Nothing to Fear Except Pants With Nobody in Them and Little Bunny Foo Foo

When I was a child, there were two things that completely and totally terrified me. Two things that created that nauseous, head-hurting fear, the type that triggers the fight-or-flight response: The song ‘Hey There Little Red Riding Hood’ and the Dr. Seuss story ‘What Was I Scared Of?‘  That’s the one about the pale green pants with nobody inside them. Even as an adult, even though I know it’s irrational and those things were meant to be funny, they still give me a substantial case of the heebie jeebies, to the point that I can not listen to ‘Hey Little Red Riding Hood’ without getting more than a little freaked out. And I flat out refuse to read the story of the pants with nobody inside them to Neener and Roo. Which is probably for the best. The last thing we need is to add to the list of things that cause Neener and me inordinate amounts of anxiety. We’ve both got enough to worry about, thanks. 

I am no stranger to the world of anxiety disorders. Despite the fact that I was a pretty happy, secure, confident child, I was also an anxious worrier. Things that did not affect other kids frightened the bejesus out of me. I spent a lot of time dwelling on what I would do if my house caught on fire, or if there was an earthquake, or if robbers tried to steal me, or if a moose or cougar started chasing me. My solution was to cross my fingers, and repeat soothing little phrases in my head until my anxious thoughts and feelings went away. Now as an adult, despite the fact that I am a pretty happy, secure, confident grown-up, I am prone to spontaneous panic attacks, and for twelve years or so, I’ve grappled with a form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder known as trichotillomania. When I am stressed or anxious, I literally pull my hair out, as a way of coping with and releasing tension. But I’m lucky. My anxiety issues are fairly mild and do not disrupt my daily life much. I have been able to manage quite well with Cognitive Behaviourial Therapy techniques, and without medication. And I know what to look for in my kids, the subtle little signs that they may have inherited my propensity for such issues.  

I was expecting to see anxiety issues emerge in Roo, what with the Autism and all. And they still might. But right now, it is Neener I’m more concerned about. She too is a happy, secure, confident kid most of the time, and she too is suffering from disordered anxiety. To a point, it is developmentally normal for kids to have fears and worries, both rational and irrational. But when those fears and worries begin to impact a child’s - or a family’s - social, physical and emotional functioning, it’s a big ol’ red flag. That is where we are right now. That’s where we realized we were back in October, when Neener’s bedtime rituals of very precisely arranged blankets, and specific phrases that must be said just the right way became even more rigid, more complex, and more necessary. Then suddenly, she did not want to go to school anymore. Then she began covering her ears as soon as we entered the building. Then she began spending most of the morning hiding in the class bathroom.  Her teacher figured it was a sensory issue - an aversion to ambient noise, similar to Roo’s - and suggested we have Neener evaluated for Autism too. The principal figured she was doing it for attention - that she was being ignored at home due to her twin sister’s issues - and suggested that she simply be locked out of the bathroom to change the behaviour. I figured she was afraid of something, but could not for the life of me figure out what because Neener staunchly refused to talk about it. So I did a little detective work, and finally managed to put the pieces together. She was afraid of the book Chicka Chicka Boom Boom. A supposedly playful alphabet book they read nearly every day for a few weeks. A book that inspired the bulletin board decorations. A book they listened to on tape and sang songs about. To the other kids, the book was funny. To Neener, it was a frightening because it was about 26 little letters who ran away from home, climbed a tree, and fell out of the tree and got hurt. Separation from parents and physical injury? A smart, sensitive, anxiety prone kid’s worst nightmare. And it didn’t end there. After an innocent comment about people being litter bugs and making the earth messy, she obsessed for days about every piece of garbage she saw. After an innocent comment about her father being ‘an old fella’, Neener spiralled into hysterical screams that her daddy was not old. All because we had used the concept of age to explain death to her- that people tended to die when they got old. After an innocnet lesson on how to make her bed, she spent night after night after night obsessing that her bed was made the wrong way. And then, there’s the song Little Bunny Foo Foo, which sends her into an ear-covering, face-hiding, heart-racing, paralyzed-by-fear cold fit, that no amount of talking, no amount of rationalizing can reverse. Why? Because at the end of the song, Bunny Foo Foo gets turned into a goon, and Neener loves bunnies dearly. The though of one, even one with the audacity to disobey a fairy godmother and bop field mice on the head, being turned into anything goonish is horrifying to her. 

Tough love would say that she just needs to toughen up, to be told that her fears and her worries are silly, and that she must simply get over it. But knowing that kids with anxiety disorders are much more likely to become depressed, abuse drugs and alcohol, and suffer from low self-esteem and countless other issues as adults, I know not to react that way to her anxiety. I know, because I understand how she feels. Neener’s fears may be irrational, but they are very real to her. Telling her that she is being silly won’t do her self-esteem any favours, and certainly won’t do anything to lessen her worries. It will only add shame and embarrassment to the already complicated mix. Neener must be handled with compassion. That is not to say that I will indulge her anxiety and go along with her efforts to control everything around her through perfectionist and obsessive compulsive tendencies. But I will acknowledge her feelings, and attempt to give her the tools to release her stress and anxiety in a healthy way. I am teaching her a few Cognitive Behavioral Therapy tricks. I am teaching her relaxation methods. I am encouraging her to be brave and face her fears, to talk about what is on her mind when she can, and to distract herself when her worries get too big and too loud. And sometimes, when I know she needs it, I am protecting her from the things that trigger her anxiety. “No singing Little Bunny Foo Foo” is a hard and fast rule in our house, at least for now.

