This is How We Dance in a Hazelnut Grove

I challenged myself to post something under 100 words. But if pictures are worth a thousand words, than I have failed miserably because these say so much about my girl.

The Story of the Baloney Sandwich

I have a bad taste in my mouth today. Mostly because I saw a kid be slightly mean to my best girl, and I didn't like it. Even the most minty fresh gum isn't going to rinse this nagging, day-old bread residue out of my saliva glands.

Can you even imagine someone being mean to this face (and yes, that is a tooth flosser in her hair, thank you for asking)? It wasn't a big deal and the funny thing is that it wasn't the actual insensitive act or bossing that bothered me so much. What really got my goat was the Red Baron's reaction to it. She was so submissive and repentant, when I really just wanted to see her hold her ground and counter a little bit. This wilting girl was not the Red Baron that I know. If I had been the one to demand and boss, she would have shrieked, flung her arms, pointed her toes and turned a deep shade of purple. No one tells the Red Baron what to do. Except little, itty, bitty 7 years olds, apparently. Those protective instincts just flared right up in me and left this ugly feeling that I imagine echos any loss of control.

Now, if it was this face:

being mean to this face:

I would only consider it sibling rivalry and no big deal. But it was an outsider. And that just irked me to no end. I worry about the Red Baron. A lot. Is she going to be able to defend herself when the time comes? Have I stifled her sense of self and made her just another sheep following the herd with all my "good listening" encouragement and being mama's little helper? Am I equipping her with the tools to deal with people who might not have her best interests at heart? Am I forgetting that she's only 3 years old and I need to let go of the "what ifs" and focus on the smaller, more immediate things like counting in sequence to 20 and getting her shoes on the correct feet? Lots of stuff rattling the old upstairs hamster wheel, I assure you.

Then tonight at dinner the Red Baron started playing her favorite game - "Tell me a story about when you were little." At first this game was really fun. It's great strolling down memory lane, reminiscing about a simpler time (the 80's) and how life used to be before email and twitter. But eventually I actually ran out of stories. I started to repeat myself, but the Red Baron would have none of it. She demands fresh material and with a wave of her tiny hand, will proclaim "Mama, you've already said this one. I want a different one."

So I was racking my brain for any loose tidbits I could stretch into a decent story for this demanding little dictator and my better half said "Tell the story about the baloney sandwich." This story was so buried in my deeper psyche that I just didn't respond to him in the hopes that he would just forget what he had just said and we could move on to another topic. This story is so etched in my being I can still feel, taste, touch and hear every sensory element of that day. But with his persistence ("Hey!? Can you not hear me? I think you should tell the baloney sandwich story!") I took a deep breath and dutifully told her the story of the baloney sandwich.

It was a sunny day in grade 8 and I had just gotten off the school bus and had quickly gotten some distance to the bottom of the short hill toward a path that led to my street. I heard the rush of the air compression brakes as the bus pulled away from the curb and continued down the hill towards where I was walking. I was safely on the sidewalk, but the bus would pick up speed and come right past me as it continued it's route. Now, it was full with Jr. High students and you could hear the general ruckus that accompanies a bus full of teenagers on their post-scholastic high. I could feel the bus coming closer and closer, and knew that soon it would pass me and leave that thick gush of air that gets in your face, crowding you eyes, nose and mouth with dust and exhaust fumes. But this time was different. Because along with dust and fumes, I heard this obnoxiously loud slapping noise. I knew I hadn't been shot, because supposedly you never hear the shot with your name on it. But such is not the case with mystery meats. This slapping sound was so loud, it startled and disoriented me at first and I looked around to see what had happened. I glanced to my right. There was nothing. I tried to glance toward my left, but couldn't because my view was obstructed by this sticky, soggy mass. I peeled it off only to find an open-faced baloney sandwich, filled with mayo, plastered to the side of my head and face. I looked up at the bus right in time to see about a thousand eyes looking back at me and hear a roaring explosion of laughter trail ahead of me, leaving me in it's wake. There I stood, alone in the world and smelling of week-old baloney. Maybe older.

