Dangerous Bathing: Not just for Seniors Anymore.

Soooo... I've hurt my neck.  And the worst part is that I hurt it IN THE BATH.  Generally only seniors hurt themselves in the bath.  And when they hurt themselves it's often because of a fall.  I hurt myself because I was in there TOO LONG.  In the evening I like to take a break from mothering by hiding in the bath.  If it has been one of those days in which I've had to demonstrate more than my normal exemplary level of patience, I try to shirk responsibility for as long as humanly possible.  Because we are renters in our home, our tub is the cheapest and most uncomfortable one imaginable, jamming my neck vertebrae and causing weeks of pain.  And whining, obviously.

Due to my dogged pursuit of relaxation, this is in fact the second time this has happened this month.  That's pathetic.  The pain would almost be easier to bear if it had a good story to go with it.  For example, I blew my knee out playing rugby.  But I hurt my neck laying immobile in a foot of water.  Unless you ask my parents, at least the rugby was worthwhile.  Sort of.

The physio says that these things likely happen because I still have pregnancy hormones coursing through my body, making everything loosey goosey.  PREGNANCY hormones.  From ANN.  Ann is TWO and a HALF.  So- to summarize- when Ann was born I got a lifetime of joy, breasts that sit a couple of inches lower than I'd prefer, and an inability to bathe, never mind run or play sports.

I suppose that seems fair.

*UPDATED* My father has pointed out that he is a senior and has never hurt himself in the bath.  I think he's offended that I put him and his peers (other seniors) into the 'old and doddery' category.  Apparently you're not in that category until you're 75.  So, I take it back.  I apologize if I offended your parents too.

Heckler in a House of God. AKA Merry Christmas!

The Christmas season is upon us.  Particularly at our house, where I may be unemployed, but this just gives me the opportunity to be awesome at Christmas.  I win, Christmas!  This year is especially fun, as Ann gets it.  Specifically, she recognizes the personal impact it will have.  Every time we see a picture of Santa with his sleigh, she tells me "Those are MY presents!".  When we see him in person, she yells "Santa!  Where my presents?" and then she accosts him for candy canes.

I appreciate the candy cane, but no touching please.

Of course, Christmas is also an extremely religious time, and it seeps into the lives of even the most secular of us.  Ann is into it like a dirty shirt (an expression I don't actually understand).  The Christmas story includes her favourite things: babies, mommies and occasionally baby goats and baby sheep.  She was given a playmobile nativity as a gift (Oh Playmobile- is there anything you can't do?) and now talks fairly non-stop about her Baby Jesus and Jesus's mommy, the Virgin Mary, which she pronounces to the best of her ability.  Or sometimes she gets words with hard 'G' sounds confused and calls her the Vagina Mary, which I don't think the Catholics would appreciate.   Surprisingly, given her obsession with the nuclear family, she's unsure about who Joseph is.  Thanks to the sexually ambiguous nature of playmobile, he is actually Mary most of the time.  I think this is because Playmobile Joseph and I both have blondish hair.  This means that most of the time Mary is the Daddy, unless she's another Mommy (how progressive of you, Playmobile!).

The other day we made a gingerbread house.  Confusing hard 'G' words again, 'Gingerbread House' became 'Virgin Mary's House', so the nativity had to accompany it.  To be honest, I think we're just lucky it wasn't 'Vagina Mary's House'.  Which probably exists, but in the Gingerb-Red Light District.

She is taken with all Nativities that she sees now, and apparently all are fair game for augmentation.  It's like gnomes are adding to the nativities at nighttime:

The Angel (Gabriel?) needed a monkey with cymbals to help announce the joyous news.  And Benny the cow came with the wise men.  Now the gifts include Gold, Frankincense, fertilizer, and Myrrh.

And then the next night:

Joseph has been replaced by Dora's Abuela, who is in turn accompanied by Dora's Dad.  Issa the Iguana faithfully watches over the Baby Jesus, and I don't know why the creepy farmer is in the far left corner.  He looks slightly malicious, but those could be interpreted as two thumb-ups he's giving.

We actually even went to church this season, with some family that we were visiting.  Ann was pretty excited, as I'd previously prepped her that we'd be singing music.  Partway through service, the church choir- formally decked out in matching robes- took to the stage (do we call it a stage?  I don't know) and started a beautiful and moving rendition of 'Gloria in excelsius deo'.  Everyone listened attentively, and people seemed quite solemn and moved.  It was quite lovely.  Even Ann stood up on my aunt's lap, to get a better view of the choir I presumed.  Then she started pointing.  And yelling.  "Wheels on the Bus! Wheels on the Bus!".  And that's when I nearly died, either from embarrassment or muffled laughter, I can't remember.  She was devastated when they didn't stop to sing 'Wheels on the Bus' and when it wasn't their next song- even given her suggestion- she had to be removed to the nursery. 

Merry Christmas Everyone!

UPDATED- Mommies, Daddies, Babies. More of them.

Remember how Ann has a compulsive need to classify everything based on size? She has extended that compulsion to the dukies in her diaper. After she has done her business she comes to tell me (the frustration of which only parents of toilet-training children will understand), and we scurry off to take care of it. After her diaper is undone, she pushes herself up on her elbows to see what is going on down there. She evaluates the size, pauses, and then declares 'Baby Poopie!' as she sagely nods her little head.  Depending on its size, obviously.  It might be a 'Daddy Poopie!', in which case we call Daddy in so that he can see it. Which he appreciates. Obviously.

The interesting thing is that a homogenous mass in a diaper can be either big or small.  It's very difficult to quantify medium unless there is something to compare it to.  So you never hear "Dat's a Mommy Poopie!". 

I wonder if I should use it as an example to reinforce alternative family models.  But there's something weird about referencing your child's imaginary poop family, I suppose. 

Damn you Ikea.

Last week I visited Ikea to get a light for our living room.  Due to space constraints in that corner, it needed to be something that could hang from a hook on the ceiling.  Unfortunately, when I got home I realized that there was no on/off switch for the light (seriously Ikea?  I think you are taking simplicity too far).  Because the wall outlet is blocked by the couch, this means that to turn off the light, you turn the bulb a quarter-turn counter-clockwise.  Which was exactly what I did last night before bed.  Fast-forward forty minutes, when the light TURNED BACK ON.  By  ITSELF.  I awoke- confused and terrified.  To any normal person, the natural conclusion is: 'Man, I didn't turn the bulb far enough- it's gonna do this all night.  I should go fix it'.  To someone who watches too much Supernatural and has no common sense, it clearly means that there is a ghost in the house and we were all going to die.  Fixing the bulb is what the ghost wants you to do.  That's when the first victim (usually a pretty woman- confound my natural good looks!) dies.  Probably by Ikea cord strangulation.

