Jealousy

I was jealous of my husband every single day when the boys were babies. Every single day when he would leave for work, I would envision his life of freedom: walking to the train station unencumbered by double stroller or diaper bag, a ride on the train with nothing to do but listen to his IPod, having a cup of coffee with no crying or clinging, a lunch eaten with an empty lap and one that did not consist of only a single slice of peanut butter toast. His life seemed, to my baby-filled world, the epitome of freedom. And although this being the modern age and I – privileged with the ability to choose – had chosen this very life, at times it felt like I had been sentenced to it. I was busy with the needs of a very young toddler and a colicky infant. I rarely, if ever, had a moment to myself and I was resentful and jealous that he did, his work-related stresses notwithstanding.

I am not jealous of him anymore.

In fact, I think I have much the better deal these days – the boys are easier, more fun, and I spend much of my time doing fun and interesting things with them. The exception was this past weekend.

My husband was attending a company golf tournament in a mountain resort, and the itineraries that he sent home were filled with fun events and lovely meals, and although I did not envy the golf portion – no – I was filled with jealousy that he could spend the weekend in the company of friends and co-workers with no responsibilities other than to enjoy himself. I on the other hand was caring for the children, enjoyable though they may be, and I felt extremely put-upon. I wanted to be the one going somewhere, doing something, and being completely secure that someone else would take care of things at home, without my input or concern. Of course, that’s not possible. The sad and honest truth is that even if such an opportunity for me to leave for the weekend arose, I would not likely seize it, and I would certainly not be able to be light hearted and carefree about it. The truth is that I cannot go back to the days of light hearted and carefree single-girl travel, and really I do not want to, but I can’t help but feel a selfish sort of sadness that those days are gone forever.

Mr. Carpet Cleaner

For the first time in about a year and a half, I have clean carpets. Hoo boy! Nothing says “1950’s housewife” like the excitement I felt about getting the carpets cleaned, with the exception of maybe obtaining some kind of household appliance. And let me tell you, the excitement was contagious. It was like the freaking circus just came to town for the boys. All day they waited, anticipating Mr. Carpet Cleaner’s arrival. His van was spotted outside at 3:27. “HE’S HEEERRRRREEEEE!!!!” screamed Jake. Mark flung the door open as the unsuspecting carpet cleaner started up our walk. “HEELLLLLOOOOOO!!!!” Judging by his somewhat alarmed expression, clearly Mr. Carpet Cleaner was not accustomed to such an enthusiastic welcome. That was just the beginning. “Is that your vacuum? Is that your vacuum hose? Is that how you plug it in?” The questions were nonstop and the glee was not containable. It kind of made me feel bad. Like how deprived are my children that the carpet cleaner brings them such joy?

Any time we have had people working in our house the kids have been completely engrossed by the progress of the job. A couple of years ago we had the interior doors replaced, and Mark practically stalked the guy doing the job. There was a constant, running commentary from him: “Look, he’s taking off his hat! He’s picking up a hammer! He’s drinking water from a water bottle!” It was a little awkward, not unlike yesterday’s mayhem. I always have a nagging concern that these guys are going to mistake the boys’ enthusiasm for MY enthusiasm, and mistake me for a cougarish, lonely housewife, as in certain adult films. Like maybe I’m going to show up in a short satin robe with those fluffy mule slippers. “Is that your screwdriver? It’s really BIG.”

Anyway. The carpet is clean, even the stain from Barkley throwing up potting soil has been removed. So I am excited! Because forget the lonely housewife, that stain was turning me into a crazed Lady Macbeth.

Inner Peace

I had the good fortune to attend a workshop/discussion with Kino Macgregor, an amazingly talented and lovely yoga instructor. The majority of the discussion centered on transformation and cultivating inner peace and acceptance. It was incredibly inspiring, and it really is how I strive to live my life, with compassion and mindfulness, although I will admit here that at times I feel less like a peaceful being and more like Frank Costanza – SERENITY NOW! – especially when I am trying to get out the door and Jake is sitting on the step, shoeless, yelling “I JUST CAN’T DO IT. I CAN’T PUT MY SHOES ON” and Mark is talking, obliviously, over the din of his brother’s complaints about dinosaurs and Doc Hudson.