The Red Baron thought this story was hilarious. Almost like a "why didn't I think of that" kind of moment. But it was good for me to stroll down this murky memory lane and remember that without harder times, we wouldn't have a chance to rise above and fulfill our whole potential. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, that sandwich helped me to see what I was really made of. Because even though it was tempting to never step foot on that bus ever again, I still did it. Even though it was tempting to change my name and get a face-transplant, I continued to answer to and don my Pieface. Probably no one remembers that story except for me. Though, part of me would love to listen to the person at my 20-year high school reunion that starts off the conversation with "Dude, remember when we threw that sweet sandwich at that unsuspecting girl? That was the best day of my life." And if my baloney sandwich is the crowning jewel to someones high school experience, I can't take that away from them. I am not cruel (even though I picture this person surfing questionable Internet dating sites while donning a Taco Bell vest).

I still won't go near baloney. Even I can tell you that the stuff is nasty, and none of it even entered my mouth. Thank heavens my ears don't have taste buds.

So I hope that the Red Baron never gets publicly hit with rotten sandwich meat, but since I know she will be at the receiving end of other people's insensitivity at some point (or many), I hope that she faces those hardships head on and stretches to see what she's truly made of. Perhaps one day she'll be recounting her smelliest, most degrading and humiliating stories to a Red Baron of her very own and realized that she too triumphed over some ugly situations.

And this makes me smile. Because I'm pretty sure she's going to be just fine.

I'm a Social Marketing Genius

When I was pregnant the first time around, a friend gave me a book called "How To Con Your Kid." Which excited me to no end. I had read/skimmed plenty of parenting books/magazines and was left confused and scared. Words like "family bed" and "attachment bonding" were dancing in my head, and I realized that what I needed was a book that would just tell me, straight up, how to get my kid to do what I want them to do. Case closed. I hoped that the loving, attachment and bonding would come naturally and it did. But getting a kid to do what I wanted? I was as clueless as the next blubbering pregnant woman.

I didn't really read that book until the Red Baron was about a year old, which is when the real dissension started to happen. Some call it "the terrible twos" and the reason, I think, is because that's the age when the kid starts to think they are smarter than their parents. This goes dormant, for some, at about school age and then comes back like plague of grass-hoppers at about 12 or 13. Unfortunately for me, the seeds of superior thoughts started at approximately 10 months old for the Red Baron. This became obvious when at about 11 months old I gave her her lunch, and she threw her arms in the air and said "You gotta be kidding me!" Like a servant scorned, I just stammered and give excuses "Honey... but you like cheese, remember?.... and the strawberries were in season - remember how you like strawberries?" Talk about handing over the reigns, right? I knew this had to end - I couldn't be stripped of my dignity as routinely as one would change their socks. Since I had kissed my waistline, hair, brain, punctuation, punctuality and privacy goodbye, my dignity was about all I had left. "Stand up!" I told myself, "Stand up and be a Mom!"

So I broke out the book and started to read.

But this book, though clever and creative, wasn't quite what I needed to take back the control and "con my kid." It told me to cut my kids hair while they slept (sounds like a disaster to me) or sing songs called "eat the peas" to the tune of "Let it be" by the Beatles. Again - very sweet, but they didn't know who I was dealing with. This girl has the pipes of a banshee and a will of iron. She wasn't going to eat the peas even if I juggled 20 of them in one hand while singing Handel's Messiah on a unicycle with my eyes closed. Eat your own dang peas.

