What Happened Next

Posted on 8/29/2009 by cheesefairy

I chose:

– desk & bedroom
– to work on the novel, when I have a surface to write on (which is now, yay!)
– any day now, running, as soon as I find the digital watch with the timer on it, oh and then get a battery for it, oh now I have a battery but I can’t find the watch
– enh, screw the fruit. That’s what multivitamins are for.

I am already sitting at my desk in my bedroom as I type this. Hi! Except for the part when the skinny bookshelf I thought looked so nice next to my desk fell down and almost smashed the gas fireplace this morning at 6:30 – I guess it was time to get up anyway – all has gone smoothly. I have dug things out of closets, put other things in same closets and made almost another square foot of space in our storage room for Saint Aardvark’s little beer hobby. We have enough kids’ junk to make a million dollars at a swap meet in October for which I have already reserved a table (if you would like to buy my kids’ junk and help make me a millionaire, let me know and I will give you the swap meet details)(or if you want to sell your own kids’ junk)(but it is in the Mizzle, just so you know)

um, where was I.

Right. A little bit of organization is addictive, more so than opium or newborn babies. Once I started putting things places, I realized that nothing was where it ought to have been and I could. not. rest. until everything was right.

Most days when there are two parents in the house, nap time is my cue to bolt from the house like a spooked stallion. I go to Superstore. I get my hair cut. I hit up Value Village for sundresses and skipping ropes. One time I went to a cafe and wrote in a notebook. That was fun. But the past few weekend days I have spent here, in the house, cleaning, straightening, vacuuming. You might think this would suck, seeing as I spend all my time in the house anyway and cleaning is lame. But no! It has been almost as cathartic as when you move houses and you have to clean and pack and sort and toss things out. Except I’m NOT moving! Which means now I just get to enjoy my cleaner, unpacked, sorted, uncluttered house. And drink beer because even if you don’t move, you still get beer. Double your odds if your husband makes the beer in your house.

In fact, while I was sorting my bedroom junk, I actually repeated to myself, pretend like you’re moving! Pretend like you’re moving! and then I would get “Pretend That We’re Dead” in my head and that made me happy and suddenly, presto! I had way less stuff.

Love.

It’s doubly good to be bitten by this organizational bug right now because over the past few weekends our mornings have been spent at garage sales and so we are still acquiring new old crap over my left shoulder even as I toss old old crap over my right.

And so, this morning, I felt absolutely no hesitation in my heart when I spotted the Wiggles Guitar on the lawn of a neighbour. Trombone and I had been to the library and were on our way home, winding through the shady tree streets, me looking for garage sales, he looking at one of the books he’d picked out.

We stopped in our tracks. We both saw it at the same time.

“I need that guitar,” he said, in an astonished sort of voice I recognized from my own past as a shoe shopper. It’s that moment when you realize you want something more than you thought possible. Those size 11 Nine West shoes are on sale. It’s like some kind of beautiful, butterflied miracle.

“Hm, let’s see,” I hemmed. I looked at it. It had little buttons shaped like the different Wiggles and other little buttons that were unlabeled. It looked like a loud sort of toy.

“Two dollars!” shouted the woman from the front porch. Yes, clearly a loud toy if she was giving it away for two bucks.

“Mommy do you HAVE two dollars?”
“Yes, I do.”

“You just put batteries in it,” offered the boy who lived at the house, “and it just plays.”

Trombone’s eyes widened. “It just plays!” he said.
“OK,” I said.
“Oh, but,” said Trombone, “does it have a strap? My daddy’s guitar has a strap.”

Despite it not having a strap, he carried it all the way home, pausing every few feet to air-play one of his Wiggles show favourites: “Play Your Guitar With Murray” and mutter to himself about how he was going to go home and find batteries and put them in and then it would JUST PLAY. After three blocks I convinced him to get in the buggy so I could get us home before sundown. And there, we did find batteries, figure out how to turn it on and then were amazed. Capital A, Amazed. For 45 minutes!

One of the best $2 I have ever spent.

So thank you, all you people, for providing your input, helping me choose which tasks to tackle and by doing so helping me free up just enough space in my house for a Wiggles Guitar of Amazement.

Tomorrow: the PNE and much less amazement for much more money. Will attempt to get video of Fresco trying to out-moo a cow.

