Looky Looky

Not to do another annoying “Looky over here” post, but...

Hey gang, looky over HERE!

I’m guest blogging at Canadian Family’s Family Jewels blog all week. A few weeks ago, after I’d posted my love of Andrea Fishbowl (yes your last names are always your blogs in my mind – even when your blog no longer exists, ahem Jen MUBAR) at Sweetmama, the lovely ladies at Canadian Family asked her to guest blog.

So when they asked me too, I assumed that Andrea would be going first so I could take some pointers from her. I’m guessing that March Break got in the way and looks like I’m the one who has to tread where no blogger has gone before. (Damn!)

It’s probably a good thing because Andrea is a hard act to follow. She’s all “Hey look at these pretty crafts I made with my girls while I was standing on my head and taking pictures at the same time!” So I took some of your advice (I think someone suggested “Stick to what you’re good at”) from my last post and incorporated into yesterday’s post.

Later today they should be posting my "OMG! I'm turning into my mother!" post -- assuming they're OK with the photo I submitted of my muffin top (which I stole from an old post over at Motherbumper's site after having Nate -- my current muf top is WAY scarier).

Tomorrow and Friday I'll be talking about starting a blog and what you should know before getting your feet wet. Sometimes it's fun to have a new home for your work and a new audience -- it's inspiring. More on that to come.

Anyway, check it out -- I promise it's funny.

Play School

"Play Batman with me Mommy," Nate calls to me as I'm caught checking my Blackberry again. I look up at him, wanting to make him happy, but completely clueless. "OK, but you'll have to tell me HOW we play Batman."

Contrary to what you might think about this creative mind, I have a dirty secret. I don't know how to play with my kids.

While I have a rich imagination, it's a solitary one. I don't know how to share it. It's locked into my brain. (Hence I write and write and write.)

My husband on the other hand can transform anything into something fabulous. Any ordinary object becomes a fantastic game. Incredible stories are spun from his mind in minutes. I look on with a twinge of envy. I don't know how he does it.

I was brought up in a house where my dad frowned upon playing with Barbies. If he saw us playing with Barbies, he'd throw that skinny blonde big-titty bitch across the room and tell us to read a book. We got to a point where we'd here him coming, throw Barbie behind our beds and rapidly pick up a book to avoid his rage.

My mom's idea of play was teaching us to use the carpet sweeper, or to sit quietly during Y&R. It's not their fault. My parents grew up in a third world country and never had toys growing up. Life was so serious that play was secondary to chores that needed to be done, staying safe and later getting an education. An education for girls lead to one of two paths: Becoming a teacher or becoming a home ec. queen. (My mom literally learned embroidery in school.)

I did play with neighbourhood kids and stuff. I did have an 18 months younger sister to play with all day. But somehow I lost the ability to play over the years. I don't know if this is due to being raised on TV and books, both very individualistic activities, but I just don't know where to start with my own kids.

Sometimes, when I do get a burst of creativity in play, it's often over the top. Like last week when I decided that I was going to build them a Batmobile. I put so much energy into it, getting a rush over the concept, thinking it was so rad.

"That's not a Batmobile Mom," Nate said looking over my project. "It isn't? It totally is! Look at these cool flaps," I said, pointing to the pizza box lids I had masking taped to the sides.

"NO! Look!" He ran to get his Lego Batmobile to prove to me that I was way off. Damn smart kids. So I had to get creative. "Well that's because this is a Bat-PLANE!" I even crafted a working steering wheel.


This appeased them for awhile. They got in and out of it, totally thrilled. And I felt like Supermom.

For two whole glorious days.

Now the Batplane sits sadly in their room, gathering dust, reminding me that I have no clue when it comes to kids. Lucy destroyed the steering wheel and that made Nate not want to play with it any more (much like my super-Catholic ex-boyfriend Gino John, who didn't want to play with me anymore when he found out I'd been "tampered" with before).

I can't bear to toss the Bat-plane into the recycling bin, because that would be admitting defeat. And it would mean starting over again, trying to re-invent the wheel. Literally.

Tell me I'm not the only one. Give me some tips here. It's going to get better once the weather is warmer right?

I blogged about my weekend and I didn't even say FUCK

So I'm still sorta blogging. Two to three times a week at the day job. It's still good (and if you're one of those people who likes me but cringes at my swearing, then you'll really like it) but I don't get to say FUCK. And that is why this space cannot die. And because I miss you guys too much.

I wasn't honest about the real reason I was quitting blogging. The truth is that J has suffered his personal life being spliced, splattered and shared on the internet with strangers for nearly FIVE years. And he doesn't like it one bit. He's super private and guarded about such things and I can't really blame him for not wanting 5000 random strangers to know when we've fought, or when he's had the fellatio.

And I don't want to get divorced, so I tried to throw him a bone.