Our lives have faced much upheaval in the last few months. Neener and Roo started school. Baby Squiggles was born. Both our goldfish died. And now, in two short weeks, we are moving to another province, and undergoing countless other changes, big and small. Frankly, it all makes me feel a little panicky and stressed, so I can well imagine what it is doing to Neener. But, we keep reassuring her that it will be ok. And it will. We just have to work harder than the average family to keep stress, anxiety, and worry levels manageable for everyone. And we have to employ a few therapy strategies from time to time in order to do that. Which makes me think of something else I may try with Neener one of these days. When I was a child, my parents had a recording of ‘What Was I Scared Of?’ on vinyl. One day, when I’d had enough of being scared of that damn story, I stole the record. I took it up into my closet and completely destroyed it. I knew that ruining my folks’ record was wrong. I knew that I’d probably get in trouble if they found out, and that they would not understand why I’d done it. But I did not care. It made me feel better. It made me feel like I had gained some power over something that caused me a great deal of distress. Facing your fears is all well and good, but literally smashing them to bits and pieces…now that’s empowering. Maybe when Neener has a bit better grasp on her bravery, we will go buy a Bunny Foo Foo book and we’ll wreck it together. I know she is terrified of Little Bunny Foo Foo, but I also know that she loves parentally sanctioned destruction. Maybe it will give her the same sense of relief, the same sense of power it gave me when I was a kid. Maybe we’ll even wreck our copy of ‘What Was I Scared Of?’ too, just for good measure. That will probably make us both feel better.

 

 

 

Happy Mother’s Day to Me

Nothing says Mother’s Day like getting up, slightly hungover, at 5:50 a.m with your boisterously chipper children. Unless it’s getting up, slightly hungover, at 5:50 a.m with your boisterously chipper children and stepping on a half-dead mouse in the hallway. That was how my day began. Happy Mother’s Day to me! But this day, and this post are not about me. Or my hangover. Or the half dead mouse which my sweet Mr. turned into a totally dead mouse prior to its disposal. This day, and this post is about Neener and Roo because it is their birthday. So really, to me nothing says Mother’s Day like reflecting on the day, a Mother’s Day five years ago, that my first borns came into my world.

I joked about marrying the man who is now my husband back when he was just some dude in a bar. I joked about having twins on the way to my 7 week ultrasound when I was pregnant with Neener and Roo. I joked about giving birth to those twins on Mother’s Day. And sure enough, I married that dude from the bar, I came back from my 7 week ultrasound with a picture that showed two budding babies, and I gave birth to those babies on Mother’s Day, a full six weeks before my due date.

I could go into great detail of the story of their birth. I could tell you about the “false alarm” two nights before that was not really a false alarm at all. More like a very early alarm. I could tell you about calling the L&D triage desk at the hospital on the night I was admitted, and about how the bitchy nurse on the other end of the phone responded to my nervous, first-time-mom-to-be questions with abrupt answers and the advice to decide for myself if I should head to the hospital. I could tell you about how we did head to the hospital, and how the nurse was not actually bitchy at all, but alone in an extraordinarily busy maternity triage room, with no time for the nervous questions of a first-time-mother-to-be. Or about how we gave that tired, stressed nurse a box of chocolates during our six hour stay in the triage, and how she then kindly brought in a comfy recliner for my husband to sleep on. Or about how, when we finally got into a labour and delivery suite, I waited another three hours for an epidural. How I pushed for two hours before being rushed to the OR because my OB mistakenly believed Neener to be breach, and was ready to put me through both a vaginal delivery and a c-section because he didn’t take the time to look at the most recent ultrasound. I could tell you about how we set him straight; about the small army of doctors and nurses in the room as I pushed against the numbness of a too-strong epidural, breathed through an oxygen mask, and squeezed my husband’s hand; about how my baby girls were finally born, 15 minutes apart, each weighing over 5 pounds; about how they were promptly whisked away for medical attention; about how it would be hours before I saw them again, and days before I held them. I could tell you, in even greater detail, about their Respiratory Distress Syndrome, the NG tubes that fed them, the respirators that helped them breathe, the incubators that kept them warm, the many wires and tubes and machines that went in and out of their tiny bodies. I could chronicle the ups and downs of the two anxious weeks we spent going between the Special Care Unit at one hospital, and the NICU at another. I could tell you about the 36 hour period during which both of my baby girls finally came home.

All of these details are part of their birth story, and there are many tangents, many secondary stories about their birth. All of these details are part of my joys, my fears, and my passage into motherhood. They are forever etched in my heart and mind. But none of those details really matter to anyone but me. So, I’ll focus on the here and now. I’ll focus on what matters in this moment. Like the fact that they are healthy, happy and five years old today. The fact that we’ll be opening Mother’s Day and birthday presents and eating Mother’s Day and birthday cake. And the fact that they know nothing of slight hangovers, half-dead mice, or the details of their birth. Tonight, after I’ve tucked my first borns into bed, after I’ve sung happy birthday to them one more time, after I’ve kissed their five-year-old foreheads, I’ll sit down with my glass of Mother’s Day wine and look at the handful of pictures that were taken on the day they were born. I’ll remember the details of that day. I’ll probably cry. I’ll reflect on the joys and the fears of the past, knowing full well that I have many years of maternal joys and fears ahead of me. Then I’ll probably cry some more.  And I’ll soak in the details of those angelic little five-year old faces that just planted gooey kisses on my cheek, and sang Happy Mother’s Day to me.

 

 

 

 

We Will, We Will Quack You!