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Notes From Mother’s Journal: Food is Good

Posted on 8/25/2009 by cheesefairy

I had an abdominal ultrasound this morning at 10:30 to see if there are aliens or fairies in my belly causing the weirdness of last week. In advance of this ultrasound I could eat no fat for 24 hours before the test. Fat causes the gall bladder to contract and the ultrasound needs to see the gall bladder even though I think it’s an ulcer. The fat fast was challenging, in that I eat quite a bit of fat in a day. Cheese, milk, chips, sure. But I cook with olive oil. I put peanut butter on my toast. I put butter on my popcorn. Last night I tried sprinkling water on my popcorn, to get the seasonings to stick. It kind of worked,.

But then. Then, I had to fast for the 12 hours before the test. Fast. As in, eat nothing. No food after 10:30 pm until after the test at 10:30 am.

Most of you are probably reading this saying, yeah, get over it. At 10:30 at night you’re asleep anyway. So you have 4 hours in the morning where you can’t eat anything. Big deal.

It was a big deal! I was so hungry. I have not gone that long without food in a long time. If it had been just me at home, I would have been OK. But the children! They were well rested and well fed and they were buzzing around me, asking me questions I couldn’t answer and climbing my leg and I just wanted to swat at them like flies and make them go read something quietly, in the corner, stop talking, just stop.

Seriously. Trombone asked me where babies come from. Today. I was all, oh, aliens, fairies, who knows, mama is weak right now. Ask me tomorrow when I’ve had a goddamn piece of toast.

My mother arrived to look after them so I could go have the test and I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. OK. Here I go, about to take a 5 minute drive uptown because I am too weak to walk (actually there wasn’t enough time at that point) up the hill. See you later guys. Oh. Where are my keys? Where are my – oh damn.

Fresco loves my keys.

He likes to hold them while I push him around in the buggy. He likes to walk around the house with them and try to insert them into things. The last time I saw my keys was yesterday afternoon, in the house, clutched in his sweaty fist.

After 10 minutes frantically upending all of our baskets of toys I borrowed my mother’s car.

I parked on an unfamiliar street, thinking I was right near the office, then realized I was still two blocks from my destination. Too bad I just put 96 minutes ($2 in case you’re interested) in the meter. I broke into a crippled sort of jog through the parking lot because I was now almost late for my appointment and they were probably going to cancel it and charge me $50 and then I’d have to starve myself on a different day and NO WAY is that happening. Run faster, maggot.

The ultrasound clinic was typical for the Mizzle. Everything in the Mizzle feels kind of like an older-by-20-years version of Vancouver. All my previous ultrasounds – for pregnancy – have been at the big clinic in Vancouver or at the hospital. I am glad for this, for the outgoing, sympathetic, gentle ultrasound technicians who showed me my babies for the first time.

This clinic is in the basement of the building. Things were painted a kind of faded mauve. The technicians all had the manner of drill sergeants. One came in to fetch someone from the waiting room and barked, “OK, you come with me now,” so harshly that I thought perhaps I was in a police office by accident? My technician was nice enough. All she said was, “Take a deep breath and hold it,” approximately 35 times while she dug into my poor, empty abdomen and then, “OK now relax,” while she went for more jelly goop to pour on my skin.

Incidentally I can still smell the ultrasound jelly and it is weirding me out. It reminds me of pregnancy.

In 15 minutes it was done and I was told to wipe myself off and get dressed and get out.

(Maybe it’s a brothel after hours? Dunno.)(Groannnn)

I went to get some groceries at the vegetable market, thus managing to come within a doorstop of the Dairy Queen without going in for 8 cheeseburgers. Instead I bought fruit and vegetables and a big bag of rice crackers. Then I went next door to the bakery and bought a loaf of potato onion bread. Then I came home, where my mother had been frantically searching for my keys and simultaneously trying to organize the toys and also entertaining the children by putting things places so they could take them out of those places and put them other places. What fun!

I found them. The keys. They were under the stove the whole time. They are no longer Fresco’s toy and you may say “I told you so,” if you want.

