Naive me

As a relatively new blogger (always just been a lurker) I was really excited to see that I had two comments on one of my recent posts. So it was with much anticipation that I opened them, only to find marketing pitches for some unneeded software.

Pity, that.

I am thinking of adding a box like the one I saw on someone else's blog that said, "Would it kill you to comment?". But then, that might mean there really are people out there reading what I write, which instead of validating what I do, would only scare me back into obscurity.

Take that!

I love how the health warning about how my computer keyboard and mouse may be linked to serious injuries and disorders is ON THE BOTTOM of my keyboard.

How did I find this out? Because on the days when my hands aren't completely numb from overuse, I turn the keyboard upside down and loudly bang it on my desk to clean it.

It is the only way to effectivley dislodge all of the critters and food stuff that dwell betwixt the keys.

Keeping my funny side up

I am desperately trying to find something even remotely funny to write about my life right now. The only thing I can think of is how ridiculously big the shit sandwich is that someone has handed me and how little of the ugly concoction I have managed to consume.

When will this gastronomic nightmare end?

I am frantically waving my hand and saying, “I’m done. May I be excused from the table now?” The funny part is that I hear my own voice inside my head saying, “Not until you’ve finished what’s on your plate.” I should know better. My words always end up biting me in the ass.

Boy child has been kicked out of playschool for “aggressive” behaviour. And just like a plague of locusts, a gaggle of judgmental mothers has descended upon us. Feeling used, abused, misunderstood, and treated unkindly by the whole perfectly coifed lot of them.

Let’s see…boy child with major behavioural problems and girl child with major health issue (what, isn’t everyone fed by a tube?), loved by their dyke mama amd mumi. Yeah, definitely don’t fit the white, middle-class hetero mold.

I just want to pick up boy child in my arms and rock him back and forth murmuring, “I’ll love you forever. Always my baby you’ll be.”

Hey, cruel world. You’ve got my attention.

Sweet Jesus

Being heathens as well as abominations to the Lord, my partner and I used to call infant Tylenol a little dose of Jesus (and really, what could that sweet thick juice be but the nectar of God?).

When our teething baby girl or boy would stop yelling and screaming after downing a shot of the startlingly pink stuff, we would start yelling and screaming "Out with the Devil! Hallelujah!!"

All ears

So just when I think he really can't hear me telling him to leave his sister alone, that perhaps he actually has gone stone deaf from blasting Raffi on the stereo one too many times, the boy child looks up at me and says, "Mama, who is Jesus Friggin' Murphy?"

Culture shock

So, I "worked" from home yesterday (mostly, I cleaned my house. Hallelujah!). The kids were at playschool all day (total bliss). I had the pleasure of picking them up after school (picture it: two cute small people running into my arms, gleefully shouting, "Mama, Mama!").

As I am crouched down hugging girl child, the woman next to me leans over and says in a very snitty voice, "Has anyone said anything to you about boy child's behaviour today?"

(Picture smile dying on my face and confused look entering my eyes). "Uh, no."

"Well," she says with a little too much relish. "He was pushing other kids and not sharing and he pulled Eeisha's hair."

Okay, I am not discrediting the fact that my kid was misbehaving at school and that he hurt people, but, can we cut him a bit of slack? He's three! He's learning to socialize, and not always doing it in a good way.

My point is, who elected this nameless woman to come up to me to tell me this. She did not introduce herself (I finally had to ask her who she was), nor is she his teacher (the person who should have been telling me this and who, by the way, didn't, but that's another story).

"If he were my child I would want to know," she says to me with a mean little smile on her face. Apparently, her child is always an angel and never acts out.

And as a side note, she also tells me that boy child climbed up into the window well (the school is in the basement of a church), implying that it was his fault for doing so. The kicker being that (as I found out later) she as the parent on duty was the one who was supposed to be watching him!

Boy child is a very active, very curious kid. I think these are both good things. Apparently not so in playschool.

So here's me with the kids piled in the car, driving home, crying on the phone to their other mumi.

Her response t0 my blubbering is, "Love, don't get upset. You don't know the culture there."

What?! There's playschool culture? As though educating and socializing your kids isn't hard enough without having to deal with a bunch of judgmental mothers on top of it all.

I can't wait until real school starts.

Sitting pretty

Being the parent of a small child means having your own personal bathroom attendant always at the ready to dispense toilet paper and advice on how to use it.

Asserting one's independence

"I WANNA DO IT! I WANNA DO IT!!! LET MEEEEEE!!!! I WILL DO IT BY MYSELF!!!!!!
(the wails of a 3-year old boy child attempting to pour milk into a cup).

After several misfires and much milk spillage, a quieter and perhaps chagrined little voice says,

"Mama, can you help me do it by myself?"