Last night, I had an all-access backstage pass to one of the hottest shows in the city. It was a wild time. There was the typical behind the scenes drama of tired little girls who missed their moms demanding divas dripping with attitude, and restless boys with nothing better to do than clobber each other rock-star tough guys looking for trouble. There were hordes of parents aggressive photographers chasing down the stars, flashes firing at every turn. And the after party…oh man…I have not seen such hysterical neon creamsicle consumption substance abuse since 1998. Through the blur that was last night, I am slowly managing to pluck out little snippets of memories, moments I want to remember for the rest of my life. And behind those little mental vignettes runs the soundtrack of the night, the group’s opening musical number. A catchy tune that will be bouncing around in my brain for weeks to come. Quaaaaaaack quack quack quack quack! Quaaaaaaaack quack quack quack quack! In case you don’t recognize it, that infectious little ditty is ’Ducks Like Rain’ as performed by Neener and Roo’s kindergarten class in the school spring concert.

My behind-the-scenes gig was helping wrangle a group of 40 little kids, as they waited as patiently as possible for there turn to take the stage at May Musical Magic. Some sadistic bastards  practical-minded folks decided that it would be best to put the kindergarten kids on very last, so that their parents wouldn’t try to leave early. What they did not take into account is that most of these kids are normally in bed before the time the concert ended. And, that keeping 40 five year olds - that’s two whole kindergarten classes - entertained in one room for an hour and a half is nearly as challenging as trying to get Guns n’ Roses (circa 1995) on stage and semi-sober, without a riot ensuing. But, with baby Squiggles snug in her carrier, and Neener and Roo all gussied up, I volunteered to help out while Mr. Blister suffered through sixth grade swing dances and recorder performances waited in the audience with the video camera. 

Once all the kids were in the room and all the parents were out, we set about keeping everyone occupied until the cue to get ready came. And what better way to keep a mob of kids quiet than with movies and chips. But after a bunch of kids, including Neener, were found hiding under tables, sufficiently terrorized by the action adventure flick some other sadistic bastard thoughtful parent brought in, it was clear that we’d need some other activities. So, I took the group that was scared senseless by the movie over to a quiet-ish corner and read stories until it was time to get into costume. It did not take forever, contrary to my belief at the time. Finally, the call came, and the teachers and I sprang into action, rounding up the tired, the nervous and the chip crumb covered children. I was put on duck duty, and in a matter of minutes, I had half the class transformed into little ducklings, while the other half got decked out in raincoats and boots. Then, it was time for my little girls and their classmates to get out there and wow the crowd. And wow the crowd they did. But not in that ‘Wow! Those kids are talented! They must have practiced so hard’ kind of way. No, that type of ‘wow’ was reserved for the other kindergarten class. The organized, calm, ‘good kid’ class, with relatively elaborate songs and costumes. The class who really had their act together. The ‘wow’ that Neener and Roo’s class drew was more like ‘Wow! Those kids managed to not fall off the stage, not tear down all the decorations, and not even come close to singing together and/or in tune!’ But they were still awesome.

They opened with the pre-recorded song “Ducks Like Rain”, blasted over the silence of several kids frozen like ducks in the spotlight  the sounds of a few very enthusiastic quackers. It was at some point during this number that Neener, dressed as a duck, turned her back on the crowd to give them a taste of the infamous Blister Family Butt Waggle dance. The second song, “The Rain Drop Song” accompanied by a piano, was where Roo tried to steal the sparkly decorations off the back wall spotlight while sporting the crummy blue raincoat provided for the kids whose parents didn’t bring in raincoats. And that’s not because I didn’t bring her nice yellow raincoat, but because, as she pointed out to me several times, raindrops are not yellow. They are blue. And she was a raindrop, dammit.

I have a long history of being on stage in a variety of capacities. Plays, public speaking, singing, and doing something that vaguely resembled dancing. Watching my daughters on stage is a bit of a test for me. I struggle to not be a stage mom, especially when I see my girls getting on stage to perform as I have done a million times before. I don’t want to be one of those mothers who harps on her kids about how much they should be rehearsing, or stands in the front row mouthing the words, or pushes them to pursue the centre of attention, the spotlight, at any cost. I don’t want to live vicariously through them. At the same time, if I see that being on stage is something they love the way I loved it, I want to support them, and share what I know to help them hone their skills. It is a delicate balance. Right now, their only real on-stage experience has been quacking and singing their little heads off, while doing the Butt Waggle Dance and stealing parts of the set in a raindrop costume. But I’m sure there will be many a performance to come. Who knows. Twenty years from now, they may find themselves on some other stage, doing the Butt Waggle Dance and stealing parts of the set Broadway. And where ever they are, whatever they are doing, I’ll be proud and I’ll be happy. As long as I get my backstage pass.  

 

It’s Their Party, and I’ll Cry If I Want To

Everybody has one of those birthdays: A birthday that will live in infamy because what was supposed to be a celebration of your life ended up making you want to curl up in a ball and die. I’ve had two such birthdays. My 18th birthday disaster involved a quickly consumed pint of gin, my boyfriend cheating on me, and one of my supposed friends threatening to drag me out of a car by the hair and beat me with a baseball bat. But that was peanuts compared to my 4th birthday. Worst birthday ever. That birthday there was a snow storm, and nobody could come to my party. My husband has one of those ‘nobody showed up’ childhood birthdays traumas seared into his memory too. Funny how it’s not the birthdays that are totally wonderful, where all your friends come to your party, where you get awesome presents, where no one threatens to beat you up, that get woven into your life story. It’s the ones that suck that stick in your mind. I am terrified that this weekend, Neener and Roo are headed for one of those birthdays. 

