Happy Birthday, Little Man.  I really can’t believe you’re a year already.  A whole year of me and Dad being outnumbered.  A year of chaos and confusion, much worse than before.  A year of constant exhaustion, too little sex, and a life that often feels like it’s on the verge of unravelling before my sleepy, half closed eyes.  

But if turmoil was the price to pay to add you to our family, it is a price I’d be willing to double.  Kaelum, you have rounded out our family in a way I never dreamed possible.  Before you were born, I knew life would get hectic and I knew I would love you, but I never knew how hectic life would get, or how much I would love you.  I figured I’d empty out some real estate in my ol’ ticker for you, but I never anticipated just how awesome the human soul is, that from the moment you were born, I didn’t need to clear out a space in my heart for you, it just kinda grew right about the same time I held you to my chest, chord still attached and blue as a bottle of antifreeze.

Kaelum, you were loved so much so soon.  Once you were born, your siblings came in to see you right away, oohing and aahing over your tiny button nose, your pouty swelled lips. They were never jealous, although I thought they should be.  Here you were, a hedonistic little thing, screaming and crying and demanding attention, constantly taking up their mommy’s time, but all they wanted to do was hug you and kiss you and hold you.  When you weren’t around, they would ask where you were.  When you were around, they would stroke your hair and talk baby talk to you.  Hayden nicknamed you “Little Buddy” and they both still call you that to this day.

There are some obvious disadvantages to being the youngest.  Chances are, you won’t know your alphabet as early on as your siblings because I don’t have the time to sit down and teach you the way I did when I only had one or two little people to be a personal servant to.  Your bedtime stories will probably be over your head for many years because they will pick them.  You are smothered on a daily basis by kids who don’t quite understand personal space, gentle play, or the concept of  listening to the non-verbal cues of a baby.  All your clothes and baby gear are hand-me-downs and you’ll probably be stuck feeding and dressing yourself far sooner than your brother and sister.  You’ll watch more TV, and the shows probably won’t be age-appropriate.  You won’t have as much one-on-one time now that there are three of you to share our attention, and you will probably have to fight to be heard.  But what you lack in these areas, you will get to make up in learning, playing, talking and just being with your siblings.  They will teach you the things that I may not get to, they will give you attention when I cannot, and they will love you as I do, and always will. And for that, you are one lucky kid, because you will never be short on the most important commodity love.

You have challenged me this year, my little stinker.  You turned your nose up at food for almost the first year of your life, causing me to be joined at the hip with you, feeding you every few hours day and night.  You refused a bottle and a soother and sleep was something you took lightly.  But when your face lights up at the first sign of music, when you clap and dance and do the actions, I forget that I’m running on one sputtering cylinder.  You smile so much and so easily, and you laugh all the time.  And these things are worth the sleepless nights, the less frequent sex (Dad might not agree so much), the fact that life feels like it’s on the verge of unravelling.  I sigh in relief that the hard first year is behind us, but I grieve also, because you’ll never be a baby again.  I guess that’s not entirely true – you’ll always be my baby.

I promised to make it worth your while, so here’s one for my lady readers:

Need I say more?

And if there happen to be any male readers out there:

What’s better than a broad with two volley balls fixing a car?  And you even get to imagine that the horizontal hottie is your wife.  Unless she’s terribly un-endowed like me.  Then you have to imagine it’s your wife fixing the car while keeping her recently purchased cantaloupes safe inside her sweater.  That’s what I call multi-tasking.

I am not sure what even triggered my philosophical musings, but if I had to pinpoint it, it might have been as I was driving away from a gathering of friends in our 12-year-old van.  This may not have gotten the old cogs on the rusty wheels in my ill-used noggin turning if my fellow party goers were driving 13-year-old cars, but they weren’t.  They all had fairly new rides.

This all got me thinking how I would love a new van.  Our van works great, but wouldn’t it be nice to have one of those Stow-N-Go vans?  Maybe with rear controls for when the kids are hot and we are cold?  It would be great to have a van with built-in TVs and navigation systems.  Heck, it would just be nice to have a van without rust on the sides that didn’t scream “I am old and on my way to the metal graveyard, just look at me, it’s so obvious!”

So why do I really want a new van?  Our van (named Van Morrison, so let’s just call him Van from now on.  Really.  That’s his name.  I did this just to annoy Mike because he hates it when vehicles have names.  This of course, makes me name our vehicles when I otherwise wouldn’t.  In this case, the genius name came from my mom.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree).  Back to Van.  I get a lot of satisfaction from Van.  He runs great, other than the occasional minor breakdown, which is to be expected.  He gets me where I need to go every day.  He fits our whole family, our dog, and all the other crap we tote around with us.  He doesn’t come with a monthly payment and he is pretty cheap on the insurance side of things.  But he is old.  And that is really the only problem with Van.

So what happens when I see my friends drive around in their new vehicles?  I covet.  When I think about it, their vehicles offer the same benefits that Van does.  Sure, they are newer and prettier, and maybe they break down a little less, but once the novelty of that new vehicle wears off, they are most likely left with a large monthly payment and high insurance premiums.  But they are nice and new and shiny and we all want nice and new and shiny stuff.

The obvious answer to how this silly cycle came about it advertising.  We watch TV on our big flat screen televisions and they tell us what we need to own and why we need to own it and that if we don’t own it, we are not cool.  So we go out and buy it.  It seemed to me that there might be a bit more to the cycle of consumerism, which reminded me of a link my brother-in-law sent me of a 20 minute video he recommended watching that caught my eye but I never watched called the Story of Stuff.  It turns out this is exactly what I was looking for.  I recommend you watch it, it was quite the eye opener.

Perhaps one of the most interesting facts that the Story of Stuff talked about was that only 1% of all products purchased in North America are still in use a mere six months after the date of sale.  That number is staggering.  And if you watch the video, you’ll see how devastating the practice of purchasing consumer goods at such a rapid pace is on our planet.

