Urban Suburban Mommy

Category Archives: The Struggle is Real

Three things my children make fun of me for

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I don’t know about you, but my boys have gotten to the age where they’re starting to tease me. They’ve got wit, they’ve got a sense of humour and they’ve got some nerve…

I remember saying these types of things to my mom when I was a kid.

I also remember the look on her face. It was probably the same look I had on my face when my kids asked me about my experience growing up with dinosaurs. And my mom had me young – she was 23 and a mom, barely 25 with her second. Having kids at 37 and 39, I have some serious years on her! I’m not sure though, if my kids perceive me as old because I’m a 40-something mom, or if all kids are just brutes when it comes to comprehending their parents’ generation. Regardless, my kids love teasing me about being old (because they know they’ve hit a nerve/have some material to work with) and they’re merciless. My husband has a blast joining in.

1. Mom, your hair is so grey.

Just the other day, my younger son told us that when he grows up he’s going to be rich so that he can buy dad a solid gold mansion. “What’s he going to buy for mom?” you ask? HAIR DYE. Dad gets a solid gold mansion and I get hair dye so that I won’t have to look old.

2. Mom isn’t cool enough to speak the lingo.

Last week my son told me they were watching Yubes.

Yah, I asked.

Turns out that’s what kids are calling YouTube. I’m so old I don’t know the lingo. I keep catching myself saying I taped that – I tape nothing. I record. I’m having problems moving on from VHS in my own mind, apparently. My kids think it’s funny – not in that “laughing with you” funny. They’re definitely laughing at me.

3. Mom, did you ever have a pet dinosaur?

This one cuts deep, since I remember asking my mom questions along the same line – I also asked my mom if she wore ball gowns (you know, because she was old enough to grow up in the Victorian era); if they had suits of armour when she was small (because she must have been around in the middle ages); and if the world was in black and white when she was a kid (I didn’t quite understand that colour TV was because of technology developments, I thought actual colour was a recent invention in the early 70s.). My poor mom. I was a mean kid – however unintentionally.

I stole my grandchildren –– from myself

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I’ve been struggling with this thought for the last few days. It was a really painful epiphany when I realized that I’d stolen my grandchildren from myself.

I had my first son two weeks before my 37th birthday, my second son just shy of my 39th.

“PHEW!” I thought – got in just under the line, done before 40.

I was told I would have trouble conceiving both times. The words “Late Maternal Age” were thrown around at some of all of my doctor visits. The usual scare of possible chromosomal anomalies and age-related pregnancy issues grated my nerves on the reg.

But I was happy to have my kids. I had my cake and would get to eat it too. I enjoyed my 20’s, traveled, lived like a rock star (partied with a few!), established a career, waited for Mr. Right, avoided unplanned pregnancies, and now I was getting to enjoy the spoils of my well-managed life.

It is my happy ending.

It is… but I’ve only just unearthed the consequence I never realized would come with late maternal age –– I don’t get to be Nana Elisa.

I grew up with wonderful grandparents. My Nana Sophie and Gramps Mike spent a lot of time with me. My Nana Helen and Grampsy Leo made me feel like the sun shone for me and me alone. They doted. They pleased. They loved and enjoyed without reservation. I couldn’t spend enough time at their house and I could never get enough of my grandmother’s bottomless pot of chicken soup or the never-empty bowl of apple sauce, which she knew I adored.

My grandkids won’t get this.

But that I won’t get to do this for them is more of my concern. I see my kids missing out on the time with grandparents, mine have both passed away long ago.

I waited until I was ready for kids, I pushed baby-making to the limits, and I thought I’d gotten away with it, scott free.

Yes, I’m a little tired and probably would have kept up with my wild boys a bit better a decade ago, but what I lack in stamina, I make up for in patience, wisdom and a decent salary.

However, while I may see a grandchild in my lifetime if I take care of myself, if my kids wait like I waited, I won’t be Nana Elisa. I won’t be able to run around the city with them, travel with them, take them places.

In my late 70s I can’t see myself being the able-bodied woman doting over children for sleepovers and days of shopping. I won’t be taking them to the farm or on adventures the way my grandparents did for me.

