Tuesday, Dec 9, 2008 | Kids |
Why is it so satisfying, when feeding a baby, to scrape the extra stuff off his chin with a spoon? This morning I said to Kevin, who was spooning the mash into him: “You could feed him another meal with what’s on his chin.” People who are not parents might be grossed out by this thought, however.
You know your housekeeping standards have really fallen when (this could be one in an ongoing series): Your baby has taken to snacking off the kitchen floor.
Read a story in the Globe today about a Fisher-Price talking baby doll that apparently says: “Islam is the light.” Wouldn’t you know, we have this very doll, given to Fooey for her third birthday by her auntie Fi. So, naturally, I turned it on (it’s usually off; it has the unnerving habit, when on, to randomly and mechanically wriggle about like an actual cooing, fussing, gurgling baby, of which we are already in possession). And lo and behold, one of the random babbles does sound eerily like “Islam is the light.” Unless it actually sounds like “God is the light.” Or even “Please turn on/off the light.” Apparently there is an outcry (from whom?) to recall these dolls lest they subliminally convert the innocent. From my unscientific exploration of the subject, I’m not sure to what one might fear conversion. If the doll could subliminally get my kids to turn out their lights at night, I’d keep the button “on.”
Monday, Dec 8, 2008 | Big Thoughts, Politics |
So Stephane Dion is on his way out. A CBC commentator had a great line about his political career. She said that cats have nine lives, but Dion seems to have nine deaths–political deaths. I’d heard his address to the nation via radio, and it sounded a bit stumbling, but okay; only seeing a clip the next day on the television did I realize how truly awful it was. Poor man. What an ignominious image to have define your political career: his face was out of focus. It was like he’d already been condemned to political purgatory, ghost-like, blurry, trying desperately to communicate his good message.
I feel a bit that way myself. Not the good message part; the out of focus part. Exhaustion’s blur. There are entire days when I feel too interior, like I need to be shaken, woken from this dream. But, then, it’s a pretty sweet dream. Yesterday’s reveries: Rolling out cookie dough, flour-covered children, Fooey piling pink icing on top of a tree-shaped cookie, slowly devouring it, licking icing off the counter; snow falling, fat flakes; pushing the stroller through uncharted sidewalk snow; pretzels in the church basement; Kevin home by naptime; rolling out stretchy pizza dough; utter chaos just before supper’s served, hungry children weeping, fighting, and pretending to explode various inanimate objects; Fooey eating two bananas instead of pizza; washing dishes in hot water; nursing a baby to sleep in front of the television; So You Think You Can Dance, Canada; tea with honey. If I weren’t writing this down right away, the whole of yesterday would disappear utterly. That’s the blurry bit. That’s the part I can’t reconcile myself to. How fast it’s passing.
Saturday, Dec 6, 2008 | Kids |
Want to capture this moment, right now. Snow falling. We are just home from the library where CJ climbed, crawled, and ripped books off shelves, and the children played on the computers, then got to check out books on their very own library cards–the first I’ve let them do that, not wanting to have extra books and cards to potentially lose; but hey, let’s live recklessly. The kids were beyond thrilled. Walking home, we pretended we were lost in a blizzard in the arctic. Cars were packs of wild wolves. Streets were ice-rivers. Buildings were icebergs. And our house was debatable … was it a tent? An igloo? A house we could buy made of stones? Or one for travelling strangers to shelter in on their way through? In any case, we moved in.
CJ had fallen asleep in the stroller and transferred to his crib despite the shrieks of delight over, “Look, Mama, these strange switches turn on lights!!” Then children sat quietly reading library books and doing mazes together. Peaceful. It’s already starting to fall apart, slightly. They have now moved to the counter and are eating a few snacktime cookies. Albus is about to head out on his second sleepover, ever. I will be putting the others to bed alone tonight, as Kevin is teaching this weekend–both days. That’s okay. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to a weekend alone, but in all honesty, I wasn’t dreading it either. I appreciate having a good excuse not the spend the weekend cooking, baking, cleaning, and doing laundry and other necessaries. Those necessaries will have to wait. Instead, the kids and I get to do projects together, or go on our adventures together.