What really resonated with me was when Annie Leonard, the created of the Story of Stuff said, “our primary identity has become that of becoming consumers, not mothers, teachers, farmers, but consumers.  The primary way that our value is measured and demonstrated is by how much we consume…the way we demonstrate our value is contributing to [purchasing consumer goods].”  It’s so true, and this is why I want a new van.  This is also why I can’t help but feel a little inferior when we get together for a play date with one of Hayden’s classmates and our house seems so small and crammed next to their newly decorated mini-mansion (OK, it’s not that big, it just seems that way in comparison).  This is made extra ludicrous by the fact that I actually love my house, despite its small size.

This gross mess of consumerism was actually planned and plotted after WWII, when retailing analyst Victor Lebow advised that the best way to ramp up the economy was to “make consumption our way of life.”  Our values have become so convoluted over the years, but I really shouldn’t open up that can of overfished, mercury-laden tuna.

So what does this all mean?  That’s a great question, and if you have a satisfactory answer for me, I’ll give you my iPod because I was thinking of getting a new one any way.

Other than each individual doing their part to reduce their consumerism footprint, there is no easy answer.  I do know that Mike and I have learned some hard lessons involving finances over the years.  These lessons, coupled with the fact that I stress more than a canary at a cat convention when it comes to money matters are part of the reason why our vehicles are old.  I do not like monthly bills and try to cut out as many as I can.  And here’s the kicker: if it wasn’t for our old jalopies, we might have run into some serious financial troubles this year.  Mike’s trade has been terribly slow and there has not been a lot of work for over a year.  If we had a car payment or two, if we had a big mortgage (our tiny house means an affordable mortgage and low property tax), if we had a bunch of fancy doodads, we may have had to declare bankruptcy, or at the very least I would have had to leave my little baby before my maternity leave ran out to find work just to pay for our meaningless stuff.  Instead, we are weathering the storm with our life raft still intact, albeit a bit battered and beaten.

We buy our kids a mountain of presents lest they be the only ones that Santa didn’t spoil, we buy new clothes every year because the styles change just enough so that last year’s rags don’t quite cut it, we buy new electronics because the iPad 3 has two new features that the iPad 2 is missing, and we forget that all of this stuff comes at a great cost and has to go somewhere, not to mention that there are people in this world who are lucky to get one meal in their bellies on any given day.  And sadly, even they are not immune to the coveting accompanied by consumerism.

So I am going to try to be grateful for my old, beat up stuff.  I am going to try to use it and love it and be thankful for it.  I am sure I will revert back to my coveting ways at least every day.  And when that happens I will remember that I get to stay at home with my kids and take them for rides on their hand-me-down bikes while wearing their used clothes, and not only will I offer up a prayer of thanks, but I will try to instil in my children that stuff doesn’t make happiness, friends and family make happiness.  It might be hard to convince them with our flat screen TV, our new computer and all the other stuff that we have but don’t need, but I’ll try.

Photo Credit: http://www.maryboonegallery.com

It’s Easter (yes, I’m a rocket scientist for figuring that out) and I’ve been asked on more than one occasion if the Easter Bunny is coming to our house, meaning, do we feed our kids the same lies that 99.48% of the population feed them regarding an elusive over-sized rabbit that magically drops candy, chocolate, and even large gifts to little boys and girls everywhere?  The answer is yes, we do.

I regularly attend Coffee Break, a women’s group that meets every Thursday morning to chat about sex, drugs and rock and roll.  Just kidding.  We mainly talk about God, the Bible and of course, our kids.  But I have a bit of a problem with all this talk, even if I do enjoy the company.  Somewhere along the line, and I really can’t pinpoint, why, when, where or how, I became jaded with Christianity and all it seemingly offered.  I know that many of my friends and acquaintances feel differently, and I’m sorry if this upsets you.  I know it’s also hard on my parents, two of the most wonderful people I know who taught us all about right from wrong, treating others with respect, and most importantly, Christianity.  Unfortunately, they also taught us to think for ourselves, which might have backfired when it comes to religious matters.

For those of you who know my parents, you know that my father is a pastor and my mother is just an all around awesome lady with a great faith and a modern view on God and Christianity.  I know that having a child (or four) who do not go to church must be tough on them, and I’m thankful that they don’t cry the blues about how I’m going to hell for my wayward ways, cause that would also backfire.

When I talk about my hang ups with Christianity, please don’t take my musings as a personal attack.  I’m not trying to offend anyone, I’m just trying to make sense of it all.

Last Thursday at Coffee Break, I was bowing my head and pretending to pray while thinking about Palm Sunday, Good Friday and Easter Monday.  There is so much Biblical meaning behind Easter and yet I haven’t told my kids any of it.  A big part of this is that I don’t know how to explain in layman’s terms to a three and a four year old that we beat a man, nailed him to a cross and watched him die a slow and painful death.  I just don’t know how to make such a gruesome story G-Rated.  But if I’m honest with myself, it also has to do with the fact that I’m not sure I want to spoon feed my children one particular religion and claim it as the one and only way (insert gasp here).  The older I get, the more I think that the universe is a complicated matter.  It is full of energy and things far beyond our comprehension.  It has force fields and karma and all sorts of goodies.  And this is God’s doing.  Don’t get me wrong, I do believe in God.  I just sometimes have a hard time fitting him into the box that Christianity handed me and told me to stuff him in, like cramming a square peg into a round hole.

Quite honestly, I find Christianity to be a bit of an elitist religion.  We think that our way is the only way so we go and try to convert others to the one true religion out there, lest they be banned to the fiery pits of hell for not believing in the gospel.  But hear me out.  Why can’t Buddhists or Humanists practice religion in a way that works for them?  Why does it have to be the “Christian” way?  The answer I’ve been given for this is to have Bible verses quoted at me.  But really, their books of knowledge have a lot of good information in them, and as long as they are living a decent life, can’t that be good enough?  If we treat our fellow man with love and respect, and try to treat others as we want to be treated, does it matter if we view God as a big booming voice in the sky or as a little fat man with a belly to rub?  It’s about this time where I’m rebutted with quotes of idol worshipping, but we all have idols.  We worship movie stars, our iPhones, our house, our car, our job.  These can be a lot more damaging and are much more present in our lives.