Where was I? Oh, yes, inner peace. I was completely inspired by this workshop and the beauty of this woman’s mind. Then, abruptly, my inner peace shattered with the sight of my neighbour – this neighbour – mowing the lawn shirtless. Recall that I live in a city where the average daily temperature, in the hottest month of the year, is 22.9 degrees Celsius. It is not the tropics, people. We do not actually need to be shirtless. Do I do yard work in a thong? No. I do not. That is because I have respect for my neighbours, and I expect the same in return. GO PUT A SHIRT ON.

Of course, hypocritically, if this scene was like something from a Diet Coke commercial, I probably would not complain. But as it is, I really do not need to see your gut, your man boobs, and your back hair, so clothe yourself, neighbour! DO IT NOW!

Right. Inner peace. I’m working on it. I swear.

Father's Day

Father’s Day dawned, like it frequently does here, with a torrential rainstorm and gloomy grey skies. Fortunately, I have lived here long enough to know that you never should plan any outdoor activities in June, i.e., a barbeque, without having a bad-weather Plan B. Actually, forget June, that rule applies for any month in this city. Anyway, our plans for this Father’s Day were actually non-dependent on the weather – the boys were headed to a lunchtime birthday party and Rob and I went out for a rare lunch date. Prior to that, Rob opened his gifts – golf balls! – and took the boys on a trip to Home Depot. Oh boy! Nothing says “Dad” like a trip to Home Depot. Apparently much fun was had by all.

Rob is an awesome dad. He’s wonderful with the boys and they, of course, adore him. However, and I’m going to whisper this very softly, I don’t think he would be as good of a dad if we had girls instead of boys. Is that a terrible thing to say? I’m not saying that he wouldn’t love them, or be a good dad, but I think he is a better father to boys.

“Brian would just be too tough on boys” a friend told me, regarding her husband and his relationship with their two girls. I thought about that for a long time. Is Rob too tough on the boys? I think about when they are whiny, and he tells them to “man up” – something I would never do. I think about when they hurt themselves: Mark won’t cry, and Jake will furiously wipe away tears with a stoic expression.

Meanwhile, the boys want to grow up to be JUST LIKE HIM. Well, Mark wants to be just like him, even going so far as to say he wants to work in the same building and same office, he wants to be exactly the same height and play with the same golf clubs. Exactly the same. Jake, however, wants to be BETTER. He wants to be taller, and stronger, and – despite the fact that he is not yet four, people – he has been quoted as saying “I am going to make more money than you and have a faster car”. Yes indeedy.

Sometimes I will come into the living room to see the three of them squished together on the big chair, to hear them saying “I love you” to each other, and I know that he is not too tough, that the boys know their dad thinks they are the best and will always be there for them. And the love affair goes both ways, the boys climb into bed with him in the early morning for a snuggle, they clamor with excitement when he gets home from work, they can’t wait to tell him about their day. They think he’s the best dad ever, and I think so too.

Lest you think I was bragging...

When my husband got home after my fabulous day on Monday, he said “It’s interesting. It’s hard to know who I’m coming home to.” What? Just because I was competing, and won a blue ribbon, in the Wow I’m Bitchy Today Contest on Sunday, which was immediately followed by my blue ribbon win in the Today is all Sunshine and Rainbows Contest on Monday? He should feel LUCKY. Things are not boring around here, what with my mood swings and all.

Nonetheless, I would like to report that summer vacation, so far, is going nicely. This is massively helped by sunny weather, despite the fact that there was an immense thunderstorm and downpour yesterday afternoon. We took that opportunity to try out some science projects from the Usborne Big Book of Science Things to Make and Do. Let me tell you, I purchased this book through Scholastic, and it was the best Scholastic money I ever spent. Much, much better than the Scooby Doo Early Readers Pack. MUCH BETTER. The projects are aimed at children who are older than mine, but they are so simple that there is no way I can screw them up, which is a very good quality in a science book, no? The only problem is that I have now run out of white vinegar, and am getting very low on baking soda. So, you can probably imagine the kinds of experiments we are doing.

All of which is to say, my pure joy at doing junior science experiments probably qualifies me to win the blue ribbon for Not So Cool But Tries Really Hard award.