While it seems hard to believe that anything could top last year’s barfday birthday, it looks like that could be the case. For the first time, we have planned a real party. A Garden themed party at a local party room, with loot bags, balloons, decorations and, most importantly, other kids. Up until now, Neener and Roo have only had our adult friends at their birthday parties, which they have thoroughly enjoyed. Lots of great presents, getting to be the complete centres of the party universe, and all the more cake for them to gorge on and barf up at 3 a.m. But this year, they are in school, so in the spirit of inclusion, we diligently made invites for every kid in their class and handed them out a week ago. Today was the RSVP deadline. It said so on the little green construction paper leaf, so carefully affixed to the flower full of details. You’re invited to Neener and Roo’s Birthday Party. Please RSVP by May 5th. Today is that day. And so far, our confirmed guest list stands at a grand total of 3. Four, if you count the big brother of one of the kids. Six if you count the younger siblings that might tag along. Nine if I include the birthday girls and Baby Squiggles. It’s not as bad as a complete no-show, but 3 kids out of 20? Seems a little thin for what was, in my mind, going to be the party of the century. 

This whole birthday party thing has dredged up the awful feeling that my kids have no friends. And really, it’s more than a feeling. It’s a fact. Neither of them has what could be considered friends in school or in the neighbourhood. They have peers. They have acquaintances. They have kids they like, kids they talk about, kids they pretend to play with. But they don’t have any real friends. Most of their social experience has been with adults, so other kids are a mystery to them. I’ve watched them on the playground at school, standing on the periphery talking to the teachers, scratching their backs on tree trunks, stuffing their pockets full of rocks, and quietly observing the other kids running around like a little herd of maniacs. But the little herd of maniacs are all laughing and playing together. My kids - who don’t even play with each other outside of home - are the loners on the playground. And they aren’t even being loners together! Still, you don’t need to be friends with someone to go to their birthday party in kindergarten. You just need your parents to take you there. We invited the whole class, and even made it clear that presents were not necessary, in the hopes that we’d get a decent turn out. I was hoping for a throng of gleefully screaming five year olds to show up, throw some cake, rip up some decorations and shriek out an off-key version of Happy Birthday to my daughters, thus relieving my on-going anxiety that my kids are social misfits. But three kids? Or even six? They couldn’t possibly throw enough cake, rip enough decorations or sing/scream loud enough to ease my mind, and make this party feel like the raging success I’d envisioned. So, it’s on to plan B.

The first part of Plan B is to find more kids. Invites are now extended to kids outside of their class. Kids whose parents I know and like. Kids whose parents I happen to bump into in the next few days. Kids left unattended in the park on the day of the party. The second part of Plan B is to invite more adults. Our friends. The ones Neener and Roo love. The ones who will help it feel more like a party. The ones who will throw cake, rip decorations and scream/sing happy birthday, then come back to our place and drink wine with me. And the third and most important part of Plan B is to stop feeling sorry for myself. When I tallied up the RSVPs in all of 2 minutes this afternoon, my initial reaction was to sulk and cry. Why waste my time and energy blowing up balloons, hanging streamers, making chocolate mud pies and planning garden themed party games for a small handful of kids? Why put together a garden party soundtrack, and blow money on supplies for the flower pot decorating craft activity? And what the hell am I going to do with 20 giant fake bugs, 20 magnifying glasses and sheet after sheet after sheet of butterfly and frog stickers? Why bother with this stupid party idea at all if there aren’t going to be a shitload of kids there to appreciate it? Why? Because when I stop and think about it, I am not doing this party for all those other kids who aren’t even my kids’ friends anyway. I’m doing it for Neener and Roo. I know they will love the balloons, streamers, mud pies, games, music and crafts. I know they will put all the giant bugs and magnifying glasses and stickers to good use. I know they will have just as much fun with a few kids as they would with a bunch of kids. Maybe even more. As long as at least a few people show up, and as long as no one threatens to beat them up, it’ll all be just fine. It won’t be one of those birthdays afterall. And years from now, they won’t remember a single thing about it. But I will. 

 

 

5 Things Meme

Here’s a break from my usual blah blah blogging, as I’m playing along with a little game of blog tag. Thanks to lastcrazyhorn at Odd One Out for tagging me to post answers to these questions. Came at a great time, as I needed an easy post topic to get one up this weekend. Here’s my only problem…I am not at all well connected within the blog-o-sphere, so I don’t really have folks to tag to pass it on! I’ll see what I can do, but in the meantime, I invite you, dear reader, to leave a comment on this post with your own answers.

5 Things in My Bag

- Sunglasses 

- kleenex, used and unused

- 6 crayons

- band-aids, used and unused

- a handful of temporary tattoos that say ‘mother outlaw’

 

5 Favorite Things in My Room (living room…bedroom is too boring)

- homemade papier mache and cloth sun with furry black eyebrows

- artsy looking, nicely framed black and white wedding photo of mr. chasing me down the beach

- my 3 canvas zebra painting “Zephyr and the Sun”

- pair of hand carved wooden giraffes that I got for 5 bucks at a little store that was there one day and gone the next

- our super-mega ipod and portable i-fusion stereo dock

 

5 Things I Don’t Do Anymore

- smoke. anything.

- dwell on the past

- drink jack daniels

- sing in bars

- cut my own hair (at least, not that I will admit to my hairdresser)

 

5 Favorite Flowers

- lilacs

- wild roses

- pansies (I originally said violets, but I like pansies better)

- daffodils

- forget-me-nots

 

 

A Woman of Sensible Shoes

Some women hate tank-top season because it suddenly reveals their out-of-shape arms. Some women work themselves into a considerable sweat over swimsuit season because they have flab on their abs, or they despise their thighs. Me? I dread blister season. And I don’t mean that as some cute play on the name of this blog. I mean it literally. It’s the time of year when my poor unfortunate soles, toes, and heels should be rejoicing in the strappy sandaled, high heeled, toe cleavage-baring days of spring and summer. But instead, me and my wide, stubby, flat feet (that I think I inherited from a distant duck relative) are dreading buying new footwear, desperately trying to find socks that will look ok with sandals, and stocking up on band-aids. My feet and I hate blister season.