I lay there for half an hour, heavy with the responsibility of being the one awake and aware of danger.  Why is it always me? Several times I almost woke Adrian to talk to him about it, but he was getting up at 5:30 to catch a flight to Vancouver and we know how territorial he is about his sleep.  If I woke him and he couldn't get back to sleep, he'd be all 'remember that time you woke me up to turn off the light?' for like, ever.  And then, the light TURNED OFF.  This was even worse, because now I was IN THE DARK and pretty sure I was having a heart attack.

Unfortunately, the light bulb wasn't the only problem.  The front screen door wasn't latched, and the occasional creak and scritch was terrifying.  Additionally, the porch light was on.  At this point, I was alternating between vigilantly watching the bedroom door for anything amiss, and leaning over the headboard with my face pressed against the window, checking to see if we were being robbed from the porch.  It's funny how once your imagination takes off, it doesn't pick between genres.  Ghosts and home invasion both seemed equally as likely and imminent.  I was leaning against the window when the wind caught the door and slammed it.  My heart contracted so hard that the left side of my body spasmed and I slipped from my kneeling position, landing with my hand on Adrian's face.  He was awake now.  Words were exchanged, and it was decided he needed to go fix the light, latch the door and turn off the porch light.  On his begrudging way out of the bedroom, he turned and said 'This won't turn out well for me'.  What he meant was 'I won't be able to go back to sleep, thanks', but to someone with a self-diagnosed nocturnal anxiety disorder I heard 'The zombies are coming.  I'm going to die', and nearly peed my pajamas.

Anyways, we both made it back to sleep, and Ann let me have a sleep in.   So the moral of the story is-  the Swedes are unreliable in their light fixture design.  And I should probably seek help.

More adventures in hair.

I thought this would look excellent in Ann's hair.

NAILED IT!  It's, like, identical!

I resent the impact your traditional home is having upon my child.

Ann is surprisingly traditional in her ideas about family, no matter how I try to expand her world.  For example, the other night we were working on identifying letters.  She has NO time for this and generally ignores me when I ask: "Tell me Ann, what starts with T?  T-t-t-t-...........? T-t-t-t-.........tiger?  T-t-t-t-toast?".
T-t-totally stonewalls me.  So I was surprised last night when she was all into the letter 'P'.  "What starts with 'p' Ann?  P-p-p-...penguin?"  I was delighted when her eyes lit up with interest.  "What else starts with 'p' Ann? P-p-p-p..?"

"Daddy penguin!"

"Well... I guess so.  Another penguin that's a daddy does still start with 'p'.  I suppose technically we're spelling the actual noun.  But I feel like you're missing the point.  What else starts with 'p'?  What about..p-p-p-popsic....."

"Mommy penguin!"

"Well, yea, but-"

"Baby penguin!  Gramma penguin?  Grampa penguin!"

Learning our letters has become a frustrating and increasingly pointless activity.   All this nuclear family fixation is impenetrable.  Everything needs to be broken down into its components of mommy, daddy, baby, gramma, grampa.  Anything we see- kitties on the street, crabs in the tank at the grocery store, fish at the aquarium (and there are a LOT of fish at the aquarium) need to be classified by her taxonomic little mind.  Demoralizing, given the emphasis I have put on alternative family examples with her toys, her stories, her real-time role models.  But no, pieces of rice cake are sorted according to size and relegated into their domestic roles.  Story-time has become another excrutiating affair:

"One day, Bird and Raccoon were playing ball, but then Raccoon accidentally hit Bird with a ball!"

"Little ball!"

"It is a smaller size isn't it?"

"Baby ball!"

Well, I suppose comparatively speaking--"

"Where Mommy ball?"

"Well..."

"Where Baby Ball's Mommy?"

"Well...  I don't know honey."

"Where Daddy Ball?"

Well..."

"At Gramma Ball's house?  Where Gramma Ball?"

You could see how this extremely frustrating line of questioning could go on forever before I were to even get past that first page.  I suppose I could try to explain that the ball is an inanimate object that was created by a manufacturing plant from its components of different plastics with high carbon content.  Therefore having no mother or father.  Seems a bit heavy and exhausting for a Thursday night story session though.

After the stories are finished, the daily rendition of 'Old MacDonald' goes on for effing ever because with each new animal, we also have to include all applicable members of the immediate and extended family.  And the McDonald farm is pretty large in our house.  Many, many different species of poultry.  It is getting quite tricky to get her into bed before prime-time tv starts.  Some nights have been touch-and-go.

I suppose that when she is a bit older we can have some more in-depth conversations about non-traditional families, but for the moment she just stares at me blankly when I describe rates of 19% homosexuality in mallards.  And you know that homosexuality in mallards will just segue to conversations about other animal sexual behaviours.

You're right.  I should probably just wait until she's at least in kindergarten.

He may die early, but at least I've got good dinner party fodder

Adrian is a terrible sleeper, have I mentioned that before?  He has this 30 second window, and if he's woken in the middle of the night and isn't back to sleep before the window closes, he's up for the day.  He is possibly one of the kindest people on earth, but heaven help you if you read late with the light on or try to talk about a nightmare you just had.  Anyways, babies and toddlers being what they are, I'm pretty sure that having a child has taken more years off of his life than is normal.  It's also given him some pretty irreversible bags under his eyes.

Unfortunately for him (genetically because of him perhaps?), Ann is below average on the sleep spectrum as well.  Since we've moved to Victoria, at some point every night she comes into our bed.  We could probably correct this, but some time ago we underwent a form of sleep training called 'camping it out'.  This is a gentler form of 'crying it out', but nearly killed me nonetheless.  We are both unwilling to do this again, and so will bide our time until we can reason with/bribe her.  In most other ways she is pretty awesome, easy-natured and agreeable, so I can allow her a flaw or two.  In our bed she stays. 

She sleeps in the middle, and invariably rolls toward Adrian in the middle of the night (the slope towards him is a little steeper) until he is pressed up against the wall with Ann snuggled right in, all elbows and knees.  She'll snore and roll around and at about five she'll demand he get her a bottle, and so his day begins!  Poor bastard.  Between four and six last night I kept rousing to see her with her fingers under his chin "Tickle you, Daddy!  Tickle tickle!".   If it didn't have such an impact on his health it would be hysterical.

So he has taken to sleeping in shifts.  Every night at about nine he falls asleep on the couch until bedtime.  A kinder partner would consider adopting an earlier bedtime, but instead I take notes on the ridiculous things he says in his sleep and trot them out when we have company over. 

I'm all about finding a silver lining somewhere.

Fibbing- UPDATED

As you may recall (see below), my daughter has been experimenting in not telling the truth.  Last night at dinner was one of those times.  I just happened to be shamelessly bribing her with Halloween candy to eat her lentil soup.  All she had to do was eat one last spoonful with- gasp- one carrot on it, and she could have some smarties (smarties are a new love.  She calls them 'motties'.  Or 'botties', it's hard to tell with a 2yr-old.  This new obsession has just happened to coincide with potty-training, and as 'potty' and 'motties' can sound very similar, for a full day I was super excited that she was so into the potty).
She is very good at keeping food in her mouth for extended periods of time to spit out in some inconspicuous spot later, so I've taken to checking her mouth after dinner.  I checked it- clean- but something seemed fishy, she never eats carrots without dramatic flailing!  Sure enough, upon second examination, there was the carrot- UNDER HER TONGUE.  Where do they learn these tricks?  She's not in daycare, so she must have figured it out on her own.