But I can't do it.

So here I am. I'll deal with the repercussions later.

My husband had his man-period. Which means he ate all my chocolate and then he didn't talk to me for two days, because when he asked to see a movie at 7pm on his night off, I said I wasn't thrilled with the idea since I had to do bedtime alone for the following 6 nights.

a) How did I go from having a husband who worked nights one out of every three weeks, to having a husband who works nights, period?

b) Is it too much to ask that he help out with bedtime and THEN go out?

c) I don't fucking care if it's an Oscar nominated Werner Herzog flick playing at the rep theatre for one night only.

But I didn't say any of that. All I said was, "Ummm, that's fine... But I'd rather you help out with bedtime and then go out, since I'll have to do bedtime alone for the next 6 nights."

And he didn't talk to me for TWO days. And then that very night, as we were readying the kids for bedtime -- he fell asleep. In the middle of the bed. Before either of the kids had their jammies on! So I had to put the kids to bed all by myself anyway.

To be clear, putting the kids to bed by myself isn't a huge chore once the dinner and bathtime part is over. Nate quietly "reads" comic books in my bed and Lucy takes no more than 10 minutes to put to bed. But it was such a Fuck You!

This past weekend we were supposed to go to Lake Placid for a work thing. We were excited. We needed the time away so that we wouldn't hate each other so much. Plus it was paid for. But then Thursday morning the trip was cancelled due to freezing rain conditions.

I immediately went on Travelocity to find a cheap flight to NYC. I called J excited. "I found a trip for three nights, including flight and a stay at the Algonquin for $800! For both of us!" We've never been to NYC together and it just sounded so spontaneous.

He balked a bit, citing that we've done really well to pay off a chunk of our debts as of late and he'd go to NYC but only if we made sandwiches in our hotel room. Which offended my high maintenance tastes. Because making sandwiches in your hotel room is not romantic. At least not in NYC.

"Awwww, you're such a downer," I said. And just like that, man-period was back on.

I didn't mean to offend him. I didn't say it to hurt his feelings. I guess regardless of whether I called him a downer, a wet blanket or a stick in the mud, it wouldn't be nice to hear on the other end of the line. But I didn't want realism in that moment. I wanted to be swept off my feet.

We patched things up a bit the next morning and booked in at an Ontario inn. The details of it are here and I think it's still a funny post. But it does feel nice to be able to say Motherfucker again. Because one should be able to say Motherfucker in their own home. And in a weird way, this is kinda home to me.

Anyway, I'm trying to be nicer to the huzzle. He really is a fantastic man (though I don't write much about his good parts here unfortunately -- because who would want to read that?) and I'm still completely in love with him (as I discovered this weekend). He just happens to be a bit sensitive. And I just happen to be a bit crude. And brash. And blunt. I need to write lines like in grade school.

I will think before I speak.
I will think before I speak.
I will think before I speak.
I will think before I speak.

(Do you think I can do it? I have my doubts, but for him I'll try. You can have fun laughing at my attempts to be a good wife.)

Opposites react

Originally published on Sweetspot.ca

I recall reading something in Today’s Parent once about personality types breaking down into nine categories. The thing that struck me about the article was a suggestion that the parent could have opposing traits to their children, which would require patience and understanding. At the time, my first born was young and while he may have been exhibiting signs of personality, I probably mistook it as passing gas.

For the most part, I identify greatly with my son. He exhibits a lot of my fears and anxieties and I often find myself explaining the best way to coax him into doing things to my husband. But this weekend at a birthday party (at this fabulous art studio) I found myself in an “a-ha moment” with Nate.

I love parties. I love meeting new people. I love chatting the chat. But my darling son enters a room full of strangers and he does not see opportunity, he sees terror. He retreats into baby-ness, repeating, “Mommy” over and over to himself for comfort, clinging to my leg. It takes him time to acclimatise, to suss out friendly faces, to feel brave enough to speak.
I grew increasingly impatient with him. My fiercely, independent girl child was off making eyes at everyone in the room. (With her it’s more the fear of “what will she get into” that keeps me hovering.) I was being pulled in two directions – couldn’t he just sit down and make a craft with the rest of the kids?

I pulled him out into the foyer. “Buddy, what can I do to make this situation more comfortable for you?” I smiled at him to let him know I wasn’t mad, feeling horrible for not taking the time to see things from his perspective. “I just need a hug from Mommy,” he said wrapping his arms around me.

For the rest of the party I stayed close, but inched away slowly. He never quite got his party on, but at least
he tried. But I still can’t get over the fact that he’s so completely opposite of me in these situations. (Chalk one up to his dad’s genes.)

What about you? Do you have an opposite child?

Looks like there's hope yet

My husband has his man-period. I need to vent. Where do I turn?

Blogging, I can't quit you.