The Bible is full of great information, but it’s also full of outdated information.  And while the Bible has helped me along my spiritual journey on more than one occasion, I have often gotten a lot more useful soul food from a good novel or self help book, or even a compelling documentary or a tear-jerker movie.  I’ve heard some great sermons but I’ve also garnered a ton of helpful advice from secular speakers.

The other day, a few of the women at Coffee Break threw their husbands under the proverbial bus, making some cryptic and underhanded comments about their husbands’ “problems,” to which they were referring to pornography.  Why exactly is it that pornography is so bad?  I understand that the addiction to porn is awful and damaging, as is the addiction to alcohol, gambling and drugs to name a few.  But what makes it so that the Christian man can’t indulge in a little eye candy every now and again?  And I know that there are verses to rebut this, but those could also apply to the other mentioned vices, which can destroy a family faster than Katrina.  Is a peek at a pretty lady any worse than lying, cheating, stealing?  It really does seem that way.

Sex is a little like watching your favourite sport.  You enjoy doing it regardless, but it sure is nice when things get shaken up with a great play or bad call by the ref.  Perhaps watching a porno together can do this for one’s sex life.  Now, if your husband starts thinking that he can get it on with the nurse at Dr Do-Me-A-Little’s office, then you might have a problem.  But how is it worse than swooning over Ryan Reynolds in a RomCom?

So, like I said, I’m sure I made some people upset with my blaspheme.  Really, I envy those with a strong faith.  It would be much easier if I could move mountains with my faith instead of questioning what God and religion means to me and how I can make sense of it.  I hope one day I will finally feel at peace with this, but for now, I’m on a merry-go-round in a dark cave, trying to grope around in the darkness for a horse to hold onto and hoping I don’t fall off the edge.  And until then, I will tell my kids about the Easter Bunny, about Jesus, about Santa.  I will let them celebrate Halloween and I might even spark a debate about evolution or reincarnation.  I will tell them about the power of positive thinking and how I listened to my bedroom and found out her name was Betty.  I will tell them Bible stories and Greek Myths.  I will give them a  little of this, and a little of that, and hope that they can figure out what spirituality means for them.  Most of all, I will teach them to love, to be kind, to be honest, to be respectful.  And maybe they will find God in the Bible or in Buddha’s belly or  in a Sunday morning roll in the hay with “Armagetiton” playing out in the background.  They may not embrace religion, but I hope they will find a deep and meaningful spirituality that works for them.

Try finding Jesus, I hid him really well.

I was paying some bills the other day and she wanted help with something.  I told her I wanted to finish up what I was doing but instead of waiting, she put her hand on her hip and announced sassily, “Fine, I’m just gonna go downstairs since you’re ignoring me!”  Half an hour later she looked up at me with her baby blues and announced, “No matter what, Mama, I will always wuv you.”

Bailey is many things.  She insists on getting a pink flower each week at the Farmer’s Market, she is terrified to the point of tears and trembling of spiders, she teases Hayden to no end, she would watch TV all day if I let her, and she loves to find “wormies” and snails in the garden, where she piles them up in a big heap and tells me confidently that “I fink my wormy wuvs me!”, not realizing that most of them are dead or dying.  She doesn’t love hockey, “I only wuv puppies and ponies and kangawoos” and was excited when I said that Parker was coming because she thought she was getting a visit from Spiderman.  She cried crocodile tears because she couldn’t go to the Sting game with Mike and Hayden (so much for not liking hockey), and when Mike finally found an afternoon game to take her to, she was curled up in her chair, fast asleep before the puck dropped.  When she does something wrong, she bursts into tears and has a big dramatic melt down to take the heat off of herself and what she has done.  Whenever she makes one of us angry (which happens often due to many strong personality traits and a knack for not listening), she wails and wails and insists on a big hug and kiss and love, which is touching cheek to cheek, something she invented.  She is a fickle little thing, always saying, “ak-chy, I changed my mind” or announcing that she tricked us or was just kidding before changing direction.  Everything is a race, but no matter if she wins or loses, she announces “I won!” and there is no changing her mind.

This is my Bailey.  I think one day she will be a ball buster.  But for now, she is content practicing on her family, while at the same time honing the natural-born skill of winning over the hearts of everyone she meets.  Talk about a deadly combination.  You get ‘em, Babe!

And this is the kind of thing that happens when that cute little newborn is a school aged kid with a creative streak and a strong will…

February 18 was Family Day.  This is a day when you are supposed to find a way to spend some quality time with your family in the dead of winter.  You could have a Polar Picnic or maybe go ice fishing.  You might decide to hunt for snow hares or carve an ice sculpture or do some other winter activity that is exiting enough to keep you from realizing your digits are slowly freezing past the point of no return.

While on the quest for some family fun, we decided that Mike would take the kids to a Sting game, as Bailey always wants to go with the boys but the games are far too late in the evening to drag a preschooler to.  Kaelum and I opted to stay home as my idea of a good time does not encompass bringing a baby to a hockey game.  So much for family time.  We were already divided.

We woke up that morning and Hayden announced that he wanted to make a Mooger costume.  Anyone who knows my son knows that you rarely see him in regular clothes.  He has a whole tote full of costumes and he rotates them with a regularity that would have Metamucil jealous.  If he doesn’t have a costume, he likes to make them.  Which usually means he tells me what he wants and I have to make it.  When I complain to Mike about this, he tells me I have only myself to blame for his crafty and creativeness.  I started it by making him a Batman mask out of electrical tape and since then, the kid thinks I can do anything.  If I tell him it can’t be done, he continually tells me to “just try” until I have no choice but to whip something together.  The time and sheer thinking power involved in these crafts really is a source of stress for me.   I’ve spent all day making a shiny tin knight costume, I’ve paper mâchéd an Iron Man War Machine shoulder gun, I’ve cut up so many cardboard boxes for various crafts and costumes that I have a permanent cramp in my hand, and I’ve even tried my hand at sewing for these crazy consume endeavours.