  I have several friends who are obsessed with shoes. They have closets full. High heels, low heels, sky scraper heels, and flats. Mary Janes, espadrills, hooker boots, and non-hooker boots. Black ones, red ones, brown ones, turquoise ones, gold ones. Casual, sporty, businessy, dressy, glam. Shoes for any outfit, any occasion, any season. These friends get positively giddy at the notion of shoe shopping, especially in the spring when all the cute shoes come out of hiding and go on sale. Me? The very thought of shoe shopping makes me nauseous, nervous and on the verge of tears. I only have a few pairs of shoes, and they fall into two categories: Ones that give me really bad blisters, and ones that do not. Which is not to say that the shoes in the latter category don’t give me blisters too…they do…just not really bad ones. The shoes that give me bad blisters create gaping, aching wounds the size of quarters that bleed through all manner of socks and bandages, in places where no blister had ever gone before. The shoes that don’t give me bad blisters just give me blisters on top of scar tissue from blisters gone by, so I don’t even feel those ones anymore. And that’s as good as it gets.

Shoes and I are arch enemies. In my memory, this hostile relationship dates back well over 20 years, to my Aunt Holly’s wedding, when a pair of too-tight shiny flower-girl dress shoes inflicted some pretty significant carnage on my tender young feet in a very short period of time. But my mother would probably tell you that even as a small child, finding shoes for me was an exercise in discomfort, which is why I spent a majority of my childhood barefoot. There was a brief period in the ’90’s when shoes and I declared a bit of a truce, when fashionable footwear and I were able to see toe to toe. Doc Martens, Birks, thick chunky heels and skater shoes were all the rage. I had a pair of green suede Converse One Stars that, once broken in, did not give me blisters or hurt my feet in the least. I wore them almost every day for about seven years, until they literally fell to pieces. I owned a few other pairs of shoes during that time that caused me little to no misery, and they too were worn until they could be worn no more. Then, things changed. Shoes changed. My choices suddenly got even narrower. Heels got high and spikey. Toes got tight and pointy. This happened around the same time that I had Neener and Roo, when pregnancy splayed my feet out to an even more duck-like width, and my legs and lifestyle put the kibosh on any type of fancy footwear, possibly forever. And it killed me because, despite my frequent quasi-feminist rants and ravings, I still like feeling sexy and/or pretty sometimes, and shoes are an easy way to accomplish that. I like the way high heels, pointy toes and fun, funky shoes look. I just hate the way they feel. And these days, I can not afford to suffer for the sake of cute shoes. 

Not long ago, a no-bullshit, get-things-done type, un-shoe obsessed friend of mine used the phrase  ‘a woman who wears sensible shoes’ in conversation. I thought about that phrase a lot, and once I had established that it was not code language for lesbian, I agreed that I was one too. A woman of sensible shoes. Yeah, I like that. It makes me feel better about my ancient sneakers, my socks and sandals combo, and my black ”dress shoes” that came with the ever-so-sexy claims of slip-resistant, no-mark soles, fully lined for comfort, and perfect for nurses, bank tellers and people who like to pace in a room all by themselves for hours on end. High heels, strappy sandals and cute cut clogs might say ‘Hey! Look at my legs! Look at my toenails! Don’t you just want to sit down on a nice couch and rub my feet!‘ to the world. But my shoes, my sensible shoes, say something to the world too. They say ‘If my kid runs away from me, I can chase her. If I step in a puddle, or a pothole, or some dog shit, I’m not gonna freak out. And if your fancy shoes give you a blister, and you need a band-aid, I’ve got one.‘ Especially now that it is blister season.

Mr. Blister Goes to School

Today marks a major turning point in the life of the Blister family. Today is Mr. Blister’s last day at his job. Tomorrow will be his first day of unemployment in nearly eight years, and for the first time since the kids were born, he’ll be allowed to sleep as long as he wants, have beer for breakfast, and spend the afternoon shopping for the ultimate symbol of a man of leisure: a new set of golf clubs. And the day after that, he’ll be thrown into a grueling month long intensive education program preparing him for life as a househusband / stay-at-home-dad, during which, he will quickly realize that he can kiss sleep-ins, beer, and golf goodbye.

 Mr. Blister graduated with honours from the prestigious Hard Working Dad program, and has successfully completed pre-requisite courses in general housework, feeding and burping, and diapering 101, but he still has much to learn. The core curriculum of the new program includes Selecting Appropriate Clothing for Children; Being in Three Places at One Time; Recognizing the Sound of Trouble (for which he will need the text book ‘Don’t Let the Silence Fool You’); Teaching a Baby to Talk and Walk; Teaching School Aged Children to Shut up and Sit Down; and the ever-challenging practicum, Put Down the Newspaper, Get Used to Cold Coffee, and Learn to Braid My Little Pony Hair. He may or may not wish to participate in an academic research experiment, Lactation Induction for Dads. 

The instructor is a real hard-ass, a professional multi-tasking mother with no patience for rookie mistakes, and plenty of tricks in her rolled-up sleeves. She holds a Ph.d in Early Childhood Necessities (with a concentration in Cry Interpretation and Intervention), a Master’s degree in Distractions (her thesis - Silly Songs, Silly Voices, Silly Faces: What to Use When? - was brilliant, albeit a bit silly) and a Bachelor’s Degree in Housekeeping (in which her major was undeclared, but her minor was definitely Laundry.) I know all of this because the instructor is me. Mr. Blister is being taken to school, Domestic Blister style. And I am sort of freaking out.