Then one night, I was making pulled pork (the BEST stuff for tacos, burritos, sandwiches, you name it) and in trying to get the Red Baron to eat it I called it "meat candy." As soon as the word "candy" was out of my mouth, a Social Marketing Genius was born within me (of course it doesn't hurt that there's a cup of brown sugar in the recipe). You put the word "candy" in any menu name and your kid will eat it. The Red Baron wolfed down the pork, and was begging for more. "Meat candy please!" was like music to my ears and a band-aid to my wounded parenting ego. I'm going to try to sell them on "asparagus candy" tonight so keep your fingers crossed for me.

Then last month I got a gym membership and knew I would need to really sell the in-house daycare idea to The Little Man, who would be going in alone. I was a little worried there would be some fireworks, but I laid down the ground work and told him that after dropping The Red Baron off at preschool, he would be going to "Playschool" where he would meet friends, play with toys and have general fun and shenanigans. So we walked in, and he marched over to the admitting desk and said "Hey Friends! I'm here!" and didn't take a sideways glance at me ever after. It was almost magical.

So you can see why I think I might be onto a second career here, right? Social Marketing expert for toddlers? Sounds great to me. Anything to keep me off that unicycle.

The Red Baron from her command central.

For the Love of Target and All that is Holy

Since it's the sabbath, I should really only write about holy things. And in this house, Target falls into that category.

Ok, no it doesn't. But kind of, it does.

I am an admittedly huge Target fan. There's just something about it that doesn't make me feel cheap even though I am about as cheap as they come. My husband sometimes feels bad that perhaps our children will never know what a full-priced, brand new item of clothing feels like. Poor little, neglect kids, right? I can't wait for the telethon for that cause to roll out (I hope it's hosted by Tori Spelling).

Anyway - I love Target (I feel extra exotic when I roll the middle R - Tarrrrrrget. Try it. You'll like it). I was first introduced to Target as a teenager (no Targets in Canada). We were in Southern California and my mom said "Let's go to Target (read Tar-jay with a french accent)." It sounded so classy; I was instantly excited. Then we went in. And honestly, I can't remember anything about that inaugural trip. My only explanation of the lack of detail on this historic occasion is that I was so overwhelmed with awesome that I blacked out. I'm just not entirely sure. All I know is that Target made an impact and I have been pretty brand loyal ever since.

I have been known to float around Target on my kid-free nights if I have nothing else to do, or no plans with other friends (ie Target is my friend). Maybe I should feel ashamed at my lack-luster use of free-time. But I'm 30 years old now, and I can own that I occasionally haunt Target when I should be out solving cold cases or crocheting leprosy bandages. It's liberating to be able to loiter in the book section, look at EVERY magazine I can get my hands on, check out music I've never heard of, try on all the hats, touch all the baby clothes, buy my laundry detergent and go home. Simple minds = simple needs.

But I had no idea the kind of impact my love of all things Target would have on my children, specifically The Red Baron. At a very young and tender age, she could spot a Target from a mile away. "Mama, I see the red ball!! Let's go to Target!" I'm not sure why at Target elicited an excited reaction for long shopping trips, while trips of the same length at other stores received screeching-fetal-positioned-dead-weight style reactions from the same kid. Is it the lighting? The staff uniforms (or lack-there-of)? I don't know. But I do know that The Red Baron is about as loyal to Target as I am. Recently, at preschool they were learning about maps and each was given the assignment to draw a map to somewhere they liked to go and the teachers wrote the descriptions at the bottom in big bold letters: "Sydney's map to Grandpa's house" or "Anders' map to the beach." Other popular destinations were the lake, the park, the zoo. The Red Baron's map simply read "The Red Baron's map to Target." Initially, I laughed at this - the apple not falling far from the tree, chip off the old block, (insert your favorite cliche here). But then I started to worry - obviously other three year olds aren't demonstrating this kind of intense saturated commercialization. Is this healthy? Has my love for Target somehow clouded her idea of what a good time really is? Shouldn't she be wanting to go to the park as well, and not to the accessories section or stationary aisle? I started over-analyzing my parenting, and re-evaluating my enthusiasm of Target. I had to get to the bottom of this, for both of our sakes. Because abandoning Target wasn't an option. Where would I go then? Walmart? (shudder).