Diabolical genius, that one.

She'll have it down to a science by 13.

So, my child lied to me.  And not the 'No, I'm not poopie' line that she sometimes pulls (or, as her cousin says "I'm not poopie.  Daddy is.").  I was washing the dishes and could hear her rustling around in the cat treats.  She sometimes does that, it's an activity similar to water-boarding, but with the cat and treats.  After multiple failed attempts to summon her (selective 2yr-old hearing. So. Frustrating.), she casually mosied over ('Oh, Hi Mom.  Gosh, were you calling me?'). 

"Ann, were you playing with the cat treats?"

"No Mommy."

"You know you're not supposed to."

"OK.  I understand Mommy.  Didn't do it."

I smelled her hands.  They reeked of horse hooves and pig snouts.  Or whatever they put in those things.  "I can smell cat treats on your hands Annie, were you playing with them?" 
To which she responded by rinsing her hands in the dishwater, drying them and then looking back up at me- very solemnly- and saying "No Mommy.  Wasn't playing with treats". 

The little turkey.  If she's starting this early, I'm doomed.

Stuff I Wrecked, and Then Hung on the Walls

I have been busy this month.  I am Martha-Stewarting-it-up.  Though Martha Stewart might Herself-it-up differently than I do.  For example, she might hone her culinary techniques by adding to her repertoire with new and exciting recipes, but I already have lots of exciting recipes.  So for me it means using the recipes I already have, but practicing them.  As anyone who has been over for dinner knows, I'm not naturally graceful in the kitchen.  I love to talk, but I can't multitask talk with cooking.  This means that as dinner nears, I get spastic and start using more pots.  So I've been doing cooking drills until I can make them in half the time, with half the stress and half the dishes.   My favourite recipes are all pastas with cream sauces, so October has become 'Honorary Dairy Month' as well as 'Starch Awareness Month: Are you getting enough pasta in your diet?'

I have also been crafting.  Or home decorating on a dime, as I like to think of it.  More dimes than necessary, because I keep wrecking stuff, but you get the idea.  Mainly, October's crafts have been 'Adventures in Modge-Podge'.  Modge Podge being a weird and complicated kind of glue.  What an exciting time October has been.

Light cover.  I believe my potential in this one is evident.

In this modge-podge I attempted tea-bagging the edges to make it look distressed (tea-bagging.  Where do crafters come up with these terms?  It's like they've never talked to 14yr old boys.  Click here for a more commonly used and lewd explanation of 'tea-bagging'.  Except you, Dad).  If you look closely on the far left, you can see the floral picture does look distressed, but not in the good way.  This was also an experiment in decorating.  Martha tells you to put dissimilar objects together to create decorative dissonance (she doesn't say that, I made that up).  I believe I have succeeded in that by placing together the distressed floral modge podge Fail, some dead coral that Adrian accidentally killed while fishing, and the smallest jug of barley wine ever.

More wall hangings.  I accidentally got newsprint on the one on the left, so I tried distressing it to hide the letters.  Martha makes tea-bagging look so easy.

Well.  It's better than blank walls.

That's like, a haunch.

As many of you know and have written in your calendar, it's my birthday coming up.  It's a pretty big one actually.  I'll be turning 31, and as you might remember, three and one are both prime numbers.  Additionally, 3+1=4 and four is the sum of one and three, which are also both prime numbers.  As you can see, it's a pretty big year to be celebrating.

I got some birthday money in the mail yesterday.  Obviously my first reaction was to put it against debt.  Because I'm responsible like that.  But after thinking about it long and hard for four minutes (which is the sum of three and one) I decided to start an account to facilitate getting my new dog.  I will have to be very diligent about saving as Mr. EI doesn't give me much to start with, and that kid down the street keeps stealing my lunch money.  This week I might even donate our grocery money to the fund.  Ann doesn't need to eat.  She'll have lots of candy to eat by next week anyways.

Anyways, I have approx. 1/4 of a new dog saved already.  Or 1/6, depending on the breeder.  Adrian is so excited he can barely contain himself.  I suspect he's already planning on donating his birthday money as well.  He does have a big birthday coming up.  Forty is directly divisible by five.

Google me, I draw penises.

This week I got on the sub list for an Anglican Private School.  While we can all agree this means I can pretty much not ever speak in the staff room, the other base I needed to cover was googling myself. 

At one time googling myself meant photos of me drinking out of a rugby trophy (sometimes you just need a bigger goblet), and this might not go over with the religious community.  Fortunately (sadly?), pictures posted from 10 years ago are roughly 3 million results from the front.  My name does produce some pretty interesting other results though.  For starters, I am the daughter of a baptist preacher who wrote some religious books to help you pray.  So that's good.  Unless Anglicans and Baptists actually hate each other, as in sworn enemies like the Sharks and the Jets (I hope right now you are picturing religious dance-fight sequences...). 

I am also an artist that draws ejaculating people-penises.  These penises all have arms, legs and faces and it is worth noting that one of the penises is actually named Ben Dover.  They are somewhat alarming, but the fact that these penises are on the first page of the google results must mean that I'm pretty good.  

I am also on witchapedia.com which for reasons we've already discussed, will probably give me nightmares.  I didn't even bother to link to the actual reference, but there was a photo of an art installation of a tv painted white and covered in blood entitled "Nora King is my Queen".  OMFG.  I don't even understand the art piece and I'm creeped out entirely.

No drunken rugby photos though, so that's something.

* I wanted to show you pictures to go along with these references, but I am afraid of getting in trouble.  If you happen to google the images, the baptist is the one who looks really stern.  I'm pretty sure this is intentional, I think she drew on her eyebrows that way on purpose.

I Have a Problem.

What I am about to discuss is almost embarrassing for a 30 year old woman to disclose.  I have an unreasonably overactive imagination.  While we can all agree this gives me an interesting and scintillating personality, it wreaks havoc on my sleep.  As soon as it gets dark my mind starts working and my anxiety starts to rise. I obsessively check windows and doors and refuse to go into the basement.  Normally it only makes me crazy when I sleep alone, but recently it is ALL THE TIME.  Something about our recent situation is exacerbating it.  It could be:

1. I am unable to discuss reason number 1.  For information, see here.  But read it fast, and don't say anything out loud.
2. Season 7 of Supernatural, which we just finished.  It focused on opening a door to purgatory.  If you are uncertain about how this relates to reason number 1, you clearly didn't read the supplementary material provided.
3. True Blood Season 4, which focuses on witchcraft and just ended.  Because of reason number 1, we have an unprecedented amount of witchcraft that gets practiced in Victoria.
4. A rash of recent movies that focus on small children being terrorized by haunted houses etc.  I read about one in which a family moves to a new home and creatures are stealing the teeth from a small child's head in the night.  What is WRONG with you Katie Holmes?  How will you sleep at night?  And how do your two sentences of description in People magazine terrorize me so?