We are about to undertake some huge changes, including moving our family half way across the country, and a significant role reversal where I become the breadwinner, and he becomes the sandwich maker. But for the next four weeks, we’ll both be home packing and preparing for what lies ahead as best we can. And I feel like there is so much I need to teach him. I want him to know the most effective and efficient ways of doing just about everything. He needs to know how to help Squiggles roll on to her tummy so that her arms don’t get stuck. He needs to know how to help Roo work on her fine motor skills. He needs to know how to determine when Neener needs a lecture and when she needs a hug. And it will all go a lot smoother if he can grow eyes in the back of his head, an extra set of arms and some breasts. Squiggles really likes breasts, they are the only thing that really calm her when she is upset. But I don’t think we have enough time for all that. So I’ll focus on the basics - teaching him that Squiggles “ahhhhh ahhhhh” cry means “Play with me” and her “uhhhhh uhhhhh” cry means “I pooped in my pants.” I’ll show him a dozen or so different craft projects to while away a rainy afternoon. I’ll demonstrate my secret recipe for mac and cheese. I’ll teach him how to read Dr. Seuss books the right way, because make no mistake, there is a right way and a wrong way to read them. I’ll stress the importance of washing all faces before venturing out in public. I’ll give him coaching sessions on how to manage all three kids by yourself in an unfamiliar environment. I’ll tell him how to make friends with other parents. And I’ll give him a refresher course in First Aid. Just in case. 

Half way through this last day of work, the Mister came home for lunch, lamenting the training of the new employee who will be taking his place. He spoke of all the information he was trying to download into the brain of the new guy, how his voice was hoarse from talking, and the new guy looked like his head was about to explode from information overload. Immediately, I could relate, knowing that the next month is my big chance to teach my husband everything there is to know about being a stay-at-home-parent. And I know it is going to be stressful for me and overwhelming for him, even before our switcheroo has officially begun. But then Mr. Blister said something interesting, as he shared an epiphany of his own.  

“So I just stopped telling the new guy stuff. I gave him the basics and a few helpful hints, and the rest he’ll figure out, the same way I did. It’ll take a while, but he’ll find his own way of doing things, and it’ll be fine.” 

And then the light went on for me too. I don’t have to teach my husband how to be a stay-at-home-mother. I have to just let him be a stay-at-home-father. I can offer up some of my most sage advice, and let him get some practice over the next few weeks, but then it’s up to him to figure it out. He knows that he can pick my brain for information or ideas whenever he wants, and I know that he is a smart, competent man. He will do things differently, but that does not mean he’s doing them wrong. It will be an adjustment for all of us, and the learning curve will be sharp. There will be times when it’s great, and times when it’s a nightmare. Which is exactly the way it is now. Minus the boobs. But that is ok too. Squiggles will adjust to less boobage one way or another.  

So instead of spending the next four weeks schooling Mister Blister on how to look after the kids, I’ll enjoy the time we have together, this relative calm before the storm. And maybe I’ll work on finding the one thing that will make Mr. Blister’s life as a stay-at-home dad infinitely easier: a boob shaped baby pacifier for Baby Squiggles. It’ll make a perfect Father’s Day present.

Charge of the Tramp Brigade

If anyone has a good recipe for stunting kids’ growth, I’d like to hear it. And don’t suggest feeding them Wonder Bread and Count Chocula for breakfast. Didn’t work. They still woke up a quarter inch taller than they were the night before. I’d be ok with finding something that also curtails their cognitive development, but what I’m really looking for is something to slow down the physical growth of Neener and Roo. Why, you wonder? Well, if you were to hazard a guess, you may come up with the easy answer: I want them to stay my babies forever. But that’s not true. I’m actually looking forward to the day when they are grown up enough to acknowledge my infinite wisdom. Or at least competently wipe their own bums. Then, there’s the more obvious reason: Growing kids are expensive kids. Reduce the growing, reduce the expense, plain and simple. And certainly, I am very aware that keeping my daughters decently clothed costs a pretty penny. Ok, more like a comfortable-but-cute penny in our case. But notice that I said decently clothed. See, there’s the catch. There’s the real reason I want my kids to stop growing, to stay little girls, to stay size 6X forever. In my last few forays into the fashionable worlds of Zellers, Winners and Valu-Village, I was struck by a disturbing reality: The trampy clothes start at size 7.

Yes, the trampy clothes. Stuff that would have been too trampy for me when I was 17 are now the staples of clothing for the under 12 set. There’s a slutty glut of micro-mini skirts (yeah, great for Roo, who has a hard enough time keeping her skirt down as it is), grossly revealing ultra-low rise pants (perfect for Neener’s chronic crack problem to which even high-rise jogging pants succumb) and the hoochiest little swimwear you ever did see ( I almost threw up when I saw the sparkly, size 7, Stuff by Hillary Duff bikini with the padded bra top. Thanks Hill, but I don’t let my five year olds Stuff.) But perhaps the most offensive, most pervasive of all are the T-shirts. It is damn near impossible to find a girl’s t-shirt that does not have some snotty or suggestive slogan splattered across the front. Those are the two flavours of Tee, snotty and suggestive. On the snotty rack, there’s stuff like ‘Nuthin’ but attitude’ and ‘Too cute to care‘ and ‘100% Princess…and don’t you forget it!’ Meanwhile, over on the suggestive rack, there’s ‘Hottie‘ and ‘Super Flirt’  and ‘Don’t even think about it!’ Or, quite possibly the worst, one with a picture of a coy looking Curious George (yes, even cartoon monkeys have come hither faces in the land of tight n’ trampy t-shirts) and the curly, coyly fonted phrase ‘Are You Curious?’ written across the chest. Are you curious? Are you serious? Is it just me with my paranoid mother mind in the gutter, thinking that these things amount to little more than billboards for perverts? Did using my reproductive organs for actual reproduction turn me into a big prude? And would anyone let their 5 year old son go around in a t-shirt that read ‘Boylicious?‘ I doubt it.