Slowly the story of her love of Target unraveled in my mind. Back at Christmas time we were shopping for a gift to donate to charity. A tag was chosen from the angel tree was for a girl who happened to be the same age as the Red Baron. Due to our lack of foresight, the shopping trip we hoped would teach her about charity really only encouraged her to come completely unhinged after realizing that the toy she carefully chose for herself was actually going to a complete stranger. In a last stab at charity, we explained to her that if she got this doll for this mystery girl, we could write to Santa and let him know which doll The Red Baron would really like. It worked, and we left the store with a couple shreds of dignity. Well, a week later, Santa made a surprise visit to the preschool Christmas party, bringing with him the perfect present for each of the students and siblings in attendance. And to the amazement of the Red Baron, Santa handed her the exact doll she had picked out at the store. With her eyes wide open and her jaw to the ground, she turned to me and said, "Mama ... Santa shops at Target."

Ever since, I think her Target excitement stems from the possibility of running into Ole St. Nick. I think she feels like if she goes often enough, she's bound to catch sight of him and maybe put in a good word or two. You know, rub elbows with some one owning real authority. I can't really blamer her either and would probably do the same thing at the chance to meet Ellen Degeneres or Tina Fey.

So I don't need to worry about The Red Baron's over-excitement for Target and I am saved from having to darken the door of Walmart once again. And all is well in the world.

Some Shots Are Just Going to Fall

Please note my ridiculously fast healing gums.

Hi. It's been a while. I'm tired of feeling badly about blog neglect. There's got to be a support group for me right? We could meet and exchange fake names and discuss why it's not OUR fault the blogs are being neglected, it's our camera's fault (it's still not working right) or the scanner won't start (really - by the time any of my techno problems are fixed I'll just have to donate them to a museum - my stuff will be right next to the atari game console and the football phone) or any number of other daily blogging dilemmas. I'll bring the city-punch (aka tap water).

The only thing more exhausting than the feeling of actively neglecting something is trying to chase the ever flowing fountain of things that spring in my mind to write about. You better believe that I have things to say. That those things are intelligent, witty, slightly off-color and would totally blow your mind. Just trust me. But I just can't seem to get my act together. You must be wondering "How does Pieface actually sustain lives, feed babies, return phone calls, answer emails, etc. etc. when she can't even keep a simple blog updated?" And the answer to these and many other questions is "barely" (all except the feeding babies part - I'm pretty dedicated to that).

So my deepest apologies. Really and truly, if you are reading this (and I'm not sure if anyone still reads this) BUT IF YOU ARE please know that this neglect is nothing personal, that I love that you're reading and I love your comments. Yes, even you; person-with-the-Asian-keyboard-who-posts-random-Confucius-style-comments. Thank you.

I guess I've been feeling lately like I'm just barely making it as a mother. This is by far the hardest gig I've ever had, which may not speak much for me by way of character or capability. Some days it seems like everyone else has their act together and I keep seeing other people being the kind of parent I always thought I would be. But I continue to fall short. And it's frustrating. I would be lying if I said I haven't cruised the Craigslist classifieds looking for a job that would pay enough to send my kids to a place where the childcare professionals could take care of them. At least they have child development degrees, liscences, certifications. Which isn't as flashy as a Sociology degree, let's be honest. But the Sociology degree hasn't really helped in this current parenting job I've landed (I don't even want to think about my Communications minor or Inter-Personal Communications Associates degree - jeesh). Toddlers just don't appreciate synergy like they should.

Yes, there have been some pretty hard and long days.

And what's worse is that I get frustrated about being frustrated. I know. I'm ridiculous. But there it is.

So, after some pretty crazy days (and the realization that my education and skills are outdated and I could probably make enough to send my children to the double-wide day-care next to the train tracks and the cock-fighting ring, but not much more) I went looking for answers. And people, answers are what I found (thank you Internet).