I ate half the bag of rice crackers, three huge hunks of bread and made myself some coffee. Putting away the groceries I was surprised to find a box containing four lemon tarts. When I had been fantasizing all morning about what delicious foods I would cram into my mouth as soon as I was able, lemon tarts did not even make the top 50. Yet, there I was, four lemon tarts the richer. I sort of remember buying them. But after I had put some food in my belly, they no longer held the same appeal as they had in the bakery.

When they tell you not to shop hungry, they mean it. Lizard brain totally took over.

Results of the tests in three business days to my doctor, who will hopefully be able to read and interpret them. If not, I’ll tuck them under my arm and run like a rugby player to my new doctor who doesn’t know he’s my new doctor yet but will real soon.

PS: The lemon tarts will not be wasted, don’t you fret.

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It’s Not Really About Toilet Training. Of Course Not.

Posted on 8/24/2009 by cheesefairy

I don’t want to talk about toilet training. Other than my own labour stories I don’t really like to get into discussions of bodily fluids. Plus I consider it somebody else’s business. My kid’s business. Which, as he grows older, I feel less comfortable discussing because it doesn’t belong to me.

But I will talk about how it makes me Feeeeeeel. Because this is MyBlog about MyFeelings. Just try and stop me.

Way back in the way back there I had an epiphany about the seesaw of independence enjoyed by a little person Trombone’s age. I related it to myself in grade 6. These days the seesaw feels a bit more Tilt-a-Whirly and here is how this relates to me in my later teenage years.

I was a restricted teen. I was not allowed to date, not allowed to stay out past 10, rarely allowed to attend sleepover parties. Most of my friends had parents who treated them the same way, so while I recognized that there were kids at school who were out till 1 am, it wasn’t part of my own sphere and I didn’t push it too much.

When I started university, though, I met people. Lots of people. New people. People living in dorms, people with permissive parents, people with what I soon realized were reasonable parents who made reasonable demands on their kids, their young adult kids. I started fighting back a little. I started nagging about curfew. I made the case that my bus trip from home to UBC was an hour long! How could I possibly do anything socially? Oh, borrow the car? But be home by 11? That means I can’t even see a 9 o clock movie! UNFAIR!

In my second year of university I met more people. I took a creative writing class and met writers. People older than me, cooler than me, far, far more interesting than me. Experienced. Witty. Smokers, drinkers, drug-doers. My 11 o’clock curfew tightened around my throat like a choke chain. It pulled me home to my same old bedroom, my dumb three-ring binders full of overwrought, purple poetry. If I could only just live a little, I thought. Imagine the things I would write. Imagine the things I would say.

(I mean I did try to imagine but
it all came out
wrong
not strong
just images billowing
around pinpricks of ideas.)

I should point out here – or at some point – that I understand what my parents were doing. I got it, even then. The world. Is huge. And I am their only child. And they both came from traditional backgrounds (that they totally rejected as soon as they could in order to start their own lives together but I digress) and were older than most other parents; in their 30s when they had me. They were far from their families’ support, both working hard, attempting to instill certain values and qualities in me and doing the best they could, absolutely. Their best was more than good enough; I am pretty darn awesome if I do say so and I credit them with so much of who I am. (hi mom!)

At the end of my second year of university, I went out with a friend to celebrate having finished our final exam in German Literature in Translation. We went to Stanley Park and drank a lot of vodka. About half an hour later, I lost my balance while peeing by the side of the road, er, major thoroughfare, and fell on my face. I don’t remember much after that but I am told that:

– we wandered down to the railroad tracks to find our way to Gastown and meet a friend
– we got picked up by a train driver, I think his name was Bill
– he drove us in his train to the parking lot, then put us in his pickup truck and drove us home.

I made curfew! It was only 9 pm! High fives!

The next day I went to my second day at my new job sporting a Very Bad Hangover and had to explain to everyone where the cuts on my forehead had come from.

That night my parents and I had a Very Frank Discussion about my behavior.

I had already been contemplating moving out on my own at some point but after being grounded I set a departure date for two months later. (I mean, obviously I was not in need of any further parental guidance…yikes)

When I had the talk with my parents about moving out in two months, my father said,
“You can’t,”
and I said,
“Yes I can.”

He said,
“Well then I won’t pay for university anymore.”
And I said,
“I will pay for it myself.”

He said,
“There’s no way you can do that. You’ll be back.”
And I said,
“No. No I won’t.”