Game on, summer, game on.

Because my personality type can be best described as “A”, I had written down “playground” in my agenda for today, the first day of summer vacation. Even writing this, I feel a bit lame. I mean, “playground” on the to-do list? But hey, we all have our quirks, right? Even if mine tend toward the lame and nerdy.

With all the horrible weather of late, we had not been visiting many playgrounds, and the particular playground I planned for today’s outing is one that we hadn’t been to since last summer. The morning was unusually warm, and the boys were excited, and I remembered to pack bug spray and put ice in the water bottles, I had a blanket in the car for a picnic snack, and really the morning could not have been better. I looked around at the other moms there and felt a certain kind of sympathy for the very tired looking ones, who were chasing toddlers but also carrying tiny babies in slings or car seats. I looked at my own hooligans, climbing and running and happy, and I felt like I had become one of those moms that I used to be jealous of – with little kids but not too little; little enough to be happy to be at the playground with their mother, but not so little that they were clinging like barnacles onto the ship that is my body.

The rest of the day passed very pleasantly, with waffles and water squirters, and lots of imaginative play. I felt like a rockstar of a mom: I didn’t raise my voice even once today, which must be some kind of record. I foresaw issues before they became issues and resolved them. I felt relaxed and happy. Today, I was the kind of parent that I want to be.

It was the perfect start to the summer.

School's Out for Summer!

It was the last day of preschool today, but don’t worry! I am not going to regale you with some melancholy post about the passage of time, boo hoo, my kids aren’t at preschool anymore, boo hoo, I have to figure out some good summer activities, etc. Instead, I’m going to regale you with some odd and entertaining events in my day today.

1) I asked the boys to draw pictures of their teachers to attach to our year-end gift. After completing his portraits, Jake, whose artistic skills are, shall we say, not entirely developed yet, looked at said portraits, and announced that they really looked more like a lion and an octopus, rather than our beloved teachers. Truly, this was the case.
2) I walked by a large patch of lily-of-the-valley in bloom, and the scent reminded me of my grandma. I used to give her lily-of-the-valley talcum powder for her birthday. I wondered, if I’m ever lucky enough to be a grandma, will my grandchildren give me lily-of-the-valley talcum powder? Or will I be more of a lavender grandma? Will they even still manufacture talcum powder then? Or will it go the way of the housedress and lisle stockings?
3) As I was walking the dog, I was ogled by a City of Calgary Waste Management employee. Hoo boy! Is there anything more uplifting to the spirit than being catcalled by the garbage man?



Here are the boys on their first day of school:

And here they are on their last:

Awww....

Sleep, I love you

This morning I woke up ten minutes before my alarm went off, with a strange and unusual feeling. What is this? Oh right! I feel rested! I kind of forgot what that felt like.

A friend with a nine-month-old baby was telling me the other day that the baby still wakes up once or twice a night, and I tried to look and sound as sympathetic as possible, but the fact is that Jake, who will be FOUR in a few months, wakes up once or twice a night, at least half of the time. Now, I hasten to add, when he wakes up he needs little more than a pat on the back or maybe a kiss, and we are both back to sleep. In fact, the trip to his room and back probably only accounts for thirty seconds of my time, and because I’m so used to these middle-of-the-night interruptions, they really don’t affect me.

But the boys have been a bit short on sleep these days, and it has started to add up for them. Normally I think they are very well-rested, but it’s tricky to ensure adequate sleep at this time of the year, what with the sky being bright from 5:00 am to 10:00 pm and everything. Add soccer, school, and lots of outdoor play to the mix and you get two very tired boys. Tuesday night Jake woke up seven (seven!) times and was clearly so over-tired he just couldn’t settle back down. Then yesterday he and Mark played pleasantly together all day. Kidding. Of course with that kind of sleep deficit, their behaviour was somewhat hideous and bratty, and I felt like I was slowly going insane. With MY sleep deficit tossed into the mix, you can well imagine what our harmonious household was like: about as harmonious as the “parades” that occur with some frequency around here, which are comprised of the kids playing a harmonica, banging on a cowbell, and shaking maracas all at the same time.