Add to these somewhat outlandish concerns some more realistic ones:
1. Every cop show on TV.  Specifically Law and Order SVU which- if I may get up on my soapbox momentarily- serves as a manual to educate every deviant without an imagination on all the possible ways in which to abuse women.
2. The news.  Which is normally bad enough, but as of late has allowed me new neuroses to add to my repertoire.  Now I can obsess about my child being stolen in the middle of the night.  At least this provides some variation from my usual home invasion nightmares.

What is really time-consuming is that I like to be prepared.  If I hear a strange noise, I like to review my escape plans.  What route would I take to escape?  What objects could I use as weapons?  Should I leave the window ajar so that someone could hear me yell?  If I practice in my head enough times, it will be like instinct when a home invasion wakes me in the middle of the night.  For the record, now that I have to divert to get my kid from the back of the house, it seems less and less likely all the time that these routes will actually be successful.  And who puts a room at the back of the house anyways?  It's impossible to guard.  You might as well let your exposed leg dangle over the side of the bed while you're at it.

Last night, as I was laying awake listening for anything untoward, I noticed that I couldn't hear Adrian's breathing.  His sleep breathing is such that it is usually very easy to hear.  OMG.  What if he had a heart attack or something?  A very quiet heart attack?  I instantly started reviewing my safety information.  First things first- which side was the heart on?  After a couple minutes of trying to locate my own heart I was fairly certain it was on the left (is it more alarming that I am a science teacher, or that I've had first aid training?).  Then I tried to remember what to do.  It had recently been changed in order to simplify.  But were you now supposed to do chest compressions and not breathing?  Breathing and not chest compressions?  I was pretty sure it was the compressions.  And I triumphantly remembered you were supposed to do them to the rhythm of 'Saturday Night Fever'.  But how did that song go again?!  Blast!  Adrian would be as good as dead!

I ended up giving him a small kick.  You'll be happy to hear that he was just fine and was sleeping so deeply he was just breathing quietly.  When he woke up this morning I almost wanted to say 'you're alive!  You're welcome.'  Unfortunately he was up at four because Ann has been having nightmares lately, so I kept it to myself.

Which brings me to my next point: Ann has been having nightmares lately.  Hers usually centre around Swiper, the sneaky fox that is aaaaalways swiping Dora's stuff.  Ann does things like wake up kicking away her covers to see her bare feet, screaming about her lost shark shoes (which, as you may remember, are awesome).  Obviously my immediate concern is that she's been possessed by some demon escaped from purgatory.  Or that her room is haunted and giving her nightmares.  In which case we need to move.  But clearly the poor thing has gotten my imagination genetics and is doomed to a lifetime of amazing conversation and plagues of nightmares.  Poor thing.

What is truly remarkable is that we watched Jurassic Park III together a couple of weeks ago and she chooses to have nightmares about an easily-foiled orange fox in a jaunty blue eye mask.  Go figure.

I suppose the obvious answer to both our problems is less TV.  Sigh.

Just What You Needed for Your Wednesday, an Entire Post on Hair.

As most of you might be aware, I am really only capable of 2 hairstyles: down and straight, or down and not straight.  I am not stylistically skilled enough to master more than that.  And obviously I am using 'master' loosely.  This applies to Ann as well.  She has 'out of her eyes' and 'out of her food' as her two styles (she is like a basset hound.  Their ears are always getting in their food and it gets quite sticky and smelly).  I am in need of a third style as the heat and her sweaty little head have been creating this post-nap look lately:

Which leaves it as a rat's nest.  Made of straw.  And full of rat droppings.  So I went back to practicing my french braiding.  A regular braid won't work because she has so many face framing layers.  She's very stylish that way.  Sometimes people compliment her cut and ask if I did it.  It just randomly grew that way but sometimes I say yes anyways.  Her (alliteration alert!) Farrah Fawcett feathers fall out in a regular braid, but french braids require a finger dexterity I don't possess.  A teacher friend (see insert: while I don't have any good photos, I do have a strange text/photo messaging exchange) recently put on a french braid clinic for me. 

We were at a science department meeting off campus.  She wanted us to bring her back Dairy Queen.

We were ignoring her.

I was very busy.

She bought her own.  And as a disclaimer, even though it looks like we aren't working very hard during school hours, we do deserve all of your tax money that we are asking for in our union negotiations.  Try not to dwell on the fact that sports was playing in the background of my meeting either.

Though she looks demanding and Dairy Queen focused, she's actually quite good at hair.  We had a model and I even made that model jerk randomly to simulate toddler squirming (disclaimer 2: this hair clinic was on our lunch hour, and not your tax dollars at work).  Unfortunately I still couldn't replicate the look. 

I recently discovered that it helps if hair is dirty, and it has rocked my world.  This was one of my first attempts back in July.  It was pre-dirty-hair game-changer and so it took me half an hour to do the one side:

Nailed it!

So I ran out of steam for the other:

FAIL.

She looked strange but I had put in so much effort I refused to take it out.  Maybe this is why we weren't a hit at kindergym?  Poor girl, will this be typical of her whole life?  Will she be the kid with one arm missing off a cable-knit sweater?  Probably.  Perhaps one day she'll only get highlights on half her head.  Anyways, since I now have to braid it before bed and nap, I am getting much better, and I can add some flair to it:

In case you can't see it, I added an extra elastic and made it half ponytail.  I'm very talented.

 In fact, yesterday afternoon I was rushing and her braid started on the left side and snaked across her head to the right.  I can imagine this is actually a very trendy and sought-after style, so I am clearly getting better than I thought.

This project has come at a good time.  As I hurl myself into fall productivity, my plan is to master more aspects of homemakery (homemaking?).  This means perfecting new meals, de-cluttering my home into an efficient and organised space, and incorporating exciting toddler activities into our day.    It means a company-ready home MID-WEEK.  Family updates to our nearest and dearest in the mail.   With photos!  Seasonal decorating, perhaps!  Ooh- seasonal cookies!    I get excited about the possibilities.
 
I try to keep it in perspective though.  Remember that this was my plan for the past summer as well, so I've got to keep my (and Adrian's) expectations realistic.

And besides, the fall tv season starts soon.  That's always fun too.

Feel Bad for Me: Installment 1

Reasons to feel bad for me:

1. I went for a run in the Inner Harbour today.  This is the sister to the Sea Wall.  Dropped the tyke with her father at his work and ran from there.  It was 28 degrees and I nearly perished.  It was a close call y'all.  And there were herds of seniors milling about and grazing.  Apparently they come out in droves when the youth are busy being gainfully employed.  This is a shot of my view:

Look how dry that grass is.  Who wants to run near that?  Not me. Gross.  Makes me thirsty just looking at it.