I've been looking at this thing all wrong. Motherhood is a relationship, not a job. This might sound obvious to you, but it was enlightening to me. Because I was looking for some kind of validation or self-evaluation check-list. Something to tell me I was doing a good job, that my kids will one day contribute to the greater good, that The Red Baron would stop saying things in public that would cause a scene like "Don't touch me, you're hurting me!!" or that the Little Man would stop running into busy parking lots by himself. But I'm not going to find that stuff anywhere. I just have to do my best and pray that everyone's going to make it. Because my wagon is hitched to the motherhood bull, and that's where I want it. I want it hitched to the bull.

Also, I was reminded of something an old basketball coach once told me (get ready for a high school sports anecdote). She was a quasi-scary lady; very militant in our conditioning, not afraid to yell or demand respect. When she didn't get the respect she wanted, she stomped over in her ill-fitting early 90's track suit and took it. The ill-fitting track suit was the only thing keeping me from developing a deeper fear. The pants would ride up so high it was hard to take her seriously. She told me not to expect much playing time because I lacked the level of skill she preferred in her players but I had a good attitude so I could be on the team. I was excited at the chance to learn more and hopefully prove her wrong. Throughout the season I improved and somehow along the way picked up a perfectionist tendency. I would mentally beat myself up if the person I was defending scored too high or did too well (and this happened often), hindering my ability to effectively play the offensive game. Finally, she took me aside and said "Look. Some shots ... they're just going to fall. There's nothing you can do about it." (For some reason I want to start chanting "RU-DY! RU-DY!" right here).

After giggling that her faded navy blue running pants were bunched up to the bottom of her sports bra, I realized she was totally right. Some shots are just going to fall. There is not a single thing I can do about that. Sometimes the Red Baron is just going to be impossible and I will look like a crazed maniac dragging her dead weight out of Target. And sometimes the Little Man will defy all reason and only speak in dinosaur roars for days and wear Thomas the Tank Engine underwear as a hat. And there is nothing I can do about that (besides take pictures that I can't upload onto my blog). It's up to me to decide that we're going to roll with it, make sure no one gets hurt and move on. That's my job. And until recently, I didn't get that. My days have been looking up ever since coming to that realization. And motherhood is fun again.

Confucius says: "When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them."

Dude. Confucius. You totally get me.

That's me in the middle. With a tiny bit of crazy-eye.

On Being An Olympic Underachiever

Tonight while I was watching the men's skating I distinctly remember watching these type of events as a kid and thinking "What's the big idea, I could totally do that" (I was really good at spinning around and not getting dizzy). Remember when you were little and you thought "I wonder when I'm going to get MY gold medal?" Not a matter of "if," but "when." Turns out I wasn't the only one. The longer I watch the Canadian coverage of the Olympics, the more former classmates I see in the standings. I went to elementary school with 3 Olympians. How funny is that? We all survived french immersion together. I'm starting to feel like a real Olympic underachiever. And there's the French Immersion/Quebec factor again. Have you noticed how many Canadian Olympians are francophone? I'm sensing a relationship between complicated grammar and athletic prowess. But that brings me to the question - what's my problem? Why aren't I an Olympian. I'll mull this one over and get back to you on that.

But let's talk about my current favorite Olympian - Maelle Ricker. I got goose bumps when I watched Maelle Ricker receive her gold medal for the women's snowboarding cross for Canada. This was a very fun moment because Maelle and I went to elementary and high school school together, though I didn't get to know her until grade 11 when we played on the basketball team together. Maelle has got to be the nicest, hardest working person ever. This kind of success could not have been given to a more deserving person. I'm so proud of her. When the competition started I was just casually telling people "I know her!" which slowly built up to an emphatic "I totally know her!" which preceded an enthusiastic "We were like TOTALLY FRIENDS!" and finally a slightly hysterical, "She was practically in my wedding!"