Yesterday was also the preschool family picnic, and let’s just say that by the time we were in the car going home there was quite a lot of whining, complaining, and general discontent. Amazingly, I was alert enough to realize that they were not evil demon-children, but actually really tired children. It’s funny how I can sometimes forget that, and think that they are just out to get me. Anyway, after dinner there was much shrieking and sobbing about ridiculous things (“Mark squirted me with water! My bubble wand isn’t working! I have no feet!” and “Jake is crying too much! He said your flower is purple, but it’s really purply-pink! I don’t want a snack!”) and so I made the executive decision to put the kids to bed a full hour earlier than normal, and they both slept solidly for twelve hours. Suffice it to say that today has been much, much more enjoyable. Actually harmonious, no cowbells involved.

Summertime

Today I woke up in a despairing mood, thinking that Friday – this Friday! – is the last day of preschool. I have mixed emotions about this: on the plus side, we will have so much freedom to visit the zoo, playgrounds, the Science Centre, and have playdates. On the minus side: there goes my time to myself. Even writing that I feel selfish, but I trust all you moms out there, especially all you stay-at-home moms, know exactly what I mean.

I think this year of having both boys in preschool, even though it is only 7.5 hours a week, has made me a bit soft. I mean, I used to spend all day every day with them not so long ago, and they were much (much!) more demanding back then. I used to have one of them in my arms at almost all times, I used to push them in a gigantic double stroller, I used to soothe someone’s crying every hour, I used to pack an enormous bag full of two changes of clothes, two sets of diapers, two sets of snacks, two sets of cups and bottles. Now, of course, I rarely have to physically pick them up, they don’t ride in a stroller, crying is infrequent and the reason for the crying is apparent, I can leave the house with only a couple of water bottles and some granola bars and all will be fine.

We have a great deal of fun things to look forward to this summer: an Okanogan vacation, a week-long day camp at a local farm, and just general summer fun. (Hopefully some sunshine, although given the snow and frost we had this past weekend, that seems a bit too optimistic.)

I think the real reason I’m feeling a bit glum is that their year of preschool togetherness is finished. When I opted to put them in the same class, I worried a bit that they would be too dependent on each other, that there would be a bit too much time together. On the contrary, it has been wonderful for both of them. It was the absolutely right decision. But our days of our cozy little preschool are finished, and now it is time for the big school.

Well, not quite. We have a couple of months before that happens, and I need to ensure that I cherish this time, not dread it, and that I take the time to enjoy my children, in this last summer before starting at the big school.

Confessions of a non-athlete

Ever since Mark started soccer this year, he has absolutely loved it, but last night was the first time he was actually really engaged in the game – kicking the ball (in the right direction, even!) and really getting into the game. I breathed a sigh of relief, not that I particularly care about the game, but I was worried that I would pass on my genetic inability to play competently in a team sport.

My non-athleticism is somewhat legendary. In gym class, I was that girl who would scream and duck whenever the ball came in my direction, apparently foreshadowing the incident that would take place years later when I was in grad school playing slo-pitch. I took a line drive to the throat and ended up in the emergency room. I must note that the only reason I was playing slo-pitch is that there was a three-women-on-the-field rule, and the economics department was short on women. In an ironic, “even a blind squirrel gets a nut once in a while” moment, the one and only time I caught a ball in my two years of playing was on a third out during the championship game, which we subsequently won. Fortunately it was a third out, as I throw the ball almost as poorly as I catch it, and I would have had no idea who to throw it to.

I once read an article that hypothesized that people choose their partners, in part, because of traits they themselves do not possess in order to pass those traits down to their children. This may be true. I know that when I discovered my husband was the recipient of the ParticipAction Award of Excellence, I practically ripped my clothes off to procreate right there, I who only ever garnered the “Participant” stickers, I who developed mysterious “illnesses” on track and field day. I’m really hoping that his athletic genes, not mine, were the ones passed along to our children. But so far, the boys are way ahead of me in that department, so I’m pretty optimistic about it.

Where are my salty snacks???

It was not a good start to the day. I seemed to have changed personalities overnight, to morph into a horrible shrew. It started last night when I was trying to sleep and my boa constrictor-like varicose veins became inflamed and painful. I tossed and turned and wondered WHY my husband could possibly sleep so soundly when his beloved wife was in PAIN and WHY didn’t he wake up and comfort me, dammit? This in spite of the fact that he physically cannot wake me up with his own concerns – a bedside coughing fit by him will allow me to sleep soundly, a throat clearing by one of the boys in a different room will have me flying to help them. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT.