Oh sure, I know that 70 is the new 60 (and 46 is the new 29, I know, I know) but the truth is, I can see where my energy level is right now, and I’m not imagining I’ll have more energy at 76 than I have at 46. My memory isn’t what it used to be. My patience, video game skills and basic acceptance of mermaid hair, unicorn glitter and words like “turnt” are starting to date me.

Even if I see little babes in my 60s and early 70s, by the time they’re teens and capable of doing the fun stuff, I’ll be needing a day pass just to go to their school plays.

I may be fine and full of energy by then – but I may not.

Some of my friends have grown children, some are grandparents. In fact, my mother-in-law has great grandchildren that are older than our kids. My husband’s sister was a grandmother before we even got started.

I didn’t realize I’d love having kids so much. I didn’t realize it would be my most favourite part of life. I put off a family because I “wasn’t ready,” and “I needed ‘me’ time” before settling down. I still think I made the right decision, and that my life has rolled out perfectly, but I lament that one thing…

The grandchildren.

The thing I never thought of as I was figuring it all out and putting off having kids.

How We Survived A Year Of Unemployment

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By now, you’ve heard the story of how I lost my job, house and sanity last year; an unholy trifecta and veritable s**tstorm that would level any normal person. But not this mama!

It wasn’t easy, but I finally see a light at the end of the tunnel and for once, it’s not a train.

If I can survive, anyone can. The hardest part? Finding moments of joy and opportunities for reflection and rediscovery. I don’t do “happy” well; I usually defer to b*tch panic, especially when I’m robbed of routine and, um… my house and livelihood. This past year forced me not only to change my idea of “normal”, but also my identity and my future. It was a lot of work, but here’s how I did it:

  1. I changed the monologue: Hi, I’m Alexis’ anxiety! Follow me on my path to total self-destruction as we examine every worst-case scenario!
    I was convinced that if I ever lost my job we would survive for exactly two weeks before selling everything we own and becoming hermits in a box by the underpass. In reality, we lasted much longer than I thought we would. I had some savings, a severance package and support to see me through the biggest hurdles. I worked hard to change the negative-speak and set realistic expectations. Without sounding too “New Age-y” and “#blessed,” I found the positives: our new house will be clean and dry, we will not starve, I will find a job!
  2. I cast a wider net: I started looking at a greater variety of opportunities. Contracts? Sure! Self-Employment? Why not? Part-time? Bring it!
    I’m now leveraging 16 years of knowledge in retail marketing, graphic design and communications into what I hope will be a successful new career.
  3. I started volunteering: Once a week, I spend several hours at a not for profit developing digital marketing assets. The additional skill sets look great on a resume and the finished pieces are perfect for my portfolio.
  4. I kept learning and networking: I’m a sucker for research. If there’s something I don’t know, I make it my business to learn it. I took online tutorials and courses at Udemy.com and Lynda.com. I read books about freelance careers and customer success. I joined MumNet and attended networking functions to grow my village. I signed up for career workshops, job fairs, and connected with people in any industry I was interested in. Everyone was happy to let me pick their brains and some of the meetings led to job interviews. Most importantly, the process of networking forced me to go outside and be in the world.
  5. I enjoyed more time with my kids: This should be at the top of the list. I took advantage of every opportunity to take the boys to and from school, to the park, appointments and walks around the city to discover the world and each other. I will never get this time back once they’re older, and the extra time allowed me to slow down and be with them rather than just herding them around and getting things done.

We’re a work in progress – still not gainfully employed, house isn’t finished yet (because, insurance companies) and we don’t know what the next few months will bring us, making it hard to make any long-term plans. The things I don’t know and can’t predict far exceed the things I know for certain. What I’ve come to is this: After 16 years, I lost my “safety net.” So I might as well take a chance, laugh a bit and above all, enjoy the ride.

 

When Life Gives You Bananas…

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I don’t bake very often.

Which is to say, I bake never.

Two weeks ago, for my sons’ bake sale at school, I bought three boxes of nut-free, gluten-free, sugar-free, flavour-free snickerdoodle cookies and placed them very deliberately into a container lined with paper towel. I pressed the tops of a few of them and crumbled one or two for effect. I neither confirmed nor denied that I had baked them myself, and they were a hit.