And I wasn’t.

I was thinking about all this today during the Great Toilet Standoff 2009. No matter how much I want my kid to bend to my will, he won’t. Even if it is logical. Even if there is no good earthly reason for him to refuse. He has nothing invested* in doing it my way. He has everything invested in doing things his way: his autonomy.

I know a lot of things that he doesn’t know. I am 32 years older than him. I can remember far back and look far forward. I am very big, very powerful, very important.

But he knows the most important thing. He knows who he is. He likes who he is. He does not want me to change who he is. It’s all he has and he is not giving it up without a fight.

I am trying to press myself, my values, my expectations, my BUSINESS on him and in doing so, erase him. It is a disagreement we will have many times, about many things.

But it’s for your own gooooooood doesn’t hold any water when it’s a fight for identity.

So maybe the only way to do this is to give it over to him completely. Let him move out, pay the rent, pay his tuition, live on noodles and beer, work it out for himself.**

And tell him if he needs to come back, I will be here.

* yes I am pondering the sticker chart reward M&Ms system but reluctantly
** what does this look like in practice? Dunno. Working on it.

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Welcome to Interactive Diary Land! Dear Diary:

Posted on 8/20/2009 by cheesefairy

I am spending most of my time these days either dreaming about our beach vacation, scheduled for the week starting September 8th – and no, SA will be home so don’t even think about robbing our house, internet robby types – and wondering just when it is I will get myself organized to do anything besides keep the house free of ants and the things ants eat.

I give myself – and others – a free pass for the first year of a baby’s life. A free pass on whether or not your pants fit, whether or not you are being civil to strangers at the park or giving them stink eye, a free pass on whether or not you are interested in anything – at all – besides having a nice long shower. In my mind, though, when the year is up, all bets are off. I guess the year thing comes from our maternity leave in Canada, which can be a full year if one plays one’s cards right – and has a good hand dealt in the first place – which makes me wonder if American mothers have a shorter “free pass” schedule or whether, in fact, anyone else in the world has one or if I am just *so* lazy that I give myself as much time as I can to get my ship back up the right way and sailing in the right direction.

Today, Fresco is 16 months old. He runs fast, he yells loud, he climbs like a goat, he does not. lose. focus or loosen his grip and he will charm your pants off in a split second so you don’t notice him stealing your car keys. I think he is descended directly from those street kids in Rome who swarm you and play a sweet song on the recorder and take your camera while you’re fumbling for your change because how adorable are those ringlets, the poor child needs conditioner and who’s going to buy it for him? I love him to pieces, absolute pieces.

Yes, so he is 16 months old. My boat, though, my boat is still sitting half in, half out of the water. I just can’t seem to get – well, ahead is the word that springs to mind but I am discarding it because it sounds like I am working in a corporation. There is no “ahead,” anyway, there is only steady as she goes, only even keel, only recovering quickly from any bumps or storms. I can’t seem to get anything done.

One side of me says, yes, well, these are the most precious years of my precious blah blah blah and all I have to do is be here now and all will be well. OK. Some days that is cool. Just standing in the park saying, the children, look how they run and grow and skip and bounce off the cement. Astounding. Some days it takes 45 minutes to get our shoes on and the park is its own reward.

But other days, usually when I am feeling relatively even-keelish and things have been flowing more smoothly, I start to itch for more. More challenge and I am not referring to the children, they are plenty challenging. There is a list in my head that reads: get back to writing fiction, make a desk for myself in my huge bedroom, most of which is unused, paint a bathroom, really organize all the toys and toss half of them.

The crux of it is that the childrearing, housekeeping, day-to-day stuff feels endless and bottomless; after all, no matter how well / often / quickly I clean the kitchen, it will still be dirty tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I know someday I will look back and think how fast it went but I think right now something in me needs a project with a beginning and an end, a project not doomed to be in constant progress (though this is the cool thing about kids, right, they’re always changing growing responding, they’re never “done.”) I need to start working on something and then finish it. Like needlepoint except not needlepoint because I’m not really interested in needlepoint.

(I see a red leaf on the tree outside our window. Fall is coming, yay!)

