House-keeping Items

Have you ever walked into a room where everyone else was speaking another language but you? And when that room erupts into laughter, you wonder:

Are they talking about me?

Does someones breath smell?

Do they think my breath smells?

Does my breath smell?

Does anyone have some gum? Or a dinner mint?

If I start laughing along too, will they know I don't know what they're talking about and laugh harder at the irony that I'm laughing about my own *potentially* stinky breath and then when I laugh harder they all stop and just stare at me as I quietly back out into the carport?

I'll even take a teaspoon of Cinnamon at this point? Anyone?

See what I'm getting at? Speaking in a language that isolates others isn't ideal. So when there are comments posted to this blog in languages that I don't know, I get a little ..... anxious.

How could they possibly smell my breath? This is a flippin' computer!!!

So, since this is my blog and I'm the boss, we're speaking in English. That's just how it's going to be. I refuse to be isolated in my own blog. Please feel free to leave messages in English. However, messages in other languages will be deleted. I've felt the need to make this policy because of the volume of comments that are being posted in languages that I don't know. Some of you might argue that 3 comments does not a "volume" make, but I care about each little bit of my itty-bitty blog and this is how I'm going to take care of it. Because I'm nothing but responsible. And paranoid.

That is all.

Goodnight and good luck.

*For the record: I don't have a breath/stink problem, I merely used this purely hypothetical situation that would apply to many, if not most people, at some point in their lives to illustrate my angst. Not that having stinky breath is bad. It's not. And I'm sure Cinnamon does help. I mean, why wouldn't it. But I have no real facts or data to back that up. Because why would I, since I don't have a stinky breath problem.

I'm Just a Girl in the World

It has become apparent that I am, and will continue to be, raising a girl (ie. the Red Baron) and I'm a little freaked out by this fact. Maybe "freaked out" isn't the right term. A more accurate description would be that I have stared right into the depths of female turmoil and shuddered to my very soul. Not to be mildly dramatic or anything (YES I SAID MILDLY!).

The Red Baron has discovered her reflection in the mirror within a social context. This is freaky psycho-analytical/social commentary stuff I'm getting into. Dust off you text books people!! This is about to get CRAZY in here!

This is how it went down:

While in the bathroom and she looked in the mirror and shockingly exclaimed "Oh no Mama!! My hair!! I look terrible! I can't look like that!" in this disgusted, frantic little voice with flailing hands trying to smooth the fuzzies out of her golden strawberry hair (which, for the record, looked perfectly fine). After much fussing, she parted her hair way over on the side and then looked back in the mirror and assured herself "Oh that's so much better! Look how beautiful I am now."

Ummmm.......

WHAT?!?!

Are we related? Please note the pictures below of me and my best friend, Da Bangs after rolling out of bed one morning. I don't really worry about fly-aways and certainly never thought I would spawn a child that would worry about them at 3 years old.

Look - I've known I would be raising a daughter since that precious ultrasound at 20 weeks gestation. She was the cutest little gummy-bear girl fetus I ever beheld. But I've only now realized that I was raising A GIRL and all the girly anxiety that goes with it. I vividly remember the insecurities and emotional stress that I endured in relation to my appearance and the ups and downs that go hand-in-hand with being a girl. Who am I kidding by speaking in the past tense? These insecurities roared their ugly heads yesterday when I started to sweat justthinking about going bathing suit shopping. Sometimes I feel like I barely made it through thegirly gauntlet on my own behalf - how am I supposed to show this little tyke how it's done when I can't seem to figure it out myself?

Back to the bathroom - in this little scene I was completely dumbfounded. It was practically an out-of-body experience. Everything got very quiet - like the weight of this pivotal teaching moment pressed down on us all - I needed to say or do something that would put beauty and appearances in context for the rest of her life. I swear even the berry flavored toothpaste grew eyes and was just starring at me. Waiting. For something.

Please don't get me wrong - I do try to and enjoy looking nice - but I've told myself that I was above emphasizing appearances. That they didn't matter to me - a practical non-issue. But this little bathroom episode has changed all that. Because the Red Baron spends approximately 98% of her waking hours with me, and if she's scrutinizing her looks, than it's because she's seen me do it. And I had promised myself that the traits I would hand down to my posterity would be hooked elbows and finger toes. But the Red Baron didn't get my finger-like toes - she got something bigger (reference - I have size 11 feet). Instead she inherited.......

MY FEMININE INSECURITY.

yikes.

Suddenly I realized - it's started. The worrying, the primping, the plucking, the picking, the stressing, the plumping, the pinching, the tweezing, the brushing, the trimming, the waxing (ouch), the shaving, the "do these pants make my butt look big?"-ing. All of it. It's begun. And she's 3.

"You know what?" I said, shakily, "I think you look just right, exactly how you are."

Would that be enough? Would that put the diva-talk away and in it's place a re-prioritizing of values? Would this make her want to be smarter instead of prettier? Would this inspire self-appreciation instead of self-degradation? My mind was racing with less than helpful thoughts like "Who do you think you are, showing someone how to be a girl? You're a terrible girlPIEFACE!" I held my breath.

"Oh. Ok. Let's go sing Jingle Bells."

And like that, it was over.

Obviously she gets her dramatics from her dad.

Happy Birthday To My #1 Fan

May is a big month. Mother's Day, numerous birthdays (including a husband), memorial day, and anniversaries all land on this celebratory month and to be completely honest, I'm not very good at remembering them all. It's not that they aren't important, it's that my brain isn't what it once was (it could be argued that I've never been a great remember-er of significant days, even at my brainiest moments - but let's not argue during such a happy month, k?). It's a big month. Like the biggest month. Think of the biggest thing you can think of, and then name it May. (In case you were wondering, I thought of an elephant pregnant with triplets). (SIDE NOTE - elephants are pregnant for 22 months at a time and their babies weigh 250 lbs). (I don't think this huge elephant named May should be pregnant with quadruplets, because, I mean, like get real). But this year, May is even a little more special because along with all the other fanfare, I celebrate the birthday of my #1 fan.

I would be remiss to neglect this special occasion after all the things we've been through, me and my #1 fan. My life, my whole being would be so different had we never met. My heart is full thinking of all the things we've survived together - all the late nights, early mornings, good times and bad. "Through thick, and thin," or so the saying goes. With this in mind, I would like everyone to raise a glass to toast my friend, my rock, my constant companion:

To my Bangs!!

Happy Birthday Bangs! May you continue to be my favorite part of my face and the most surprising part of my morning.

May Heidi Klum continue to inspire us both and may we continue to avoid self-maintenance.

Long live the Bangs!!

So just keep in mind that if you're ever having a bad day - just go birth you some bangs. You won't regret it.

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.