Don’t tell me I don’t make an effort.

Recently, I came across some very ripe bananas on my counter. “Self,” I said to myself, “why not make banana bread? Surely you can find a healthy, sugar-free recipe online!”

There are literally thousands of “healthy, sugar-free” recipes for banana bread on the Internet. As it turns out, I picked the one dud.

I don’t blame Pinterest exclusively for what happened next.

I’m a bit of an improviser (read: I cut corners), but with cooking you can usually get away with it. Don’t have peanuts for your satay sauce? Use crunchy peanut butter! No pine nuts for your pesto? Use walnuts or hemp seeds! Baking, on the other hand, is science. It’s alchemy. Miss one ingredient, and it’s crap. Use too much of something, and you can’t overcorrect – you’ll have to toss it.

I learned this the hard way.

Everything was fine until I started getting creative. I thought that if four bananas make it moist, then a cup of applesauce would make it even better. And hey! Why not cut down on cholesterol by substituting the third egg for egg whites? No measuring cup? No problem! Since I didn’t know the difference between baking soda and baking powder, I decided that neither were really necessary. Flour is a powder, right? I just used more flour to compensate for the extra wet ingredients. I ignored the nagging feeling as I mixed everything together, noting how it wasn’t actually turning into batter so much as paste.

Oh man, I thought. Recipes are for suckers. I’m a baking maverick, beholden to no recipe. Ain’t no set of carefully executed rules gonna chain me down!

I baked it for the allotted 50 minutes. It bubbled and churned, but never turned golden brown. I began to worry when, after an additional 30 minutes, it had glazed over but continued to bubble. How can a solid do that? Finally, after nearly two hours in the oven, my creation had started to turn a faint brown at the outermost corners.

Done!

I pulled it out and set it on the rack to cool.

It fell onto the rack with a heavy plop. It was oozing. It was a mess. Dave looked horrified. “I’m not eating that,” he said. “No way.”

Just to prove to him that it was fine, I scooped a hunk of under-cooked, oozing (steaming, piping, freaking hot) banana goo and chewed. And chewed. “See?” I managed through careful mastication whilst burning off a layer of tongue skin. “It’s delish.”

It’s a miracle that my jaw wasn’t glued shut. We watched each other carefully, looking for signs that the other was bluffing. My mouth started to tingle. I couldn’t feel my tongue. Finally, I retched and spit it out. “Yeah, enjoy that.” The next morning, I threw it out.

I learned two valuable lessons that day.

One: Husbands have a line in the sand, usually where there’s a possibility of being poisoned.

Two: Leave the baking to Betty Crocker.

 

The adorable little bulls in the primary school china shop

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My kids are big.

They’re big for their age.

They’re big for their age plus three.

My just-turned-seven-year-old is finishing up grade one. He’s taller than half of the grade three kids. My grade three kid keeps trying to pass his eight-and-a-half-year-old self off for 12.

And most of the time, people believe him.

It’s a strange thing raising giants. It’s more than just that they’re big. They’re strong, solid, hulking boys. They’re powerhouses, and they know it. It’s bizarre to see my grade one-er with his buddies. he’s always looking down or hunching. My grade three-er walks around with the confidence of a king because he knows without a doubt he’s the biggest and strongest. But he’s a pussycat. A gentle giant. A teddy bear.

We all know grown men like this too – the ones that tower over most typical-sized human beings. They’re built like linebackers, like brick walls. Their size alone convinces you that they could crush any mere mortal on a whim, but anyone that knows them knows they wouldn’t hurt a fly.

I know. I’m married to one. Strongest man I’ve ever known, and yet kind and gentle as they come.

(Of course, if he needed to, he could crush any mere mortal on a whim. But he’d need a good reason to do it.)

Recently, my husband registered our boys in a football league. I was more than a bit apprehensive as images of train-wreck tackles from NFL games haunted my dreams – until I saw them on the field with their teams. They’re in different divisions, but the funny thing is, neither stands out for his size on the field.