She was never in my wedding. But our last interaction was so typical of Maelle. We ran into each other at 7-11 in the winter of 1996 (am I old?) and she said "Hey - come up to Whistler I'll teach you how to snowboard" and I was like, "Thanks, but I'm just so super busy." Isn't that the lamest story ever? I assure you that she would never remember this. She is just so nice that she would just offer things like this - time, skills, etc. to an old friend and leave a lasting impression on an Olympic underachiever like me. I love it when good people are rewarded for their success - like all is well in the Olympic world.

I guess I'll just have to keep figuring out what Olympic sport is mine (my thighs would indicate speed skating, but my buoyancy leans more toward ski jumping. Decisions, decisions).

*I'll post some pictures when I return home from this magical Olympic land.

Dear Quebec, Thanks for Everything

So I'm back in my hometown, Vancouver, BC, Canada, to attend the Olympics. This is a city of beauty, fun and it's my home town. I love it. If you've never been, you have to come. During the most normal times you won't regret the visit. However, throw in the Winter Olympics and it's like we've all died and gone to heaven (this heaven is red and white and smells faintly of wool socks). We're all practically dipped in fairy dust, it's so magical. I'm so glad and lucky to be here.

Currently there is a TV campaign promoting each of the Canadian provinces and Quebec's commercial ends with the tag-line "Quebec, Providing Emotions Since 1634." This made me laugh out loud when I saw it. Because any Canadian will tell you that this statement could not be more true. As you may or may not know, the Quebecois are constantly wanting to ditch the rest of Canada and after a while this happy little Canadian has started to take it personally. Like the rest of Canada is an ice cream parlor, and Quebec is just wandering around the place with one of those itty-bitty-teeny-tiny spoons contemplating whether the chocolate is chocolaty enough or whether the pralines are praliney (?) while rolling a swollen pecan in their mouth.

I have a unique perspective on the Quebecois since attending elementary school in the French Immersion Program, mostly run by Quebecois and the odd mild-mannered Albertan. You have never seen anything like the fire in the eyes of a French Immersion teacher discussing the glories of the early Canadian explorers (who were French), or the intricacies of verb conjugation in "plus-que-parfait" (the french verb tense directly translated to "even-more-than-perfect") or the beauties of Winter Carnival (celebrated only in Quebec). The only thing to rival their love for all things Quebecois is their love for obnoxiously loud MC Hammer pants and aerobics. These teachers were jumpy and could make a student burst into tears with the least provocation. They weren't mean necessarily, but definitely ran on pure passion, which you could see in their eyes (a teeny-tiny bit of Crazy Eye - from all the emotions). It was an interesting educational experience for sure. So you can see how the tag-line that brags of bringing "emotions" seems pretty funny to me.

Truth is: though I have felt jilted, I love that Quebec continues to be a Canadian province. I love that I've had the opportunity to learn french and visit such a beautiful place. I love that I can spot a French Canadian from a mile away (it's the Crazy Eye) and can then go and speak to said Crazy-Eye. I hope this is always the case and that Quebec never secedes. It's part of who we, as Canadians, all are.

These thoughts were rolling around in my head as I watched the first Canadian to ever win a gold medal on Canadian soil on Monday on television. It was a happy and exciting moment and the excitement extended into the Victory Ceremony the next day, which I was able to attend. I stood on my feet, with a sold-out crowd, singing "Oh Canada" at the highest decibel I could muster (and let's face it, if volume and lung capacity were an Olympic event, I would CLEAN HOUSE) and watched this young man hold up his gold medal to his country-people, beaming at his accomplishment. I just was absolutely brimming with patriotism and couldn't help but tear up. It was beautiful and something I will always remember. A moment when I thought "I am Canadian and I love that I am Canadian." As I'm sure you know by now, this Canadian Olympian is Alexandre Bilodeau, from the glorious province of Quebec.

So, thanks Quebec for providing all the emotions. I really owe you one.