To be fair, lately he’s been pretty good about making his own costumes.  He will draw a cute little mask, cut it out, poke holes for the eyes and try to find some string or pipe cleaners to hold it in place.  Sadly, the little guy works so hard on his creations only to declare them no good, and no matter how much I encourage him, he generally abandons the project just after completion.

This is how we got to the Mooger costume.  Auntie Cassie has not been off the hook when it comes to making crafts, and she made him an awesome Power Rangers costume one night when he slept over.  After wearing it for several days straight (the deal is he can’t wear it to bed so that I can wash it), he decided he needed a worthy foe for the Power Ranger to fight.  One of the bad guys is a Mooger.  He started by taking off his costume and colouring his black pants with yellow crayon to transform them into the yellow legs of a Mooger.  You can imagine how ineffective that was.  Next, he turned his red shirt inside out to create the top of the costume.  As only kids do, he honed in on only one certain aspect of the character.  After working hard trying to colour with crayon on the fabric, he finished the task at hand.  He turned to me and asked, “Does my nipples look like bad guy nipples?”  It turns out the only thing he figured his costume needed was two yellow high beams drawn on his shirt.

Soon after, he had a great little Mooger mask made, but unfortunately, this was the latest one he declared unworthy.  He implored me to make a mask for him, but as it was so close to bedtime, we put it on the back burner.

We wake up the next morning and it’s Family Day.  Hayden is still stuck on the Mooger thing so we decide that after breakfast I will take him and Bailey out to buy the necessary items to make a Mooger costume.

First stop: Value Village.  Sadly, Goodwill was closed so I was stuck paying the inflated prices of the Big Box store.  Our mission was to find a pair of yellow or brown pants.  Apparently he found two different pictures; in one the Mooger was sporting yellow pants, and in another shot he was wearing brown.  So he wanted to find one or the other or preferably both.  Like we really needed two pants, but I figured I’d cross that road when we came to it.

We get in the store and the first glaring problem is trying to keep Bailey nearby while we peruse the aisles and aisles of mismatched pants.  She is so excited by all the toys that her already poor listening skills have gone the way of the 8-track.  The second big problem is finding a pair of yellow pants.  Hayden excitedly runs up holding a pair of yellow pants, oblivious to the fact that they are made for a 12 month old.  I explain to him that they won’t fit and in typical Hayden style, he dramatically whines and wails like the world is ending.

We manage to find brown pants that meet his approval, but so much for finding just one or the other; he is bound and determined to find yellow pants.  I remind him that we weren’t necessarily going to get both, but he is so insistent on wanting yellow pants over brown that we go on a wild goose chase throughout the store.  Not a pant is to be found, however, and Hayden is bummed.

By this time, we have been in the store for quite some time.  My patience with Hayden’s signature whining is running thin, as is my constant reminders for Bailey to stay where I can see her.  We finally check out with the brown pants.  Thankful that the episode is behind us, I breathe a sigh of relief as we head to the car.  We are almost there when Bailey announces, “I forgot my wand and my penny!”  I never let my kids bring toys into stores for this very reason, but somehow her wand escaped my notice.  I inwardly groan as we head back in the store to get her wand.  We find it on the toy shelf and I pray that we don’t get accused of shoplifting as we exit the store.  When Bailey realizes we are leaving, she becomes distraught because we didn’t find her penny.  I had forgotten about that wretched penny, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna search the store again for a mere cent.  I tell her I will get her another penny and, placated, we head out the door once again.

We are about halfway to the car when I realize that Bailey’s hat is no longer on her head.  Now, this is a cute hat.  It’s a white crocheted cap with a big black flower on it that perfectly matches her black coat.  She gets so many compliments and looks so darling with her curls wildly escaping that I am instantly in a frenzy to find her hat.  Back into the store we go.  We search high and low and I am starting to lose hope that we will find it.  The kids are getting cranky from wandering the aisles and I am getting cranky, picturing some bargain hunter picking it up and taking it to the cash register to try to purchase it.  I am trying to quiz Bailey as to where she had it last but it’s like trying to ask a mouse to show you where he squeezed into your house – I just wasn’t gonna get an answer.

Some kindly ladies must have picked up on my exasperated tone, because they pointed me to her pretty white hat, hanging innocently on the end of a rack.  I was looking on the ground and in the toys and never would have found it.  Once again, we headed out the door holding our breath for fear of being tackled by the shoplifting police, but we made it out without further incident.  Thank goodness and good riddance.

Our next stop is the dollar store because Hayden has informed me that we need a red shirt like Auntie Cassie got him, and she got it at the dollar store.  Up and down the aisles we go and not a shirt is to be found.  We do, however, come across a grey pull-over-your-head winter hat.  Hayden declares he needs it.  I remind him that the Mooger’s mask needs to be red but he insists we can paint it.  I tell him we can’t, but you can’t argue with that kid and I figure it’s easier to spend the $2 than to try to convince him we can’t paint it.

A text to Auntie Cassie reveals that the shirt was bought at Walmart, so we pile back in the van for another stop.  Of course, it was a clearance item in Wallaceburg and the Sarnia store has no such item.  We do find a 24 month red shirt, and again, for the $3 it cost, it was easier to buy it than convince Hayden it wouldn’t fit.  Yes, being a tired mother costs you money.

We happen upon a lone red pull-over hat on clearance for $1, however, so the trip is not a complete bust.

We stop off at Grandma’s to borrow the sewing machine and the harassing starts. Hayden wants me to make the costume and is oblivious to the fact that I might have one or eighteen different things I need to do that take precedence over his costume.  I promise to start working on it as soon as I can.

We get home and it’s a quick lunch before Mike takes the kids to the Sting game.  So far, we haven’t spent a single minute of Family Day with the whole family.

Off Mike goes, and while I enjoy a relaxing afternoon starting a Mooger costume, Bailey has fallen asleep before the puck dropped and Hayden doesn’t want to watch the game because he wants to go home to play with the Power Ranger “puppet” he made out of a piece of paper, some crayons and some scissors.  So both parents spent this special family day being exasperated at their offspring.