Sure, there are a few small player and one or two exceptionally enormous players, but my boys have found their tribe. It’s like someone scouted every primary classroom in the city and took the tallest child from each. The boys are right-sized for this game!!

So what does football and raising giants have to do with anything?

I’ll tell you – it was an epiphany I had the other day as I arrived at daycare to get the boys. My seven year old was told to be careful around his friend, be gentle. These larger-than-average kids, the back-line-middle in every school photo, are constantly being told to be gentle to avoid hurting others.

It’s necessary, but it’s horrible all the same.

These boys are playing with their peers, but the worry is constantly drilled into them “Be careful not to hurt others.”

If they partake in normal rough-housing, they end up hurting their friends – and it upsets them. Those little minds are all the same age, but the bodies don’t match up. It’s a fair fight mentally – but not physically. They get in trouble for causing injuries. They get in trouble for hurting others.

They are the adorable little bulls in the primary school china shop. And it takes its toll on their little psyches.

Are we taking something away by constantly reminding them not to exert themselves? Have we diminished these kids’ power because we want to tame them for the benefit of their peers?

Do we even realize we’re doing it?

When I finally saw my older son take the field for the first time with a coach that told him to drive back his teammate, I was stunned to realize that my boy was thrown by the concept. He was a gentle giant, how was he supposed to throw all of his power at another kid?

Then I heard the coach tell him not to worry, he wouldn’t hurt him.

It took coaxing, it took a few tries, it took my son some time to process the fact that he was finally allowed to use his size, and that he had a peer that was his own size to use it on.

Finally.

When the coach tells my son to drive his opponent back 7 yards, my son goes 7 yards. When the coach tells him not to let anyone get by, my son stops them with his natural talents and size. And he loves it.

Both boys went through this (although my younger son has never been quite as reserved about using his strength. I don’t know that he is truly destined for gentle giant-hood, but he too had to be coaxed to throw it all down on the field).

So the next time you see the kids of different sizes but same ages at play, watch the biggest one – and how that giant manages or holds back. Watch as they struggle to fit in a world too diminutive for their size and strength, but that doesn’t make sense because, at that age, they don’t understand their own size and power yet.

They can’t help their size, and it’s amazing to see when they finally get a chance to use that size and power – without reservation.

Off the field though? My older son is the epitome of a gentle giant. He’s sweet, kind and passive. Who knew he was so competitive.

I love that our little giants have found balance on the football field. I was a tall girl. It’s a whole different world for tall girls.

Raising Boys and the Art of Poop

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I’m raising three boys. I married one, gave birth to the other two.

Before you label me an emasculating nag, let me just tell you that my husband is an awesome father and partner, and he routinely scrubs the finish off of my plastic cookware, at least he’s doing the dishes.

Also, he once tried to fix an electrical outlet with a butter knife. While the power was still on. So, that’s what I’m working with.

The trajectory of learning to raise boys was not so much a curve, but rather an abrupt drop that plummeted to the depths of sanity, with me shrieking all the way. I have a sister. My mom has a sister. My maternal grandmother had two sisters.

“Girl” is a language I’m familiar with.

My husband prepared me for raising boys in bits and bites; by the time I was pregnant with my first child, I was ready to have a toilet seat perpetually raised, a trail of clothing on the floor (presumably, to help him find his way to the kitchen) and an affinity for sports. My husband was rebellious and untamed back in his day (he specifically asked that I not mention the time he stole a street cleaner, so I won’t.) We thought we could anticipate and be prepared for anything our boys threw at us.

As it turned out, we were dumb.

Boys are encoded with baffling behaviour and unexplained rituals. Every time I catch up, something new comes along. If you have any insights on the following, I’m all ears:

Mess:

Imagine a dumpster fire. Now it’s in your living room. My home is a constant eruption of indelible markers, old food, new food and toys that are designed to break the sound barrier and the human spirit. I don’t need a nanny, I need a priest.