2. My child refuses to sleep in her new bed.  We got her an amazing top-of-the-line mattress (for reasons I now forget, but ones that Ad sold very convincingly at the time) but she still wants to sleep in our bed.  Horizontally, like the cross-hatch to our H.  Her fidgety feet in Adrian's stomach.  Unlucky Adrian.  I did just have the most amazing lie-down in it though, trying to model what napping in it would look like.  No dice.  This is what no-nap looks like come bedtime:

Adrian was a little alarmed that I left her like this to go get my camera, but I was really confident she was too out-cold to roll.  Well, pretty confident.

 She let me dress her fully without opening an eyelid.  I even got her thumb stuck in the sleeve and accidentally wrenched it a little.   But of course, as soon as I leaned down to put her in her bed, she instantly awoke and got a second wind.  It was almost spooky, like a sixth sense that her sleeping self was approaching a big girl bed, and if she didn't wake up potties and a life without soothers would soon follow.

3. Embarrassingly, the next door neighbour popped by yesterday.  It was 11 and Ann and I were still in our pj's, finishing our mid-morning toast and watching Dora.  It was the first full day of school and I was in full mope.  He laughed at me and then told Ann 'tell your Mom to take you to the playground!'.  This is a dirty move for parents.  It's like dangling the leash in front of someone's dog and saying "Walk? Walk?" and then leaving.  And I was totally planning on going anyways.  Eventually.

4. So far, my best option for work appears to be at an Anglican school, depending on their policy on illegitimate children and living in sin of course.  And on that note, according to the government, teachers are still greedy babysitters.  This means that by the time my EI runs out it will be time for 25$/day strike pay.  If I'm lucky enough to get hired. 



And now I have to go prep the salmon for dinner.  Barf.  Woe is me.

OMG

Has it really been over two weeks since there's been a post?  Who is writing this thing?  That is hogwash.  Fortunately, nobody reads this except for my father, and he already knows what is going on in my life (namely, nothing).  I do have much to write about though, so I will try to get it out in a timely manner now that fall is here.  Though the fact that fall is here means absolutely nothing.  The changing of seasons and return to school alters my daily life in absolutely no way, except that when it gets rainy it will be more socially acceptable to sit inside moping and watching Dora.

Stay tuned for many installments of 'Back to school- What I did on my summer vacation'.  As soon as I can tackle the time-consuming and impossibly onerous hold-up of getting photos onto my computer from my phone.  Of which every single one is Ann, but with different backgrounds.

Read this once and then never again. It's too dangerous.

So, apparently Victoria is one of the Seven Portals of Hell.  My friend told me this.  She didn't mean to, she knows that I fall into the 1% of this category:

Except that I call someone first, and tell them to be quiet while I crawl. That way, if something happens, someone knows.

But I came out of the bathroom at the wrong time and overheard. Obviously, the first question you might ask is 'How does one become a portal to hell?'.  Indeed.  Is there a selection committee?  Like the IOC?  Is there lobbying?  And backroom deals and bribery like FIFA?  Were Wills and Beckham horribly disappointed that England didn't win (I actually don't know that.  I don't know the other 6 portals.  I did no research)?.  And why only seven portals?  Do they keep the number low so as to appear exclusive?  I was pretty sure that just about everything would get you into Hell these days.

Anyways, so clearly Victoria was, like, the worst place for someone of my low-calibre bravery to move to.  I am going to stop writing about it now because I feel it could be like Lord Voldemort.  If you say it out loud you might attract too much attention.  Stop thinking about it now.  Stop it.

In other news I am re-watching the Harry Potters.  Because my book-to-do-list is too long to reread them.

Better he pervert her language than me.

It has been ages since my last post.  Specifically, 11 days.  This is because A.  I have numerous posts almost ready to go, but:

and B. I got a Pinterest account and seriously.  It is addicting.  Look it up.  But also because C. Adrian was home this week and I try to cram in as much time with other adults as possible.  The only reason I am writing now is because I am in Prince George, and I am sitting on my brother's bed (they are away and letting me stay) and I am terrified to move in case I wreck something.  The TV is staring at me from across the room.  It's GINORMOUS and has edges that stick out and it's saying "Noooora.  Knock me oooover...".

In other news, Adrian taught Ann the eff word the other day.  I know, I was surprised too- we all thought it would be me.  She was singing 'Mary had a little lamb' and inserting random words where she got bored of the lyrics (as opposed to just stopping, which was everyone else's preference).  She was singing 'Mary had a My Mommy, My Mommy, My Mommy' (it doesn't even make sense Ann, try harder) when Adrian got cut off in traffic and hurled some expletives at the douche canoe beside us (she can't hear me, I can curse).  Sure enough, Ann started singing 'Mary had a F@ck Mommy, F@ck Mommy, F@ck Mommy'.  And then she did numerous other verses with every person's name she could think of.  It was hysterical.  And her enunciation was perfect, with a strong '-ck' sound.  She's very advanced.

I am off tomorrow on an RVing adventure with Ann and my parents.  I am super excited but my parents are worried I will hate it.  This is mainly because I haven't been camping in 10 years, and I hate being dirty, grimy, cold, bug-bitten, covered in bug-repellent or stinking like campfire. 

It should be awesome though and I am very optimistic.  I'll keep you posted.

The Plight of the Unemployed

This morning Ann and I watched (from our warm snugglefest under the covers) as Adrian ran around the house desperately looking for an ironed shirt to wear to work.  I thought "Geez, I guess given that I'm home all the time it would be only fair if I helped with his ironing occasionally".  Eff!  I need a job.

Fortunately, I never remember anything that occurs before nine.  In university, my father would give me to-do-lists as he left for work in the morning.  One of my besties- who stayed over a lot- would frantically repeat the list over and over in her head (litter, dishwasher, milk, litter, dishwasher, milk...) until I was functional, because I would NEVER remember and then I would get in trouble for being useless.  Anyways, then we headed off for a wonderful jaunt around Langford Lake with Ann's cousins and I forgot about housework and how much it sucks to be unemployed.

Monday: the Two Soother Suckfest Edition

Adrian got home last night.  His flight was 3 hours late.  It had already been so long you'd think 3 hours was no biggie, but I thought I might cry.  I think that Ann and I had gone 4 straight days without either of us having any interaction with anyone else, and I was fixin to bust if I didn't get a break ASAP.

He brought nice gifts though, so I soon forgot.  His trip sounded amazing, and on the way home they flew out of Amsterdam, which had its Gay Pride this weekend.  I think he and his boss took in much of the festivities, which is interesting, because his boss is pretty straight-laced to be partying hard in Amsterdam.  But sure enough, Ad texted me at 4am (his time).  4am!  And I'm the bad guy if I read with the light on til 11:30.  His boss emailed me this photo of them celebrating Pride.   Adrian is the Awkward Academic in the back, his boss is the guy on the left:

"Excuse me guys, where can I get a hat like that?  Are they UPF55?"