So here we are, a month and a half later.  Hayden forgot about it and the Mooger costume never got finished.  It was such a job trying to make that crazy mask that I never bothered to remind Hayden about it.  I know it’s not the best tactic as a parent, but my sanity must count for something.  If he ever asks me to finish it, I will begrudgingly do so, but for now, I’m content that he is onto something else.  And don’t think I’m off the hook; at least once a day Mike and I are recruited for drawing, painting, taping, and/or cutting out crafts.  Martha Stewart would be proud.

The mask that started it all

Happy Birthday Bailey

This is the kind of post I write for my own memories, so I will apologize in advanced for clogging up my blog with sentimental drivel.

My dear Bailey,

Wow, you are three already today!  Call me a sap, but I almost cried several times today when I looked at you and realized how much you’ve grown up already.  You have morphed from a toddler into a little girl and somehow I didn’t even see it happen until it was too late.  Had I noticed, I would have grabbed on like a drowning person and tried to hold onto it for a little while longer.  Don’t get me wrong, I love the stage of life you are in now.  It’s so fun to sing with you and read to you and laugh with you and have great little conversations with you that reveal how your little brain is soaking up everything around you like a cacti after a desert rain.  But it just went by far too fast, and I mourn the loss of my baby girl.

You were by far my easiest baby, Bailey.  You slept through the night from an early age, you drank from a bottle, you took a soother, you were happy and content all the time, you loved your long afternoon naps…in short you were a mother’s dream baby.  And then you got older and your fire cracker personality emerged.  At first, your dad and I didn’t know what to do with you.  We were used to your easy going, eager-to-please older brother.  We suddenly found that the parenting skills we had spent two years honing and perfecting were as useless as tissue paper in a rainstorm.

I have always said you are like Jekyll and Hyde.  You are the sweetest thing in the world but you try my patience so very very much.  I try to remember that your strong-willed personality is a good thing, that it means you know what you want and that you’re healthy and smart.  But man, sometimes it’s not easy parenting a child like you.  Add to the mix your knack for throwing a tantrum to rival Christian Bale and your dad and I have our work cut out for us.  You like to disobey, and when you get in trouble you cry your little heart out and insist on a hug.  Admittedly, it’s often the last thing I feel like doing.  But it’s a good way to calm my anger.  And then you usually say something like, “I still wuv you, Mama,” and I remember what life is all about.

But truth be told, little girl, I wouldn’t have you any other way.  I may yell at you more than I care to admit, but you bring so much joy and laughter and life into our home.  You are always giggling and singing and making the house a happy place to be.  Except when you tease your brother.  Which you do a lot.  Then the house if full of screeching and squabbling.  I love how you talk with your expressive blue eyes and your little energetic hands.  I love how you always want to help me in the kitchen, even though it takes infinitely longer and we usually get into a fight because you are not listening and you do things like lick the spoon and put it back in the bowl or put eight scoops of soap in the dishwasher after I explicitly told you to put two in.

I don’t know whether you’re centre of gravity is still ironing out the kinks or if your brain moves too fast for your body, but you are the klutziest little thing.  You are always falling or bumping your head or getting hurt in a variety of other creative ways.  I feel so bad for your boo boos, but the snuggles I get out of the deal are a guilty bonus and I love being able to comfort you.

Bailey, I know that so very soon you will be all grown up so I will try my best to cherish these times, because they will be gone before I know it.  When you are in the middle of a meltdown, I can’t promise to cherish that particular moment, but no matter what, I will always cherish you, my love.  My little girl.

I’m always reading things like, “we don’t have time outs in our house” or “we are a media-free family” or “we have quiet craft and reading times scheduled throughout the day” or “we go on nature hikes every ten minutes” or “we grow and harvest our own bamboo which we use to build shelter, furniture and spoons” or “we grow grow organic cotton and then make all our clothes from scratch” or “we butchered Bessie this morning and we’re currently hacking her up in the back room so that we’ll have healthy meat all winter long.”

Sometimes, it seems like I am the only one who is barely keeping afloat while I’m treading the murky waters of life with young kids.

A typical day goes something like this:  I wake up to the patter of feet coming up the stairs, where one or both kids jump on me informing me that it’s morning and they have to pee.  I then spend the next 20 minutes trying my darndest to get my groggy ass out of bed in a timely fashion.  Too late.  Before I manage to get dressed, Kaelum often wakes up and I stumble out of bed long enough to get him and bring him back into my bed nurse him, congratulating myself for buying an extra 10 minutes of horizontal bliss.  Of course, with his two older sibling bouncing on the bed and usually fighting over something silly and sibling-ish, he is more interested in watching them than in eating. So much for my extra 10 minutes.

I make it downstairs with mismatched socks but I’m just happy I found a clean pair of underwear.  I reach for the oatmeal only to remember we are out and I forgot to buy more and I need to go grocery shopping but who the hell wants to do that with three kids in tow?  I tell myself I’ll go after they are in bed, but usually by that time I have lost all energy and motivation, even though it’s like a mini-vacation going to the grocery store by myself.  Pour me a Piña Colada in aisle 4.  Back to reality.  I flush some bread down and announce that we are out of oatmeal.  This is met with some mild-to-moderate whining, which is nothing new so I ignore it.

While the toast cooks, I help Bailey get dressed and ask Hayden (at least seven times) to get dressed, which he finally does.  Today he came out wearing a long-sleeved red shirt with a bright green t-shirt over top and red wind pants that were too small.  He looked like a neon Christmas elf waiting for the North Pole to melt into a flood.   As any mother knows, you need to pick your battles.  Because of this, I let Hayden wear some strange stuff (the other day he wore his favourite green super hero shirt over top of his dressy plaid button-up which he insisted on wearing backwards) and I generally don’t say much, but the pants were a bit much for even my standards.  After more whining and arguing, we finally got the clothing situation sorted out.

By now the toast is cold and I go knife hunting only to realize there are no clean knives.  There are dishes in the sink and I should have filled the dishwasher and ran it before bed last night, but by the time I gave the kids heck for tromping through the house for the third time in their mud-caked shoes, swept the mud clumps off the floor and scrubbed the mud smears out of my carpet, gave them their second bath of the day (after losing her boots in a mud hole, Bailey abandoned them all together and walked knee-deep in the goopy muck) and got them in bed, the mere thought of loading the dishwasher proved to be more than I could handle and I abandoned the task with gusto.