I could go off on a rant about the sexualization of young girls, and our pop culture’s sick insistence on dressing grown women like little girls, and little girls like prostitutes, and one of these days, I probably will. But not today. Today I’ll spare you the tirade, and content myself with trying to figure out who to blame for this crap. Obviously, there’s Hillary Duff. Her name is on a kid’s bikini with built-in fake boobies, for Christ’s sake! But Hillary is squeaky clean compared to the even trampier strain of starlets - Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, and Brittney, before she had babies and went bonkers - who are successfully peddling the underwear-free tramp brigade lifestyle to young girls who don’t know any better, and to old men who do. We could also pin it on Bratz dolls, the dolls with ‘A Passion for Fashion!’ Or, more accurately, the dolls with a passion for thong underwear (which at least they wear - for now), hooker make-up, and getting G.I Joe thrown in jail for sexual interference with a minor. I’ve taken a solemn vow that if any Bratz merchandise ever comes into my daughters’ possession, I will do what any sensible, conscientious mother would do: Take it out back, soak it in hairspray and light it on fire while squealing “There Yasmin, now you’re, like, totally hot!”   And naturally, I’d love to blame it on Disney, but I’m not sure I can. At least, not on the Princesses. They may be vacuous, desperate, ninnies but they have not sunk into slutty. But Tinkerbell, on the other hand…hmmm…that pixie skirt of hers is awfully short.

But really, it doesn’t matter who’s to blame for this onslaught of slutty clothes aimed at young girls, this tramp brigade charging straight at my daughters. All that matters to me is how I’m going to deal with it. Right now, my plan is to stunt my daughters’ growth so we can delay wading into the dirty waters of girls’ size 7 and up clothing. I need something that will keep them little and innocent and in sass-and-skank-free t-shirts for just for a little while longer. So far, my best lead on such a substance is a guy on ebay selling viles of Gary Coleman’s blood. (Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Blister?) And then, when Neener and Roo turn 17, if they want to go buy trampy t-shirts, or a sparkly bikini with built-in boobs, they can be my guests. After twelve years of eating Wonder Bread and Count Chocula laced with Gary Coleman’s blood, they’ll probably need all the padding they can get.  

Memorable Milestone: Baby’s First Trip to the ER

Yesterday, the universe saw fit to remind me yet again of how things can change in the blink of an eye. One minute I’m sipping coffee, making birthday party invitations with Neener and Roo, and trying to decide which exercise dvd I’m going to torture myself with, and the next minute I’m en route to the ER with a frighteningly feverish baby and a doctor’s note containing words that would get us fast tracked in the triage line: Four month old baby, fever of 103, drowsy, irritable, stiff neck. Yeah, that’ll get you some quick attention, you would think.

But let’s take it from the beginning. Squiggles developed a fever on Wednesday. It hovered around 101, no cough, no runny nose, no Barfies, no pootastrophies. She was still pretty much acting like her happy-go-lucky self, save for the night time restlessness that was tamed by hourly boob feeds and Jingle-Bells-in-the-key-of-cat waltzes. Yesterday morning, she was warmer, and a bit crankier, but content enough to laugh hysterically at Neener’s reading of Green Eggs and Ham. ( Come to think of it, she may have been a bit delirious from the fever at that point. Green Eggs and Ham is just not that funny.) So, being the seasoned mother of three that I am, I gave her some baby Tylenol, put her to bed and did not panic. Until around 3 p.m when Squiggles woke from a very long nap, refused to eat, and oscillated between extreme irritability, and laying on my chest whimpering like a puppy. A sick, sleepy puppy. So I pulled out the trusty rectal thermometer (or bum-mometer as we call it) to get a quick read. 103. Yikes. A fever that high in a baby this young is not something I was willing to wait out. Time to see the doctor. Fortunately, our family doctor’s office is right next door. I got the Mister to come home from work to mind Neener and Roo, and I darted to the doctor. Having seen Squiggles with her previous fevers, he quickly recognized the same worrisome things that I had: High fever, irritable and lethargic, a reluctance to move her head around, and no obvious cause. He began a pre-amble about how all kids are different when they are sick, and the importance of playing it safe, but I cut to the chase. 

“Take her to the ER? Just to be sure it’s not something scary?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think that’s the best thing to do.” he replied gravely.

So, being the seasoned mother of three that I am, I panicked.  

What happened next a bit of a blur. I know I called our sweet Super Sitter to come to the rescue. I know Mr. Blister flagged down a cab, handed me a wad of cash and a cell phone, and kissed us goodbye with the promise that he’d meet us at the hospital as soon as he could. I know Squiggles didn’t make a peep in the cab. I know the taxi driver sensed my urgency and took the less busy side streets to get us there quicker. And I know I tipped him 10 bucks. But my ability to think, to take in my surroundings, to breathe, and to be the un-panicked rock I needed to be did not re-surface until we were safely in the doors of the ER. There, we were met by the security guy, who asked if I was here for me or my kid, then told me to take a seat. One entire wall of the ER was lined with old people on stretchers, each accompanied by 2 paramedics. In the triage system, they take anyone who arrived by ambulance first, so the paramedics can get back to work quicker. I watched as 85 year old Martha got registered and admitted for swallowing too many unidentified pills. I watched as 70-some year old Mr. Robins got taken in to pee in a cup. I watched as a hefty, odiferous woman sat down in a triage station and began describing the kink in her neck and asking about painkillers. I watched and waited for about 15 minutes, not sure of where I was in the crowded que. No one had really asked me anything, or even acknowledged that I was in there with a small baby among the junkies and geriatrics. So I figured it was time to draw some attention to myself. I went to the security guy and asked if I should be in any particular part of the line. He said that depended on what was wrong.

