, to make observations, to work out things that have been bothering me, to talk about parenting issues, to vent or express pleasure, to talk about my kids without boring the non-parents in my life. It's also been my own little seat in the blogosphere, a place where I've made some good friends these past few years.

I've loved having this place, and I just want to make sure to tell you all how much I appreciate you being a part of it, and being a part of your online world, too.

Much bloggy love to you all!

Spring: A Reverie in Brown

I've been thinking about spring since the new year. It has been the pinpoint of light at the end of the long, dark tunnel of winter - but this past week's thaw has brought it into clearer focus. With that, it has gone from faint glimmer of hope to a source of frequent daydreams.

Oh, I love fall, too. I love her crisp, clean air, the anticipation of new things that still remains etched in my subconscious from years of following the cycles of the school year, the wood smoke in the air, and the colours in the trees. I love breaking out cozy sweaters and feeling refreshed after the steamier days of summer. I do love fall.

But spring... spring is like hearing your lover is coming back to town after a long, lonely dry spell. It really is my favourite, the feeling it brings me. Even the earliest signs of spring, with the parting of snowbanks to reveal brown muck and the long-forgotten detritus of last year, bring me a joy, a leavening of the soul that cannot be matched.

So spring - I know you are still a ways off, I am not deluded by the little break I've been enjoying - but I am reminded, as if you have visited me in a dream, and now I can't shake the ghost of that feeling that has taken root in my mind. I'm waiting, spring.

You Might Be A Redneck If Your Child Is A Toothless Wonder

When Pumpkinpie was a baby, she began to drool, as babies do, and chew on everything in sight, also a very baby trait. This started at about 3.5 months. Wow, I thought. Teeth already? My mom said I got my first tooth about 4 months, though, and they tell you it's hereditary, so maybe.

Flash forward to about 9 months. No teeth.

I literally asked my doctor, at our next checkup, "Is she going to get teeth, or have my Iowa relatives passed along some sort of recessive hillbilly gene?"

Yep, I thought I might be a redneck, too.

Of course, there is no redneck like Tanis is a redneck - silly of me to even think myself in the same league, even if I did spend last summer with a tarp for a door and a hole for a window. Pumpkinpie did, after all, sprout some teeth eventually.

And the mommy part of the equation? Well, I may be a mommy, even a new mother, but not as new as Tanis, who just brought home her double X large bundle of joy this week. (and you know you're a redneck when you don't even notice you're pregnant until the kid arrives!) Go by and congratulate her!

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This post is written for Tanis' redneck baby shower. Want to join in?
Go check out the how-to's.

Reprieve

This past week, we had a little break from winter, a lifting of temperatures for about five days that brought with it a corresponding lift in my spirits. Winter here is beautiful, I can't deny it, but it is cold and it is long, and it is arduous when you are trying to trudge through the snow or force a stroller through it and over uneven mounds of built up snow and ice at street corners. so I was tired, so very tired of it. The winter blahs were starting to set in, hard. I was counting days until spring, which really doesn't come in earnest until partway into April.

So this week was like a little gift. A spring break before spring has arrived, a week of coming out of deep hibernation. A week when the temperatures allowed for nice long walks with the stroller, and feeling like I could stretch my legs a bit before returning to my den to hunker down for another couple of months. Because yes, winter returns after a little reprieve like that, it always does, and I know it, but that short few days restores my spirits so much, allowing me to refill my inner pantry with hope and sunshine to last until real spring is here.

So thanks, Mother Nature. Thanks for giving me that little respite. It's really helped. So winter? Now you can go ahead and carry on as you were, if you must. I understand, I really do. And now I'm prepared for another bout. Still, spring? You come on out whenever you're ready, m'kay?

She Really is Unbelievable

I don't make it a practice to bitch about my mother a lot, in general, but she's just too bloody much lately. Seriously. First it's the colic comment. And the calling me every fucking day all of a sudden. And then last weekend.

We were meant to go out for a little party for my sister, but fate took a turn, and we all ended up having a quick spur-of-the-moment meetup at my mom's house, instead. Which usually spells disaster, but I was ready to go along and give it a shot. And truly, this time it wasn't a hit parade of horrors, but it's just... she's so damn clueless.