Back to breakfast.  I fish out a knife, clean it up and make breakfast: coconut oil, honey, flax seed and cinnamon toast, my go-to meal for the not-so-rare times I’m out of oatmeal.

By this time, we’re down to the wire.  This means we still have half an hour before we have to get out the door, but somehow we are still always rushed and I know this.  I pull my breakfast into the bathroom where I half-heartedly brush my hair and try to make myself look more like a human and less like a harried mother.  I spray down my children’s wild hair while they complain, “you’re dripping on me!” and “not me first, do Hayden’s first!” or vice versa.  Not sure why that matters but I hear it every morning.

After completing the other various tasks that need to happen, we are 15 minutes away from needing to leave.  This is when I make the first announcement to “get your boots on!”  This is usually followed by seven or eight subsequent requests, and by this time I am out of patience.  Of course, if I have given myself more time, I would be able to help instead of hollering at them to complete the task while I change Kaelum into his clothes.

I grab Hayden’s school bag and curse under my breath because I realize that I forgot to make his lunch.  I tell the kids once again to get their boots on and quickly whip together a haphazard array of snacks and sandwiches.  I head to the back room where the kids are bugging each other and fighting and of course, don’t have their outerwear on.  By this time I am exasperated, as much at myself for not getting my ass out of bed when I should have as at their inability to follow a single, simple order. I try to remind myself that they are just kids, but usually my blood pressure is up and I am starting to lose patience by now.  I’d like to think that my impatient tone makes them move faster, but sadly, it doesn’t.

We finally get out the door and usually make it to the school yard just as the bell is ringing.  I am running and pulling Hayden along while willing his little legs to pick up the pace so that the teacher doesn’t have to stand there holding the door open for him yet again.

Mornings are the most hectic time, but the rest of our day is usually not much better.  I have a half done load of laundry that I got interrupted while doing when Kaelum decided it’s time to cry and carry on until Mommy picks him up for no other reason than the fact that he likes to be held by his most favourite person in the world.  I also have a house that looks like Taz just ripped through at any given time.  I am baffled daily by how much dirt makes camp on my floor.  It comes in droves and most of it seems to hide until about an hour after I’ve put the vacuum away, when it comes back with a vengeance, bringing along more squatters to join the fun.

Usually by about 4:30, when there’s paint or play dough spattered throughout the kitchen, I clue into the time and I madly scramble to find something to make for dinner.  The kids often start to whine out of hunger, so I put on “one more show,” even though “one more show” usually happens at least a few times a day.  Bailey often likes “helping” me cook, which usually consists of her standing on a chair in her underwear mixing and licking and dipping the spoon back in to mix and lick some more.  Often during this time Kaelum has decided he needs another round of mommy-holding time so we alternate between him fussing when I need two hands and me trying to cook Rick Allen-style.

I’ve bored you long enough so I won’t even get into the bedtime routine, but the point is that our lives are crazy, busy, hectic, loud, full of squabbles and compromises, and generally nothing like the put-together lives I seem to encounter in the blogging world.  Either these people know something I don’t, or they aren’t being completely honest about what their lives look like beyond the pretty pictures.  Or maybe they were smarter than us and didn’t pop out three kids in four years.

So if you pop by my house on any given day, it is guaranteed you will stumble over a toy or a felled laundry pile or a pet or a felled child.  There will be dishes in the sink, and most likely on the counter.  The play room will be a mess and there’s a good chance the bathroom won’t be sparkling like Mr Clean just put his brawny arms and bald head to work.  I will probably be hollering at one or more of my children for something they did or did not do.  But I can promise you there is always a lot of love and energy.  And never, ever a dull moment.

Jacob

Whether you somehow missed it or if you haven’t taken the time to watch it, the Cole’s Notes on Kony 2012 is that a film maker named Jason Russell travelled to Uganda 9 years ago where he met a young boy named Jacob, a child who had been abducted by rebel forces along with his brother.  The group that kidnapped him was the LRA, led by a man named Joseph Kony, who for the last 26 years has abducted more than 30,000 children, turning the boys into soldiers and the girls into sex slaves.  According to the video, these children are often forced to mutilate other humans and kill their parents, amoung other atrocities.

In the video, Jacob reveals that his brother tried to escape and a soldier slit his throat.  Although unclear, it seems as though he somehow escaped because he was at a refugee camp of some sort while being interviewed.  In an interview, he states very matter-of-factly how it would be better for the rebels to kill him, because he had no one taking care of him and no future.

Sleeping Refugees

The camera-pan of a room full of refugees packed like sardines coupled with Jacob’s heart-wrenching sobs while talking about his brother are enough to chisel at the iciest of hearts, so of course it had a softy like me in tears.  It once again opened my eyes to how easy I have it and I will try not to complain when Mike rolls over onto my two-thirds of our king-sized bed.

To make a long story short, the purpose of the video is to raise awareness of Joseph Kony and by doing so, hopefully stop him.

Like any video that’s gone viral, there’s never a shortage of opinions on the subject.  People love to insert their two-cent’s worth, although most of the opinions are worth less than a penny.  My thoughts, however, are worth at least a dime.

The Good

It can’t be said that Jason Russell and Invisible Children didn’t meet their objective of spreading the word.  The world now knows who Joseph Kony is. Or at the very least, 72 million people know.  Awareness is the first step in changing the world.  If we don’t know, we don’t care.  And after watching the video, it’s hard not to care.

I would argue that Russell’s passion is real.  He has spent the last nine years of his life speaking to politicians, schools, and the like to get the word out.  He co-founded a not-for-profit group called Invisible Children which, according to their website “uses film, creativity and social action to end the use of child soldiers in Joseph Kony’s rebel war and restore LRA-affected communities in Central Africa to peace and prosperity.”  When watching the video, you can tell that Russell cares and is genuinely passionate about fighting for the injustices done to countless innocent children.