Shoot, and now it’s totally fallen apart.
Hey, I’m back. As usual, everything happened all at once–children started fighting (over nothing particular as far as I could determine; maybe the sugar made them do it); Albus’s friend arrived to pick him up; CJ started fussing in the monitor. And now all is quiet again. Albus has departed (big boy! but I miss him). The girls are reading together on the couch. CJ stopped fussing and seems to have gone back to sleep. Phew.
Thursday, Dec 4, 2008 | Kids, Music, Politics |
Trying to write this afternoon. Not getting much accomplished. Can’t blame Stephen Harper for everything, can I?? I’m so thoroughly caught up in today’s news that instead of polishing metaphors in this story, I’m composing letters to members of parliament. This morning, Stephen Harper visited the Governor-General and asked for and received a prorogue, which means the operations of the House of Parliament are suspended for seven or eight weeks, at which point, the Conservatives will likely have to face a vote of confidence on the budget they say they’ll introduce at that time. In the meantime, they’re planning a full-on, well-financed publicity campaign, and lots of polling. (Haven’t heard a peep in that plan about reconciling with the opposition). Apparently, that’s how you get the pulse of the people: you poll them. Guess what–I’ve never once been polled; but I do vote. That’s how you actually go to the people. You hold an election.
Nobody wants one.
Brrr. It’s cold out there today, bits of snow falling, icy sidewalks, dim skies. CJ screamed all the way to school in the stroller. He plays strange, now, with adults who are not related to him. The pout and hesitation, the crumpled face and widened eyes, the whimper, the yowl and crocodile tears flowing picturesquely down his cheeks. As soon as he’s back in my arms again, he ceases crying, then quickly turns to check on that Other Person, to see whether they’re still there. Yup. Then back to Mommy, burying his head in my shoulder. Then checking again. He’s a tightly wound little fellow, all kicking legs and flinging limbs and excited energy. He’s going to need a lot of outdoor time as he grows. Sports. I love how he’s drawn to children about Fooey’s size. He approaches them quite differently than he does strange adults. I think it speaks well of his relationship with his big siblings. Fooey sang to him the whole way to school, to try to calm him down; and sometimes it seemed to be working. She loves to make up topical songs.
Maybe she can make up one for me with the word “prorogue” in it. A verse with, “Calm down, Mommy, and stop yelling at the radio,” would hit the spot too.
Thursday, Dec 4, 2008 | Kids, Politics |
Well, not much has changed. Parliamentary crisis, I mean. Just waiting. Stephen Harper was on TV tonight addressing the nation and sounding not one teeny tiny bit willing to change his tone to conciliation. He probably thinks he IS being conciliatory, for heaven’s sake. Stephane Dion had his usual trouble with English, but I still like this guy. Cooperation over conflict. Listen, if someone’s willing to try that mode of operation, let’s go with that.
At our house, we like to strive for cooperation over conflict. I get that it’s hard. I get that sometimes even three-year-olds cannot bring themselves to say those really powerful words: “I’m sorry.” I get that sometimes six-year-olds are “just so mad, I couldn’t help myself, Mommy!” I get that sometimes seven-year-olds “don’t know why” they did what they did. I get that these emotions belong to all of us, even as we grow older and attempt to grow wiser. Sometimes sorry really sticks in my throat, too. But you’ll never even inch toward cooperation if you can’t take responsibility for at least part of the trouble you find yourself in. That’s been my mantra around the house these past two days: yes, I get that you’re upset with (fill in the blank) because it’s not fair … but let’s think a little harder here. (I am now thinking of a specific incident, walking to school, and having to share the sidewalk with a lot more snow, and therefore the kids plus stroller plus me are getting squeezed; Apple-Apple was infuriated because things had changed and she didn’t like it). Let’s find a plan that will work for everyone. It won’t be perfect. You might not get to do everything you want. But you have the power to make changes, even small ones, to better your lot. And hitting doesn’t count as power.
Babe’s awake. I’m outta here.