Smell:

I’m not talking about the obvious shaboomie in the diaper after taco night. I’m talking about the pervasive, insistent aroma that follows my boys around. Nate’s natural smell seems to be yogurt and dirty running shoes. And sometimes poop. Which leads me to…

Poop:

My kids are obsessed. They talk about poop constantly. They think it’s the most hilarious word in the English lexicon. Nate has even developed a highly sophisticated language whereby every other word is “poop”. It took a while to crack the code, but now we watch Frozen together and happily sing along to “Let It Poop.”

Danger:

If there’s a way to climb something, dangle from somewhere or perch precariously on something that’s not meant for climbing, they will find it. The calm, centred, nurturing Mama inside of me says “They’re just testing their boundaries. Let them explore.” The part of me that’s attached to my face screams “For the love of GOD get off that scaffolding before you break your neck!”

What I couldn’t have known, what no one prepared me for, was the utter love and devotion my boys have – for me. While I was busy falling in mad, deep, crazy love for my kids, I hadn’t noticed that they were doing the same thing. Of all the “boy stuff” I was unprepared for, that surprise was the most welcomed.

Will “Mom” for seeds

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There are 48 hours till Mother’s Day, and I’m running through midtown Toronto looking for seeds.

Not just any seeds. “Basil, mama,” came the edict from my oldest boy. “I want to plant basil. And sunflowers.” Right. No problem.

Only, it seems there aren’t any basil seeds in Toronto. Canadian Tire, nope. Home Depot, zilch. I even asked the convenience store lady to check her stockroom to see if there was anything that hadn’t germinated yet.

I’m not allowed back in her store.

Sunflowers are another challenge. Apparently there’s no demand for flowers that reach six feet tall in a city choked by condos. But my kid wants great, flowering behemoths on the tiny Juliet balcony of our two-bedroom rental.

Did I mention there are two more days till Mother’s Day?

It doesn’t matter. The day will be spent making everyone pancakes while slurping lukewarm coffee, opening handmade cards that I helped create, then carrying on, business as usual. Traditionally, there’s a meltdown around 3-ish. This year, the boys are two and five, so it’s anyone’s game.

I know the score. I don’t expect anything super special on Mother’s Day. We don’t go out to a restaurant because, kids.

 

“Mother’s Day” is a misnomer, kind of like “work/life balance” and “equal pay”. In my home, it’s a vague, esoteric term that acknowledges the woman who does roughly 90% of the work for 10% of the credit.

Here’s the weird part: I don’t care.

No one “Moms” for the glory. It’s the most thankless, exhausting, frustrating, maddening, rewarding job in the world. Who willingly subjects themselves to miniature despots and tiny tyrants without the promise of a paycheque or, at the very least, vacation pay? Moms do it willingly, joyfully, sometimes more than once.

If a grown-up asked me to make him scrambled eggs, then promptly threw them on the floor like I was trying to kill him, I might just reach for a baseball bat. “Momming” is different than loving. Of course I love my kids. That’s why they’re still living here.

Mother’s Day is less about me, and more about what I represent to my kids, beyond “the help” or the ATM. I am their safe place, their unconditional love and their biggest cheerleader. Every day I wake up with anxiety and feelings of inadequacy. And every day I push past it and keep my kids happy, healthy and loved. I “Mom” pretty hard.

So Nathan wants basil and sunflower seeds. He wants to put his hands in the dirt and dig and water something and watch it grow. He wants to hold “real alive” worms in his hands and tell me how they dig tunnels under the ground so the plants can thrive. So this weekend, he’ll plant and I’ll watch him grow.

What a great Mother’s Day present.

A nip here, a tuck there – which procedures are *worth it*?

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I recently went on a bit of a rant about the Mom Bod – That we should be proud of our mama bodies, embrace our battle scars but be free to – how did I put it – “Raise ’em and tuck ’em, if you got ’em.” But why is there a stigma about wanting plastic surgery? Why isn’t there just support. If you want to nip and tuck, go for it, but don’t feel that you *have to* nip and tuck, your mom bod is an amazing thing.

It’s about choice.

So, of course, the next thing that I did was to go digging around for more deets on cosmetic procedures. Some are seriously invasive – hello lipo! – while others are non-surgical or superficial. From chemical solutions to transformative surgery, and everything in between, we caught up with the pros to give us some straight up advice on some of the more common procedures. It’s kind of interesting to note, some procedures have a higher level of satisfation than others – which begs the question – which procedures are really *worth it*? 