The Bad

Without even trying, one can find countless naysayers who either disagree with KONY 2012 and Invisible Children’s methods, downright disrespect Russell’s cause, or fall somewhere in the middle.  One critical site, a blog written by Gary Oyston called Visible Children, which has had over 2 million hits, brings to light a lot of issues with KONY 2012 and Invisible Children, and these concerns seem to have a lot of merit.

For starters, Oyston talks about how Invisible Children’s funds are allocated.  According to its public finances, only 32% of their funds went to direct services, while the rest went to staff salaries and awareness programs such as the video that has taken the world by storm.    Oyston writes, “This is far from ideal for an issue which arguably needs action and aid, not awareness.”

The founders of Invisible Children posing with members of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army.

Beyond their finances, Oyston is concerned over the fact Invisible Children supports the Ugandan government’s army and other military forces, who themselves have been accused of raping and looting.  When in Rome, do like the Romanians.

Another concern Oyston brings up is documented information stating that U.S. Africa Command has actually launched multiple missions over the years in which the purpose was to capture Kony.  Apparently, when they’ve failed each time, they have provoked unsavoury responses resulting in increased retaliation from the LRA.  This information is in direct conflict with Kony 2012, who maintain that, until very recently, no support has been given to aid in the capture of Kony.

What I like about Gary Oyston is that he’s clearly done his research.  All of his points are well documented, which is more than I can say for many of the negative nancies out there, spouting written diarrhea about why Kony 2012 sucks but having nothing to back up their loud-mouthed opinions.  Plus, he’s Canadian, so he can’t be completely out to lunch, right?

The Ugly

War is ugly.  Joseph Kony is a bad man and should be stopped.  But the ugly truth is that I don’t think stopping one man would solve anything.  There would be a dozen men ready to step in and take his place.

At one point in the video, Russell talks about the International Criminal Court, which was started in 2002 to find the world’s worst criminals.  The video pans up a list of 27 names, and while you can only catch a glimpse of numbers 18 through 27 and number 1 and 2 (Kony is at the top of the list), every hunted man visible on the list resides in Africa.

Africa’s past is ugly.  Africa’s present is ugly.  And there’s a good chance Africa’s future will be ugly.  Even if we manage to stop men like Joseph Kony from terrorizing and tormenting innocent children, we have a lifetime of physically, emotionally and mentally scarred children who for the rest of their life will bear testament to life as a rebel slave.  You put Mother Theresa in that environment and even she couldn’t come out unscathed.  What will happen to all these children?  How can they lead normal lives?  How can they raise their children?  How can they set a good example when they are undoubtedly full of rage and hate and anger, and rightfully so?

I have always had a heart for Africa, but what is one lowly little person to do?  Sure, I sponsor a child.  I click on The Hunger Site every day.  I buy chickens and goats and farming supplies as gifts.  I’ve planted the seed in my children’s head and we’ve agreed to donate the money from the sale of any toys to African charities (it was awesome to see Hayden cheer when I broke the news to him that his chair had sold: “Yay!  Now we can give the money to the African children!”).  I know every bit helps, but I know it’s not enough.  I know I have so much to be grateful for, but I forget every day how blessed I am that I don’t have to fear for my children’s lives, that I have have food on the table, a bed to myself, medicine at my disposal.

Regardless of whether Kony 2012 is all it’s cracked up to be or not, at least Russell did something.  At least he got the attention of millions of people.  We may or may not catch Joseph Kony.  We may or may not change the course of history for thousands of Africans.  We may or may not see Africa come out of their oppression in this lifetime.  But if we don’t take steps in the right direction, the ugly truth is that nothing will change.  So let’s just try and see what happens.  We’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain.

You’re probably wondering why this enrages me; after all, what’s hotter than a rugby playing, non-smoking, totally involved dad playing with his children and talking in a sexy accent to boot?

Enter the breastfeeding advocates and, if the article is correct, the La Leche League.  Apparently they raised such a fuss over the shot that New Zealand government pulled that scene from the ad.

I love nursing my babies.  I could site the countless benefits of breastfeeding, ranging from convenience to cost effectiveness to healthier for baby to preventing breast cancer for mom.  I could preach it to the world that I think there is nothing better than feeding your child something that was designed exactly for your baby.  But I won’t.  Alright, I guess I kinda did.  But, like everything else in life, breastfeeding is never black and white.  Technically it is white, but you know what I mean.

By all accounts and purposes, I am a “breastfeeding advocate.” But I don’t think that gives me a right to shove my titty religion down anyone’s throat. Just like I don’t want you to make my ears bleed with talk of religion or politics, I’m sure you don’t want to hear me drone on about the pros of breastfeeding.  And don’t let these elitists fool you – there are some definite cons to breastfeeding, but there’s no way they would breathe word of them while they are on their quest for boobie domination.

Apparently the father in the ad, a New Zealand rugby player named Piri Weepu had a difficult time coming to terms with the aftermath of this video.  And rightfully so.  For any of you that missed science class that day, men can’t produce milk to feed their offspring.  So the next natural thing would be for him to bottle feed the baby.  I mean, if the ad had him trying to nurse his child, I could see why such a stink was raised.  That would be wrong and creepy on several levels.  But the guy was just trying to be a good father, for heaven’s sake.  Where is the fault in that?

And everyone’s situation is so different.  I have friends who tried to breastfeed and had such a hard time that it was easier to bottle feed.  I know people who are shy and uncomfortable with the thought of nursing and went straight to bottle feeding.  I can think of some examples of women who seemed to have a hard time producing enough milk to keep their baby satiated and supplemented with formula to produce a much more contented baby.  I know some people who nurse their babies until they are past two years old.  I have walked through the store and encountered a woman with her high beam out and her baby sucking away contentedly, oblivious to the fact that mommy was showing her coconuts to everyone in the produce section.

These arguments are not isolated to the breastfeeding debate.  I like to read blogs and articles, and I’m not sure if people are more bold when hiding behind the anonymity of their computers, but I am shocked at how many mothers are downright mean and rude.  Everywhere I read, there are raging word wars between moms who stay home and moms who work, breastfeeders and bottle feeders, mothers who immunize their children and those who don’t, parents who let their children run around half naked in the rain and those who keep their offspring shrink-wrapped, those who cloth-diaper their children and those who use disposables.  Most of these women get downright nasty.