Just kidding.  His boss would never wear a hat like that.  Anyways, he had to go to work this morning, and as he was leaving I was all "Hey....wait a second..." as it dawned on me that it was still just me and Ann.  Sigh.  4 days til he is on vacation.  And therefore me too! 

I just put her down for a nap.  Some kids get less reliant on soothers as they grow older.  Ann now has TWO soothers for naptime.  So she can switch them out depending on her mood.  And you never know when one might go missing during the course of a nap.

"The pj Frogs might need to borrow one.  What's your point?"

Updated: The word 'Vagina' is in, 'Bajingo' is out.

CBC radio, my resource for all things important, had a parenting expert on yesterday.  This expert said that it is important that children learn the proper names for their business.  Calling it a 'flower' is only going to confuse them.  We don't call it a 'welbow', why call it a 'weenie'?  Though they recommended saving 'clitoris' for a much later conversation.

Stats: Not just for terrorizing students anymore

Did you know that all blogs have statistical analysis built into them?  I have never bothered to look before- stats are reserved for a traumatized part of my memory dating back to university.  The only redeemable part of which is that I got a better grade than my brother.  Mainly because he never came.


Anyways, this is what some of it looks like:

Fig.1.  Who even OWNS a blackberry anymore?

There are also stats on where the pageviews are coming from.  Not surprisingly- Canada.  I nearly peed my pants however, when I saw that there were 4 pageviews from GERMANY.  Then I remembered that Adrian was there this week.  I can already tell what you're thinking; "wasn't he there 10 days?  And he only checked into your blog 4 times?"  I know.  RUDE.  I did recheck this morning to take a screen shot  (fig.2) and again nearly peed when I saw 2 NETHERLANDS pageviews.  After I processed that Adrian was in Amsterdam, and Amsterdam was in the Netherlands (or so I'm assuming.  I'm not a socials teacher) I felt very appreciative that Adrian is making my blog so international.  It will look good when I start getting shopped by lucrative sponsors.

Fig.2.  The Europeans love me.

I will be even more appreciative when I see what gifts he brings home (hotel soap is not a gift Adrian).

Not surprisingly, I don't understand a lot of it.  There have been more than 91 pageviews, so I don't know what the 85 represents.  Perhaps if I had attended stats more often, instead of sleeping in.  I'll know for the next stats class I take.

Turning your child into a social outcast 101

Kids really do copy whatever you say.  When Ann passes gas I say 'excuse you!'.  So obviously she has learned that when she passes gas she says 'excuse you!'.  And then she looks over at me and smiles.  It's like she's trying to pass off the blame onto me.  I find this hysterical, as often when Ann passes gas I will blame it on Adrian and make other relevant obnoxious comments.

Even if it was accidental, clearly this child is taking after my sense of humour already.  This is where parenting will be difficult for me.  I probably shouldn't encourage this behaviour, so that she demonstrates proper etiquette, but I find it so freaking funny.

On a related note, she has started calling her vagina her 'bum'.  As a science teacher I believe that body parts should be called by their name in most instances.  This is why I make teenagers stand up and recite this phrase whenever I bust them talking in slang in science class (which is always):  "A 'booby' is a bird.  The word I am looking for is 'breasts'".  This also works for 'tits' (also a bird, though I neglect to mention it can be a 'greattit', or- even worse- a 'bushtit' as this results in fits of giggles), wieners (hot dogs), and other (worse) words.  So this is my dilemna: do I correct her and teach her that the proper word is 'vagina'?  A two-year-old doesn't learn the word 'vagina' organically, unless she is watching waaaay too much Discovery channel.  If she busts that word out at daycare, there could be judging.  Because maybe you aren't supposed to make your children aware of their sex organs until they are at least potty-trained.  And then by the time she goes to kindergarten,  she could be that kid making anatomical drawings while the other kids are making rainbows ("why are your labia so many different colours Susie?").  And then she'll be stuck hanging out with that boy that draws penises all the time ("I believe you've overrepresented the bulbourethral glands in that one Sam").

But I'll probably tell her anyway.  Smart is better than popular.  Right?

Tuesday Updated: Life got more exciting.

I was wrong, the scary slide was the second most exciting part of the day.  We also got our tookisses off the couch and went for a run down by the water.  Then we did sit-ups together. 

"I don't start counting til it starts burning"

It seemed like a great idea at the time- and unlike previous times running with the stroller didn't end up putting a rib out- but by the time I got her to bed and looked over at the dinner mess I was so tired I thought I might cry.

At least it will offset the beer I will have tonight.

ps. In case you haven't picked up on it yet, most of my posts are really just excuses to put up photos of Ann with funny captions.

This is why I don't ride roller coasters

Because I am an AMAZING MOM, Ann and I try to check out a different park every day.  Because we are new here, that means new parks a couple of times a week.  Today we tried one out and it had a SCARY SLIDE (my words, not Ann's)

This just looks unsafe.

It was so high, we had to go down together.  The sad part is that looking down the slide:

Shark shoes, you go first.  Tell us how it went.

...I got a little nervous.  Nervous enough that I waited for a group of grade 8 boys to finish walking past the playground before we proceeded because I knew I would probably squeal (I like to take my summers off from teenage boy judgment).  Sure enough, it was so scary that my heart jumped and I made sounds I used to make fun of my mother for.  We went so fast we shot out the bottom about 3 feet.

My mommy is a wienie.

This will probably be the most exciting thing to happen in our day.  Sigh.  Five days down, four more til Adrian gets home.

Photo Catch-Up: The Ann Bday Edition

I think the key to posting regularly is going to be small, manageable chunks (unlike my last post). So here are some of my favourite photos from around Ann's birthday:

This one is very 'True Blood'.  Like she's just had a human birthday snack.

Opening presents makes my toes curl.

"Wait a second- is this ANOTHER book?"

"Seriously people.  How many books do you think I need?"

  

 This isn't actually true.  Ann loves books.  I recommend this book in particular as you search for specific items on each page and it takes FOREVER.  It's like 'Where's Waldo' for toddlers.  Wastes lots of time.

This is important and in a recent attempt to get more sleep I leave items such as this out on the living room table when I go to bed at night.  When she gets up in the morning I send her to toddle off and entertain herself as long as possible.  When she tires of the books I turn on Diego and she eats the cheerios I left out the night before (it's kind of like leaving carrots out for the reindeer).  I cross my fingers that the cat hasn't licked these overnight.  When Samsung makes a powerful enough remote I won't even have to get up for this step.  I know it is time to get up when i hear the 'clink clink' of glass, which means she's bored and has moved on to the decorations on the bookshelf.

It often buys me an extra hour.  It's a lot of work, but 8:30 is worth it.

*These photos brought to you by MF and Bilio.  They know good books.