Worth it: Breast Reduction

“By far, breast reductions produce the happiest post-op patients,” says New Bern, North Carolina board certified plastic surgeon and best selling author Dr. John Zannis, “The women (and sometimes men) that come to me for this procedure have usually been uncomfortable with the size of their breasts for years, in many cases since early puberty. You can really see an immediate boost to their confidence.” Overly large breasts have uncomfortable physical effects like chronic back pain and bad posture, but they can also become a huge self-esteem complex, especially for girls. Breast reduction surgeries report an extremely high satisfaction rate of almost 90% according to Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery Magazine. 

Skip: Lip Fillers

Lip fillers can work wonders but they’re tricky. They don’t look the same on everyone; your end result could be Kylie Jenner’s lipstick-empire-building pout or Donatella Versace’s trout mouth. They’re more of a toss up and depend on too many variables, from the natural curve of your lips to the skill of your doctor to the type of filler used.

Worth it: Non-Invasive Face Lifts

“Off the top of my head some of my happiest clients are non-invasive face lift patients,” says Dr. Kally Papantoniou, a board certified dermatologist who specializes in surgical and medical skin procedures at her New York office. “The skin on the neck and chin get a substantial lift and smooth with no cutting or general anesthetics, patients report not only looking younger but constantly say they feel better about themselves. Which is the key word I look for when gauging post-recovery satisfaction!”

Worth it: Rhinoplasty

“A rhinoplasty from a skilled plastic surgeon can completely change a face,” says Zannis. He adds, “The nose is the most protruding facial feature and sits right in the center; any sort of change alters how you look from different angles, how light and shadows hit you and can make the face look more symmetrical.” To become a full believer in the power of rhinoplasty just search “Bella Hadid before and after nose job” on Google. Literally a different person.  

Skip: Cheek Implants

Cheeks have a very prominent position in your face. Like tweaking your nose, tweaking the shape and size of your cheeks changes your whole look, but like any other facial implant or filler; they are not one size fits all. In older individuals cheek implants are just as likely to drag your skin down as smooth it. Good results depend on implant type, technique, original face shape, and considering the natural effects of aging in the future.   

Worth it: Body Contouring

“Body contouring is easily one of my top three highest patient satisfaction procedures” says Dr. Papantoniou who provides the procedure at her practice. “These are non-invasive fat loss techniques and they give truly amazing results after about 3 months of treatments. There is no downtime, no pain. Some patients come in for them during long lunch breaks! Patients lose whole inches. Again, the most telling sign is how they stress feeling good after the procedure.”

Of course, I’m not advocating that you *have to* do something, or even *should* do something, but I am saying that it’s not wrong if you want to. It feels like women are shamed a bit too much. On one hand, that super-fierce HD TV you have is zooming in down to the micro-pore and we’re seeing celebs and TV personalities losing their jobs because the soft and fuzzy days of old used to hide the wrinkles and imperfections better. Yet we’re also being told to grow old gracefully. So what is it? Are we too old for TV or are we not graceful if we chase the assets of our youths?

What’s wrong with vanity? Nothing. We dye our hair – or not. We do our nails – or not. We wear make-up, control-top panties, push-up and padded bras, tummy trainers and high heels that make our legs look hella-sexy, so we’re not vehemently opposed to modification and putting our best selves forward. If you feel better making a cosmetic change, whether through surgery or a trip to the drugstore, it’s your decision to make.

Frankly, I’m tired of being limited to bathingsuits lined with body armour and having clothing choices limited by the type of undergarment it can conceal. Having my babies didn’t do my already-larger-than-comfortable boobs any favours! I don’t see the harm in having a doctor put them back to a place and a size that makes my back feel better and gives me more options to enjoy life. (Perky. I want perky, okay? lol). And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t understand the stigma – so I suggest we disregard it altogether!

Answering the call of the wild

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So you’ve decided to go to the bathroom by yourself. You know as well as I do that your kids will turn your home inside out in the time it takes you to post a blog (ahem), but congratulations on taking a giant leap of faith.