“Well, I’ve got a 4 month old baby and my doctor sent us here to make sure she doesn’t have meningitis.”

“Oh. Ok. Have a seat.” I watched as security guy got up and pointed me out to the nurse dealing with pain-in-the-neck woman. Then I watched as he went back and sat down behind his desk.

 I felt a tap on my shoulder. A middle aged gentleman with a sprain had overheard my conversation with security guy, and offered me his place at the available triage station. I choked out a ‘thank you’ as he helped me carry the car seat. Then I spotted the hospital’s head of pediatrics, who just so happens to be our pediatrician. We had a quick chat, and within minutes, we were in a room to see a doctor and get some tests started. Blood work, chest x-ray, urine culture, and if none of those tests gave us enough information, we’d start talking spinal tap. 

Just before all that got started, my husband arrived. I was so relieved to have his company and the extra pair of hands. Two nurses then showed up to take some blood from Squiggle’s chubby little arm, while I hovered over her face patting her head and singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. One nurse commented that I was handling it pretty well, seeing my baby so upset by the whole procedure. I explained that I was a veteran at singing my kids through assorted tests, that my other daughter had been through much worse. I was in medical mommy mode, with no brain space left to dwell on what any of us were going through. My job was to stay calm, and keep Squiggles calm as best I could. For a moment, I felt a little callous for not getting really upset at the sight of my baby scared and in pain. Then I reminded myself that it would not help anyone to have me bawling in the corner, or running from the room when my child needed me most. So I helped the nurses hold her down and when it was over, I picked Squiggles up, rocked her a bit, and she promptly fell asleep.

But even medical mommy was not quite prepared for the chest x-ray. In order to get pictures of her lungs, my baby had to be stripped off and placed on a small bicycle seat on a post, attached to a table. Then, as I held her arms up over her head, the tech clamped a big see-through plastic cylinder around her entire body, her legs dangling out the bottom, her arms sticking straight up through the top, and her little face jutting out from a hole cut in the side. Remember, this is the baby who hated her sling with a mad apssion because she detests any manner of confinement. Then, a big black board was pushed in front of her face while the tech took the x-rays. Squiggles couldn’t look at me for comfort, so I just started meowing Jingle Bells over her heartbreaking cries. I did not know what else to do. It was certainly not what I had in mind when I’d imagined her first professional photographs being taken. But, it all went as well as could be expected, and soon we were off to have poor Squiggles prodded with a catheter. Twice, because the first nurse couldn’t seem to get it right. As we sat in he room waiting for word on the tests, I quietly prayed to any and all random deities who could possibly be eavesdropping. Please no spinal tap. Please no spinal tap.  

Finally, we got some information. Her bloodwork showed some infection, her lungs were clear, and we’d have to wait on the urine cultures. In the mean time, our pediatrician came to examine her before making the call on the spinal tap. It was then that Squiggles displayed her impeccable timing, and I saw again how everything can change in the blink of an eye. As soon as the doctor started checking her out, Squiggles perked up. She opened her eyes. She started moving and looking around. She started cooing at him. She started doing all the things she had not done for hours. And that put his mind at ease. He said he’d follow up on the test results, that we did the right thing coming in, but that we could breathe a sigh of relief that we didn’t need a spinal tap, and that we could go home. We thanked him profusely, packed up our still feverish but now smiling and alert baby, and headed home. 

So, there’s no neat and tidy conclusion here yet. Squiggles still has a fever, and we don’t know what’s causing it. But we have a pretty good idea of what is not causing it, and that’s important. She’s not 100% back to herself, but she does seem to be on the mend. And I can say that at the very least, she’s no longer deliriously feverish. I just read her Green Eggs and Ham, and she barely cracked a smile.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

Neener has a promising future as either an advertising executive, a sign maker, or a perennially unemployed drifter who makes money for smokes by taping Lost Cat and Yard Sale signs to poles. Every room in our home has been plastered with Neener’s handmade signs. The hallway is festooned with ‘ads’ for her shoe store, Fiona’s Shoes. The bedroom she shares with Roo is riddled with stern labels indicating who owns what: My bed. Don’t touch. My shelf. Don’t touch. My wall. Don’t touch. Apparently she who makes the most signs rules the bedroom. And the living room is a mess of conflicting information, saying on one wall ‘Welcome to Costa Rica’ and on the other, the cryptic and confusing ‘Closed due to enimies[sic]‘ and ‘Open due to my friends.’ There is even a sign in the bathroom. It went up at Christmas time when my bachelor-esque brother was visiting, reminding him to ‘Please put the toilet seat down.’ It was so effective that we considered sending it home with him to put on the back of his own toilet, potentially saving his girlfriend from a few late-night dips in the flush. But, like all Neener’s other signs, I just could not bear to take it down. Our home looks a little ridiculous, with all these pieces of kid-scrawled paper taped on the walls, but I don’t care. Everywhere I look, I am reminded of my funny kid, and that makes me smile much more than any neat and tastefully decorated room ever could. I know this is just a phase. I know someday the signs will come down, and I know I’ll miss them. I know this too shall pass. So I’m going to take pictures. I’ve already begun doing just that, by taking this one that she drew on her Magna-doodle while playing a game called Baby Land, in which she created a dream theme park for Baby Squiggles and a truckload of dolls:

 

Raising a child for 5 years: $20 000

Buying a Magna-doodle: $20

Having a 5 year old create signs that make you laugh til you pee your pants: priceless.