I made up a shocking amount of words in this post. See if you can find them all!

I am recovering from a wonderful weekend of Stagettery on the mainland.  I find the whole stagette culture so interesting (slash bizarre).  For starters, I feel like stagettes are just a response to stags.  And stag nights are just opportunities to act like sneaky douche canoes.  The whole point of some of these parties is to see what you can get away with- from your spouse-to-be and from members of the opposite sex you encounter that night.  Anyways, I wiki-ed stagettes.  Because it's summer and there's nothing on tv:

The bachelorette party is modeled after the bachelor party.  Despite its reputation as "a sodden farewell to bachelor days" or "an evening of debauchery," a bachelorette's party is simply a party, given in honor of the bride-to-be in the style that is common to that social circle.

 I was right!  We started stagetting because guys did it.  And I hate doing something just because men do it (except for voting.  That's pretty cool I guess).  It does say however that "its cultural significance is largely tied to concepts of gender equality".  Good, so it's decided.  We all have equal opportunity to act like douche canoes.
This particular line I find hysterical:
"Bachelorette parties involve displays of sexual freedom, such as trading intimate secrets, getting drunk, and enjoying male strippers".  Can we just take a moment to note how formally they are discussing this topic?  It reminds me of myself teaching Sex Ed ("Well Susan, I'm glad you asked.  Because the excretory and the reproductive systems are in fact NOT linked, there is no way for the seminal fluid to gain access to the fallopian tubes to fertilize the ovum.  It is indeed, therefore impossible to get pregnant from anal sex").  I also love how in the actual wiki, 'male strippers' had a link attached.  In case you need clarification on what 'male strippers' are.

I also learned that the different names for these types of parties stem from different countries.  For example, 'Bachelor/Bachelorette' are the American terms, and 'Stag/Stagette' are the Canadian terms.  Two things:   1. The opposite of 'stag' is 'doe', not 'stagette' and 2. I like how we, as Canadians, always need to reference wildlife.  Our Canadian 'brand' is the wilderness, so we need to remind people at every turn.  These reminders are an economic stimulus.  In the UK they use the term 'Hen Party', while in Australia and New Zealand it is a 'Hens Party'.   I can only assume that the difference in names indicates that in Australia and New Zealand there are generally more Hens in attendance.  Other English-speaking countries- South Africa in particular- refer to the party as a 'Kitchen Tea'.  I think this is my favourite.  Maybe because it is the most antiquated and overtly sexist, or maybe because it most closely resembles the stagette I attended last weekend.  Though we didn't drink tea, we spent a lot of time near the kitchen and we didn't approach either soddenness or debauchery.  And our bride-to-be was far too sensible and mature to cave in to peer pressure to do anything foolish or embarrassing.  At one point we reflected on her wisdom as we watched another bride-to-be stagger down Granville St. post-barf, pulling at her extremely uncomfortable-looking costume and straightening the check-list of embarrassing to-do items in her back.  Someone remarked "God it sucks to be her right now".  And this is another excellent point.  Why, if we are putting on a special party for someone we love, do we insist on embarrassing them and forcing them to get so drunk they get violently ill?
Anyways, at that point I was actually also reflecting on the fact that it was midnight on a Saturday and not only was I not in bed sleeping off my Saturday night potato chip binge, I was downtown in heels.  Success! 

The other thing I find interesting about these parties is that it is the only time when  interesting and self-respecting adult women engage in activities that may or may not include phallic objects and frequent references to sex.  I am, of course, not really referring to myself.  I constantly make penis jokes.  I think it is as a result of teaching teenage boys (though at work obviously I'm all "that is totally inappropriate for the classroom Steven.  We don't model penises with our algebra tiles.  Do I need to speak with your mother?".  Even when I'm all "Man!  Creative use of protractors for testicles!" in my head).   On the other hand, this might actually be the reason I am able to teach teenage boys.  I can really understand them at their level.

So, for our particular weekend we had penis swizzle sticks for our sangria, and a purple penis garter for the bride-to-be.  That was the extent of the penisness, but keep in mind we are educated 30-year-old women.  I was the penisness purchaser (I hope the effort I am putting into alliteration for this penis paragraph is being appreciated) and I was suffering from an episode of a persistent paranoia I've picked up since moving to the island.  Now that I live in a smaller city, I am positive I am going to bump into people I know ALL THE TIME.  Especially when I haven't washed my hair in days and am yanking my petulant child out of a mall.  For this reason I won't even play in my pj's on the front lawn with Ann for fear that that guy I knew from high school is going to saunter down the street and yell "Aha!  I knew it!  You have let yourself go!".  I recognize that this is a totally disproportionate fear given the actual size of our province's capital, but still.  So as I walked back to my car I was cursing that ALL of Adrian's family lives on this island, and preparing myself to explain to his conservative grandmother (who does live around the corner) why I- the mother of her great-grandchild- had purchased veiny and engorged pink plastic penises with which stir my sangria.

Our weekend was not without its casualties though.  During one over-stimulated afternoon, we drove past a monkey tree and I punched the driver with perhaps more gusto than was necessary.   She claims that she has never heard of the 'punch buggy' game applied to monkey trees, and to make her point that I was out of line she has text messaged me twice daily with photo updates on the progression of the monkey bruise (right arm).  Thank goodness for the iPhone: rubbing in guilt through instantaneous multi-media messaging since its debut.

This is my 'Unnecessary Gusto' face.

Isn't that how the saying goes? Vomiting in every room christens a new house?

Today was Ann's second birthday.  It started off great.  We reviewed whose birthday it was ("Moin") and how old she was (a varying assortment of fingers) and toddled ourselves off to the indoor playground to meet her cousins (there was some confusion about whether it was their birthdays too, but I feel confident that we got that sorted out).  To be clear, indoor playgrounds are hellish, but this one has a bouncy castle, numerous slides and a bubble machine, so it constitutes Special Event material.

If this photo gives you vertigo, picture it in reality...

A sticky, germ-filled and never-ending hour and a half later, we excused ourselves to Boston Pizza, where Ann promptly barfed all over her highchair.  And this is the TSN turning point of the day.

In Ann's short life, every single time she has been pukey, Adrian has been away.  To his credit, he is mostly away for work and hates it.  It happens so often it would be funny if it it didn't suck so effing much.  The first time, I was visiting my parents and flew home after the first night of Ann's puking.  The lady beside me kept commenting on how delightfully well-behaved my child was.  I obviously couldn't tell her that she had Norwalk and didn't have the energy to lift her highly-contagious head, so I just smiled.  I can remember clearly that awful, awful moment when I finally crawled into bed at 9pm that night and realized that I felt nauseous, with Adrian not due to return from his fishing trip for 20 more hours.  It was probably the lowest moment of my parenting life, matched by that actual night, when I woke Ann and helplessly had to listen to her cry every single time I puked (I'm a King, we're loud pukers).  Fortunately for me, I have nice friends that call in sick to their nursing jobs so that they can come over at 7am, watch my kid, and deliver suppositories (to the house, not actually to the affected area).