Presumably, your children have graduated from teeny tiny helpless beings who either had to be buckled into a bouncy seat in the bathroom while you showered, or contained in a high chair while you prepared a meal that was ultimately thrown on the floor. If they can amuse themselves or each other for five minutes, you have a clear window of opportunity.

Suddenly, you hear a noise. Here’s a 5-point checklist to determine if you have enough time to click Add To Cart:

1. A single shriek/scream/yell:

Pause, and listen. Do you hear another one? Does anyone have panic in their voice?

No?

Congratulations. You can now finish typing a morally outraged response to someone’s anti-vaxx post.

2. Laughter:

There’s nothing I love more than the sound of my children laughing. Unless the laughter is at my expense or because they’ve discovered how to access or break something. In my home, hearing a child laugh either means they’ve uncovered something witty on YouTube Kids, or the older one has encouraged the younger one to draw stylized poop motifs on the wall with scented markers.

You have two choices: stay put and finish Candy Crush, or investigate. Proceed at your own risk.

3. A pattern of screaming/silence/crying:

The silence means that your child is drawing breath for the next round. Children did this in prehistoric days to alert their parents to their location. Or drive them away. If there’s more than two in a row, you can assume there’s bodily damage. Today just isn’t your lucky day.

4. The tattle:

Preschoolers will intentionally insert themselves into an elaborate play-by-play of events that are none of their business. It’s maddening. Imagine sportscaster Paul Romanuk describing the hockey game, only instead of shouting “He shoots, he SCORES!” you hear “He pooped on the FLOOR!”

I assume the innateness of tattling is also evolutionary and was once prudent to survival, but it’s doubtful that any of those Tattlesaurus Rex’s made it to adulthood. Tattling can totally work in your favour, as long as you use it like a newsfeed to determine if an objectionable action by a sibling is benign or involves dropping heat.

5. Silence:

This can mean one of three things:

A) They’re playing quietly together in perfect symbiosis. Document the moment and enjoy.

B) The rapture has claimed them. Consider an afternoon of Real Housewives and chocolate-covered pretzels. They’ll be returned to you soon enough.

C) You should prepare for mutiny and total destruction on the other side of the door. Add Lord of the Flies and The Art of War to your reading list.

Momologist, Alexis Nicols

Alexis Nicols is a marketing specialist, actor and freelance writer. She lives in urban Toronto with her husband and two sons, but is definitely suburban at heart. She regularly dodges the slings and arrows of parenting boys, considers herself a connoisseur of stretchy pants and hopes that the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a train.

For more musings from a mom who wonders when everything below the neck went National Geographic, visit her blog: stopstopcomehere.ca

Kids’ stuff I wish someone would invent

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

If you’re like me, you have all the time in the world to daydream about how easy this parenting gig would be if you only had a (fill in the blank).

For every step forward in the “useful kids’ crap” category (see Gro Clock), there is a giant leap backwards (see Child disassembles Gro Clock with the accuracy and precision of a bomb specialist.) I’ve gone one step further and leaped so far out of the box that the items listed below can only be found in the realm of science fiction. Still, a mom can dream, can’t she?

1. A feat of engineering that keeps bathtub water IN the bathtub and off the floor.

Perhaps an invisible force field or a film that keeps water where it belongs. I’d even try sonar that prevents children from turning the tub into a wave pool like a Kraken on, well…crack. So far, I’ve tried a garbage bag and a clear storage bin but as of yet have been unsuccessful.

2. A baby/toddler/pre-schooler-to-English translator that plugs directly into your ear.

Imagine – no more figuring out which cup they want, no more wondering why your child is crying for the eleventy-hundredth time (in the past hour). “Nooo!” becomes “I would gladly play with that parent-approved, educational toy.” At the very least, if no translation could be found, the ear plug would pump in the soothing, dulcet tones of Enya or Yanni Live at the Acropolis.

3. Food that instantly becomes whatever your child wants.

Chicken fingers? No problem. Oh, you changed your mind? Bam! Macaroni! Bonus points if every dish magically has four times the nutritional value of my preschooler’s current diet of plain hamburger buns and air.