Unprepared for us, she served us a very strange sour fruity purple tea, which you know, she wasn't expecting us to be coming, so whatevs. But then I catch her getting Pumpkinpie to carry a spoonful of it from the table towards where my mom is sitting. I ask what's going on. She is planning to spoon some tea into The Bun's mouth. The Bun is five months old, and subsisting still on milk alone, as he ought. Some nasty, sour, herbal concoction? Um, NO. I remember her trying to give pumpkinpe a piece of a vietnamese summer roll once when she was way too young for real food, too. Gah.

But then, this is where my suspicion of her sense proves spot on. She and Pumpkinpie disappeared around the corner. I moved chairs so I could keep an eye on what they were up to. I know. Totally shouldn't have to do that, right? But here's the thing - next thing I know, she's trying to gt Pumpkinpie to skip rope. On the hardwood floor, in socks. We've been here before - this is the exact same scenario that prompted a chain of catastrophes at Christmas two years ago at her house, when Pumpkinpie's feet slipped out from under her on that same floor while my mother tried to induce her to skip rope. I'm not even joking - not one bit.

What would you do at that point? I totally lit into her. I really did. This is exactly what I'm talking about, I told her. You just don't think. You've even SEEN the consequences of this one before, and you STILL don't think it through. I told Pumpkinpie that if she wanted to try with her shoes on so she wouldn't slip, she could, but I sat gobsmacked and fuming.

I should not have to watch my child like a hawk when she's around my mother who has a genuinely good heart and wants nothing more than to spend some time with Pumpkinpie and have fun with her. I shouldn't have to worry that she's going to hurt my child just by sheer virtue of being clueless. I shouldn't have to tell her flat out that she won't be babysitting her grandchildren until they are old enough to make their own good choices in the face of her inability to consider things with regard to what might happen or to the dictates of plain good sense.

It just all makes me feel guilty at being suspicious of her, aghast at the fact that I'm right to be, sad that she can't just enjoy her grandchildren and that they are likely never to enjoy her because she's too weird and because they will be able to see that I can't trust her, and angry. Angry that it seems like she's not even trying. Angry that she didn't use to be this way, that my mother will always be the freaky grandmother, not the nice, fun one. Angry that I'm put in the position of having to hurt her feelings in order to take care of my own children because she just. doesn't. get. it. It's frustrating, it really is, and I don't know what else I can do. I've come to dread and hate any time that we can't avoid going to my mother's house, and I hate that, too.

But really. Who feeds tea to a baby? We're not even British.

Ads Value?

I often wonder about advertisements - television advertisements I'm talking about, here. How well do they work for actually selling things or attracting buyers to a brand? I mean, obviously they work, or they wouldn't be a huge industry. What I mean is, how well do they work on me? They must, I am not some special wonder being resistant to all outside influences - no island am I, but it sometimes seems to me that I can't remember the crucial information that they would be designed to impart.

I frequently vaguely remember the premise or a visual from an ad, for example, but often I don't remember even the type of product it was for, or in almost every case, the brand it was advertising. I suppose they are hoping that once in front of the available options, the visual will be buried in there somewhere, and steer me towards it? But I am pretty brand loyal to the things that I have come to prefer, while in other cases, it's sheerly about price.

I mentioned this to misterpie the other day in reference to yogurt ads that have been on for some time now. There are a few different brands of yogurt promoting probiotics cultures in their yogurts. They seems to each have designed some specific culture with a specific result in mind, and named it accordingly. Not that I remember which is which. But to confuse the issue even further, all of them (2 or 3 or 4, however many) seem to have chosen yellow nad green to represent this active culture varietal. One brand shows it as an orbit around the model's midsection, another with dots in an arrow configuration, another with a belly dancing middle superimposed, and I think there might be another doing something else. So if I get to the store, I'm going to see several yogurts, each wtih the same markings on them. How does this help them? and as Misterpie put it in response: "I have no brand loyalty to yogurt. I buy what's on sale. $2.99 is my brand."