Anyway, I smartly figured out to get out of bed and get myself some nice nighttime aspirin, but by that time it was past eleven, and that may sound reasonable to normal people, to me it’s like four in the morning. Then I couldn’t sleep because I had such important thoughts as “Is it customary to give a gift to the soccer coach at the end of the season? Should I go ahead and organize that? Is Barkley old enough for Milk Bones?” and so forth until my body finally called my brain an idiot and I fell asleep.

When the alarm went off at five I actually decided not to go to the studio but sleep instead. Big mistake. Because when Jake climbed into bed with me at 6:10, he was like “Is it a moon day, Mom? Why are you here? Let’s go have Mini-Wheats!” Which was cute and all, and he totally has my number on the Mini-Wheats thing, but a) my husband was getting up and could have fielded these questions, b) I was still tired, and c) I like to have a little time to myself first thing in the morning and I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN UP WITH THE ALARM. That’s when I morphed into an incredibly irritable version of myself, not at all helped by the fact that my “ladies’ holiday” has not yet been “taken”, as it were, and I’m apparently back to my whacked-out 45 day cycle with insane mood swings. I know. My husband is a lucky guy.

I tried to turn things around by making chocolate chip cookies, but ended up being completely irritated with Jake’s attempts at helping, by rolling the dough into long sausages. “But why can’t they be sausage cookies?” he asked. Because, you imaginative child, I must crush you and your spirit in my quest to make perfectly round cookies, THAT’S WHY.

However, they had preschool this afternoon and I went for my bikini wax. And this is important: if you are bloated, pre-“ladies’ holidays”, and crabby, a bikini wax may not be the ticket for you. I’m going to leave it at that.

Mean Girls and Stupid Boys

It’s June, and looking at the calendar this morning I realized that there are only six more preschool classes left until summer break. Only one child in the class will be in kindergarten with Mark next year, and none of them will be in Jake’s new pre-kindergarten program next year, and so I feel a bit nostalgic, already, about the children in the small, cozy, church-run preschool that they are currently attending. I know all the parents and I like them all, and I know all the children and their little quirks, and I will miss them next year.

However, I have noticed a funny thing in the preschool this year, which I did not notice last year. It is the emergence of the mean girl, the girl who befriends another girl one day, and excludes her the next. This really surprised me, because it’s preschool – I wasn’t expecting to see mean girls for a few years yet. For me, mean girls really surfaced, and I mean really surfaced, around Grade Five. I was the victim of a girl who was frequently cruel and then, suddenly, friendly. Years later, when I read “Cat’s Eye”, I had to put the book down and catch my breath, the memories were so raw.

In my experience, this is a female thing. It seems like it is always the girls who are excluding and ranking. The boys, it seems, have a “more the merrier” approach to life, much more inclusive and welcoming of newcomers into their environment than their female counterparts, who need to do some major evaluation first. This carries on into adulthood, where guys will invite pretty much anyone to watch the game, but women need to have serious conversations about whether or not to allow new members into their book club.

The thing about boys, though, is that they are stupid. Or maybe it would be better to say that they do really stupid things. Or maybe, in the interest of not offending my dear readers, I should say MY boys do really stupid things. I’m not even talking about the gale of laughter that occurs when the ketchup bottle makes a farting sound or the game that Jake plays in which he is a ghost covered in a blanket, but continually smacks himself into walls, due to his obscured vision.

The other day I heard hysterical laughter, coupled with the sound of squeaky dog toys. Since the dog was outside, I just figured the boys were playing with his toys. Then came the bloodcurdling scream, and there was Jake, staggering around with a giant welt on his forehead. It seems that they were taking turns lying in the dog bed and pelting each other with the soft squeaky toys, when Mark decided to use, in lieu of said soft squeaky toy, the hard pointed rubber bone “for vigorous chewers”. His aim was perfect.

His response? “Sorry Jake! I didn’t think that would hurt.”

Jake: “That’s okay. Let’s play again!”