Please vote. Should I:

– haul out my first novel and edit it?
– start running like I said I was going to oh six months ago?
– focus on more focused blog / non fiction writing? (with some kind of deliverable attached)(yes I just said deliverable, suck it)
– make it my mission in life to eat 5 – 10 fruits and vegetables a day and ensure the children do the same?
– re-organize my bedroom?
– take up needlepoint?
– other? (but don’t say scrapbooking please.)(no offense to scrapbookers I just know this is not something I would find fulfilling and all those little bits and pieces of things and glue and AGH I’M PANICKING ALREADY!)

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I Am Not Pregnant. You Are All Relieved.

Posted on 8/16/2009 by cheesefairy

It was this past Wednesday morning and I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. First thing I did was remember the last Wednesday morning in August when I had felt sick, that day that brought to my attention the existence of my second child.

This past Wednesday in August, though, I knew I was not pregnant. Having just packed away the diva cup for another month on Tuesday, I knew. Not pregnant.

Of course I took a home pregnancy test anyway. I had one left over from the two-pack purchased the last Wednesday morning in August when I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. Negative.

So, just nauseous, I went on with my day. Drank some peppermint tea. Ate some crackers. Child-wrangled. Entertained entertaining friends. Wondered if I had food poisoning or gastroenteritis and if so, when the inevitable Explosion(s) would happen.

Didn’t sleep much Wednesday night because my stomach hurt.

Also because I was thinking all night about my hurting stomach and why it was hurting and who was going to love the children when I woke up dead the next morning.

Thursday: much the same. No evidence of food poisoning / stomach bug presented. Just nausea. Urgh, blurgh, blegh, more crackers, ick.

Friday: much the same.

Saturday: I stumped the doctor at the walk in clinic. First, he couldn’t get a pulse. See, it’s POSSIBLE to wake up dead in the morning! Then he couldn’t get any blood pressure. In either arm!

I was sitting there imagining a giant tumour in my stomach and it’s squishing my arteries (or veins?) and I have moments to live and I am going to explode, SPLASH, all over the walk-in clinic. Geez. What a way to go.

Eventually he got a satisfactory pulse. Then he asked me all the questions I had been asking myself since Wednesday.

Eat anything bad? Like Wendy’s? (no)
Anything go off in your fridge? (no)(well yes, but I didn’t eat it)
Anyone in the house have any symptoms? (no)
Vomiting? (no)
Diarrhea? (no)
Heartburn? (no)
Stress? (no)(more)(than)(usual)
And you’re SURE you’re not – (I’m SURE.)

Hmm.

Of course, by then I was feeling a bit better. I suspect this is because on Friday afternoon I decided I had an ulcer so started treating myself accordingly. I forwent my evening drink of alcohol and my morning coffee and had been nibbling on crackers and dry toast all morning. You know, like you do when you’re pregnant. My mistake the other three days had been to wake up feeling better and then eat a normal breakfast and then feel like shit all day.

He wrote me a prescription for a high powered antacid. And ordered an abdominal ultrasound, to have a look around in there – with another long sideways glance…hey man, if I was pregnant I would NOT be hanging out in a walk-in clinic all Saturday morning. I would already be as far East as you can drive in three days, trying to get away from that fetus, you bet.

Last night I celebrated feeling better by eating one (1) hot dog and drinking one (1) glass of stout. About halfway through Tropic Thunder I developed a bad headache so I took one (1) Tylenol and went to bed. Tylenol never works for me but people with ulcers aren’t supposed to take ibuprofen. Guess what: woke up with the headache still there, actually worse because it had spent the whole night kicking Tylenol’s ass, and the nausea back because I hadn’t eaten enough all day and also the headache made me feel more nauseous and holy hell I felt hungover. It felt exactly like a hangover. Like, a 2 bottle of wine night hangover. WTF glass of stout & hotdog & Tylenol?

So I stopped treating for ulcer and started treating for hangover. 30 minute shower. Bottle of sport drink I found in the fridge. Finally, ibuprofen and half a box of crackers plus another hour of sleep (TGISunday or we’d have watched a lot of tv today) and I am up and around again.

Saint Aardvark bought me a bag of plain chips.

I do not want to have to eat plain chips!

However, if it means I won’t wake up dead in the morning, I will.

So far we have the following guesses on the table: gall bladder. Ulcer. Any thoughts, great abdomen’d internet populace?

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