Perhaps it's because what is advertised is mostly things I'm not in the market for anyhow. Perhaps if I were going to buy a car, I would pay more attention to car ads, or if I decided to try foundation, the ads for various makeup companies might catch my attention a little more. I might take note if something sounded worth trying.

I am sure, as I say, that ads must work, and even work on me, though I don't see myself changing my buying patterns. I will say, in fact, that I notice myself noticing print ads in magazines more than television ads, as I can pore over the image or read the blurbies and decide if I like what I'm seeing/reading. Perhaps I'm just a girl who needs to take my time. I don't know. and I would also add that I think the marketing in-store in terms of shelf position and specials affect my buying once I'm there. That is a science I am definitely impacted by.

How about you? Do you remember television ads, or look to buy something you saw on tv? Do print ads sway you? I think ads themselves are rather fascinating, in terms of trends and ideas you see used over and over. Do you watch them, or flick / fast-forward? I'm curious about this, as I've been watching and forgetting them for years, wondering about how well they really stick in people's brains.

Dead Bugs To The Rescue!

My friend is quite conflicted, quite unsure about vaccines. Me, I have questions, to be certain. I question some of the additives/preservatives used, for example. Just because we don't have mercury in our shots, it doesn't mean that everything is all safety and perfection, you know? I have done my reading and so on, though, and in the end, I remain, on the whole, pro-vaccine.

Not just from a public health standpoint, either, though I do believe that is important. Though I am a bit wary of the MMR in particular, I still would not want my child to contract the many awful diseases we immunize for, either. I mean, it is easy enough for us, who have grown up in a world without polio and smallpox (Have you ever read about the horrors of smallpox? Truly disturbing.), to question the need and the benefit, but our rates of childhood death and the number of diseases contracted that leave lasting effects are nearly negligible these days.

Opapie, on the other hand, had polio as a child. I would never want my child to go through what he did, and he got off comparatively lightly, spending months in a sanitorium, then coming home with a slighty withered limb. You would not necessarily notice it now - his body adaptedt o it to such extent that he has just the barest hint of a limp, a sort of rolling gait. But I wonder about his old age, and if it will get worse as his physical being begins to degenerate somewhat as it does with time, and about his childhood, and what pain, what teasing, what frustration he went through.

Even down to the smaller illnesses, which can effect the very young badly. This week, our family was hit hard with a nasty stomach bug. First Pumpkinpie went down, vomiting in her sleep and continuing to purge anything she ate for a good 24 hours, then lying, wrung out, for another full day as she recovered. I've never seen her so sick for so long. Misterpie fell prey on the night of day 2, grey as a ghost and drained from emptying out his own system. I was nauseous for those two days, but not until day three did I start to lose it, mostly from my lower half, until the night of day three, when I vomited so hard my throat still burned from the acid the next night. Yes, we were a right mess. (I remain exhausted and can still feel every lymph node in my body aching from fighting this thing, it was such a vile one.)

And The Bun? He has had two out of three doses of a vaccine for rotavirus, one of the most common culprits for really evil gastrointestinal nasties like this. He hasn't shown one sign of illness, so I can only assume that was the particular germ to blame. Given that I (who am generally not one to panic about health issues) was at one point so worried about dehydration that I considered going to the hospital when I was losing more fluid than I could take in, I am more than glad that his wee body, sturdy though it is for 4 months, did not have to try to weather this out. No, he puked on me a couple of times, but no more than babies normally do, and the roses in his cheeks showed no sign of fading, his face retained its smiles. Huge relief, is what that is. I had pondered that vaccine, too, wondered if he really needed another medication, one for a vaccine most kids get at some point and get through okay. Now? SO glad we took it. I can't imagine what a virus this awful would have done with one his size and without the more developed immune system of an adult or at the least, a seasoned daycare kid.

So yes, I will be asking my doctor her opinion about the MMR at our next visit before the time comes for it, but on the whole, I am grateful for most vaccines. This week just brought it home to me nicely once again.

And now, I must go nap some more. Five days of eating little, expelling lots, and feeding a baby who eats about 36 oz. a day have left me simply a shell, and tomorrow I've got to get back to routine. Wish me luck.