I’m not sure if they truly feel this strongly that they are the queens of the castle and the rest of us are the dirty terrible parents or if they are trying to justify their behaviour and convince themselves that they really are good mothers, but I am saddened and appalled by how mean some of these mommies are.  The real question shouldn’t be who is right and who is wrong (because let’s face it – there are no right or wrong answers) but who is nice and kind and teaches their children to respect the opinions of others and to appreciate the diversity of the world.

So the stay-at-home moms preach the fact that their kids grow up with a parent who is always there and the working moms argue their check book and/or sanity require them to work; the breastfeeders argue how close it makes them feel to their babies and the bottle feeders counter that they can get help feeding the baby; the mothers who immunize are trying to protect their children from disease and the mothers who don’t are trying to protect their children from the possibility of Autism, no matter how remote the link; the free spirits let their children learn through natural consequences and the over-protective parents worry about their children’s safety; the cloth diaper mamas say it’s better for the environment and their budget and the disposable users say the ease and convenience is worth the extra price and strain on Mother Earth.

If I had my way, this is what my life would look like: I would stay home with the kids because I love hanging out with them and being there for them.  I would have a full time maid to cook and clean so that I could spend my time gallivanting around town, going to the park, the library, the zoo, and of course play dates where I could have adult conversation.  On the days where I want to tape my children to the wall and run away from the incessant chaos, I would be able to waltz out the door to a job I love where I could head home at any time if Junior threw up on his Mary Poppins-type nanny or if I decided I missed my darlings and wanted to take them to the ice cream shop.  Perhaps after ice cream we would go climb a wood pile and laugh when a log dislodged we went tumbling down the side, narrowly missing a rusty nail (even though it wouldn’t matter if we stepped on it, there’s no such thing as Tetanus in my utopia).  I would go home to change Baby into an environmentally-friendly diaper that was free of charge and never had to be washed or tossed.  Scratch that – my kids would be toiled trained from Day 1.  Or better yet, they wouldn’t need to use the bathroom.  Ever.  And I wouldn’t have to wipe another smelly bum.  Ever.

So shame on you, breastfeeding elitists.  You may have think you won the battle, but you’re just creating an unnecessary war.

This picture was cut from the ad

We woke up Saturday morning as usual; the kids were jumping on us and I was begging, pleading and cajoling Mike to let me sleep in.  Before you think of me as a lazy Saturday morning sloth, take note that my youngest, adorable as he is, has no concept of sleeping through the night.  Or for more than a few hours at a time for that matter.  Friday was a particularly bad night and it felt like I was up and down like a porn star’s privates…which I guess would be more up than down.  Which I was.  But there was nothing exciting about my night.  Unless you count tripping over the dog in the dark and almost kissing the wall.  It’s starting to sound more and more like a porn after all, especially when you consider how often I was whipping out my boobs.  But that was to get my little nocturnal nighthawk back to sleep.  Yup, definitely not nearly as exciting a night unless my name was Candy Cane and I was a star.

Back on track here.  Mike, being the great guy that he is, let me snooze for another 45 minutes.  And it was almost uninteruppted; I only had to contend with one kid sneaking up to see me, followed my Mike’s inevitable “get down from there and let your mom sleep!”  It’s all part of the sleep-in ceremony, but it usually happens at least two or three times so I count myself lucky.

Once I wake up, Mike asks if I want to go see his parents for the day.  That sounds nice, we haven’t been there in a while and they celebrated their 32nd anniversary this week, which is a great feat if you ask me.  On top of this, my father-in-law called to tell me he finished my cupboards and I would soon be the proud new owner of a set of oak drawers for my kitchen.  All I had to do was pick out the stain.  The prospect of seeing them excited me greatly, and while I recognize how entirely pathetic it is that I am so pumped over cupboards, I refuse to be ashamed of this.  And let me tell ya, they’re beautiful.

It’s always hectic before we leave for Mike’s parents, especially since we were planning to spend the night and had to pack clothes for the lot of us, but we finally got on the road.  We threw on a read-along story for the kids and had a great conversation during the hour long ride, punctuated only by Hayden’s inquiry of “Are we at Nan and Pops now?” at ten minute intervals.

When Mike called his parents to let them know that we were coming, he managed to score us a few hours respite to head off to the movies while they watched the kids.  We decided to hit a matinee so into town we went.  Mike wanted to see Goon, some hockey movie that is hoping to rival Slap Shot.  By the time I realized this, it was too late to convince him to watch something sweet and sappy and girly.  I guess marriage is about give and take, although I’m usually happier being the one to take.

Since the movie opened on Friday, Mike thought it best we get there early to ensure a decent seat.  We arrived 45 minutes before showtime and entered the theatre only to discover there was not a soul around.  We weren’t about to complain.  We parked our buts and had our second conversation of the day, this one completely uninterrupted.  This is so unheard of that we were not sure how to handle ourselves, and we lapsed into a few bouts of blissful silence, both of us enjoying the clean and crisp feel of it.

Soon the theatre filled and we were assaulted by nearly two hours of hockey and blood and fistfights.  But it was funny and I enjoyed it enough to deem me entertained.  Maybe not $9.99 entertained, but hanging out with Mike and holding hands like a couple of eighth graders was nice.

After a small detour (might I say that spacious minivans come in handy for more than just toting the soccer gear around), we make it home where we are assaulted by a crying baby, an impish preschooler, and a hollering kid who is the subject of his impish sister’s impish behaviour.  And just like that, we were flung back into reality, like an unsuspecting bug splattered on a windshield.  Nan and Pop seemed happy to see us after a few hours nearly wiped them out.

The hiatus may have been short-lived but it was just what we needed to reconnect.  We remembered why we fell in love and what our love has created.  An boring afternoon jaunt to the movies might be the highpoint of our week, but we chose this life and we wouldn’t have it any other way.