Anyways, so here Ann and I are again.  The poor thing is finally asleep and I can get to the fun part of picking barfy spaghetti pieces from the washer.  And scrubbing vomit out of her favourite teddy with my hands.  I thought that at this point in the evening I would be sipping a glass of red and reflecting on the experience of her birth and the first two (mostly) wonderful years of her life.  Instead, I am reflecting on our lunch (as the faint spaghetti aroma now permeates the house and will have to be exorcised later.  Damn you, BP.  I'll never eat bolognese again).  Ad is due home in 45 minutes, I'll have to be sure to save some of the laundry for him.

Everyone argues over meiosis on dates, right?

So Thursday was date night.  And by date night I obviously mean that I ate 2 pounds of wings, had several beers and then got belligerent.

Over said amazing wings, we discussed our respective days.  Ad says: "So this guy at work was disputing the validity of site-specific spawning locations!" and I was all "Whaaaaat?" and he was like "I know, right?".  Except that I meant "What?  I don't get it.  Please explain."

So from there- a light fisheries management conversation- we somehow devolved into a discussion on the evolutionary strategy of dating meatheads when you are a 20-year old female (there were meatheads at the table next to us.  And 20-year old females).  How can it make evolutionary sense if Meatheads aren't good providers and aren't as likely to stick around as Nice Guys are?  Did we not clearly get here by evolution?  Should we not be observing the rules that govern natural selection?  How does it further the human race if we choose to date idiots who- were we to have kids with them- would make it more difficult to raise successful children?  Women should be saying things like 'Gosh, that guy has a public pension.  That is so hot', instead of  'That guy is currently not paying his alimony, and he gets in bar fights.  I should probably date him.'  At least, a few women other than me (I can clearly recall gushing about an ability to use 'intermittent' and 'asymptote' in conversation).
Though we haven't been observing natural selection for some time.  I mean, how many peacocks say 'he's got that genetic defect, but he's got a great personality'?  I guess we are just constantly making our own rules.

Anyways, I suppose that's not very romantic, but then again neither is shoving your date in front of a phone pole as he walks (seriously- that joke does NOT get old.  Except for Adrian.  He had several beer as well and he didn't recover in time to miss the pole and after that he had his cross face on).

Another date night success!

She meant that OTHER chubby guy.

I finally changed the comments settings (I tried earlier, but couldn't fix it because it was sooo complicated.  It was hidden under the link labeled 'comment settings').  Now all the peasants can comment too.  Though, keep in mind that this blog doesn't speak Neanderthal.  Only comment if you have something intelligent or witty to say (that's a lie, I am open to any adult interaction).

Speaking of language, the joy of being with a two-year-old is that it's like learning a new one.  You have a 60% chance of understanding if the unintelligible word in question is being pointed at, but if it so happens that she's asking for something not in sight, well- good luck.  Just hope it's not important.

Yesterday we passed this amazing specialty food store (read: fancy cookies) twice, and each time she pointed at it and yelled "Chubby-bear!" numerous times.  It turns out she meant 'Strawberry' (I know, I think the missing phonetic link is straw-bee-berry), which we bought there the day before (with our fancy cookies).  It was suuuper awkward though, as each time she yelled it she pointed at the doorway, where the portly and stern South African store owner was standing.  Sorry Sir, great cookies by the way.

Weepiness: Worst Ice-Breaker Ever.

Today Ann and I woke up and set off to make ourselves some friends at kindergym.  I put us in our best 'You-probably-should-be-friends-with-me' outfits: casual, but with enough flair to say 'we're interesting, come talk to us!' and enough effort to say 'we totally just threw on whatever was clean, but since all our clothes are fashionable, we look well put-together'.  Since it was early, I didn't bother doing my hair.  It's important not to overthink these things.

We arrived at kindergym and were instantly hit with the ripe smell of patchouli.
Let.  Down.  My superficial, materialistic lifestyle often doesn't jive with the that of the holistic artsy types.  My quick scan of the crowd revealed nobody who appeared to be like-minded.  Meaning A. sarcastic with nerdy flair, or B. athletic.  I suppose this would give me an opportunity to sit back and catch up on my judging-from-afar.  As I critiqued the Birkenstock wearers, I watched my little girl go about smiling sweetly at all the potential new friends (I had hidden Alligator in the stroller, so the territorial rage was contained, for now).  She parked herself at the bottom of her favourite thing- the slide.  She can be very polite and graciously let many kids go ahead of her ("Oh sorry- you go ahead.  No, no, I wasn't sure if I wanted to anyways.  Love your shoes by the way!  All right, my turn now...oh, no please, you first- I'm in no rush!").  As I watched my child try to get someone to interact with her I began to feel desperately awful to have moved her from her amazing daycare and her amazing friends and her entire network of adults who loved her (she does have a network of adults that love her here too, but still).  And then I started to feel bad for myself.  It took me 7 years to make the incredible friendships that I had in Vancouver, and it was hard work!  And I was considerably peppier and more well-rested back then!  The thought of being perky, bubbly and cheerful to every potential friend for conceivably the next year was an exhausting thought.  There are so many intricate formalities and social courtesies that need to be observed.  It's like a mating dance (though, I love mating dances.  Birds, they're just like us!).

Just then Ann pointed to another kid's water bottle and said "Alexa's!  Alexa's water bottle!", referring to her friend from daycare, whom I'm sure she misses.  Sure Ann, salt in the wound right now.  I watched her sidle on up to that grubby little girl and loiter, hoping to strike up a conversation.  The little monster pushed her.  Hard.  Ann looked so bewildered and disappointed it pushed me right past my emotional threshold.  I felt so lonely for both of us, and so sad for her.  She had had no say in this move and was trying so hard to adjust to this new environment we had forced upon her.  My eyes started to well (galldangit!).  All of a sudden I was like an awkward teenage boy called to the front of the class at an inopportune time, trying to quell his excitement (Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!  Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day!).  I tried to think of something else, something cheerful and positive, but as we all know, trying just makes it worse.  And then... Ya.  You're doing it.  You're crying in a gym full of people.  Not the ugly, blubbery crying, but I was certainly that awkward sniffly person by herself in the corner, trying to discreetly wipe her nose.  And sure enough, just at that moment, a super cool-looking mom and her equally cool-looking mom-friend came in with their well-groomed and cheerful kids.  Cool Mom was scanning the crowd and busted me trying to subtly wipe my eyes.  She did a double-take and definitely slotted me away for all eternity as that weird woman crying at kindergym.  Of course Ann immediately ran over and starting playing with their kids, lending me the perfect ice-breaking moment to make friends, were I not already known as Weird Mom, crying in the corner.

Anyways, we recovered by eating cookies and playing who-can-spot-the-most-cats on the walk home, and now I'm off to youtube bird mating dances to cheer myself up.

This is me, trying to be witty for new friends.