4. A magic bed.

I’m probably the only parent alive who has problems with her children sleeping in their own bed (or sleeping at all), but bear with me. If someone created a bed that could transport my child to Slumberland and keep him there until the sun actually rose, I would literally just give that sorcerer all of my money. Note: I would also accept a mattress that cuts the bedtime nonsense down from two hours to twenty solid minutes.

5. Toys that don’t lose their pieces.

Or have sharp edges. Or get caught in an air vent. Or up a child’s nose. Or don’t require batteries. Or cause dents in a child’s skull when his younger brother clobbers him with it. So, basically a sponge.

6. Liquid patience.

If only there was a magical liquid that could soothe a mommy’s frazzled nerves and transport her feelings of rage and inadequacy to a far-off place. I would name it after the sound it creates when it first passes the lips: Merlooooooot……

Note to self: stop by the liquor store.

Boys and guns: How we survived without Kevlar

Posted on by Posted in The Struggle is Real .

My son wants a gun.

He wants a gun so he can “gun” people and “dead” them.

(The fact that he hasn’t connected the appropriate verbs to the nouns may or may not imply that he’s ready to have one.)

My son has been begging me for a ray gun at the local toystore, the kind that flashes seizure-inducing lights and emits blips and bleeps I can only assume were recorded in the fourth circle of Hell.

As the old adage goes, boys will be terrifying.

So far, I have flatly refused to bring any sort of weaponry into our home. In not-so-peaceful protest, he’s now creating ad hoc guns out of whatever happens to be around: a paper towel roll, a piece of paper, a stick. He used to love reading books and playing with his toy trucks and trains. Now he loves guns, swords and maintaining a pitch that could drown out a demolition.

So what gives?

What’s with the obsession with weaponry, makeshift or otherwise? I don’t subscribe to the whole “boys will be boys” theory. Not all boys are drawn to guns. We gave him a doll when he was younger (also a gun now.)

Am I raising a sociopath? Is the drive to be aggressive in a boy’s DNA? I conducted a bit of research, and I found a wealth of information by “Boy Expert” Michael Gurian. Here’s what I found:

  1. “Aggressive” is not necessarily “violent”: Gurian claims there’s no substantive link between aggressive boys and violent adults. It comes down to environment; so long as my energetic kids’ behaviour is channeled in constructive ways, I have every confidence that he’ll avoid jail time. He’s a human perpetual-motion machine, so we try to give him every opportunity to burn off his energy.
  2. The role of imaginative play: Imaginative play helps children understand and process their world. Many (nearly every boy I’ve ever met) are hard-wired to seek aggressive play filled with good guys, bad guys and adventure. Nate is constantly narrating elaborate action sequences that are informed by his favourite shows and movies (he also thinks he’s a Storm Trooper), or just from his own imagination. Playing with makeshift guns is just that – play. He doesn’t have sophisticated concepts of “killing” and “death” just yet.
  3. Testosterone: Gurian calls testosterone “humanity’s life insurance.” In my experience, my son has always played differently than his female cousins. According to Gurian, testosterone is responsible; it fuels the desire to be active, take risks, run around, jump, hit, yell – and pick up sticks and turn them into semi-automatic assault weapons.

So what do I do when my mini Rambo states “I’m going to gun you”? First off, any weapon-y looking devices that come into our house look like toys, not like real guns. They shoot foam batons, not bullets. I’ve also talked (and talked) to him extensively about the “game” of guns: don’t point it at people’s faces and no gun play with people who don’t want to participate. Apparently, I’m also doing the right thing by saying “I don’t like it when you talk about killing me.” As Gurian advises, “Be serene about this threat.”

That’s me, Captain Serenity.

NOTE: After this post was written, Nate’s father bought him the space gun (pictured on the right.) Keep an eye out for my next post about how to bury a body without leaving any evidence.

Michael Gurian is an America marriage and family counselor, corporate consultant and social philosopher. He has published over 28 books, including: The Wonder of Boys, The Minds of Boys and Boys and Girls Learn Differently! michaelgurian.com