I know this is probably going to cost me the Perfect Mom of the Year award, but… My kid spends time with the TVSitter.

I know. It’s not good.

If I am perfectly honest, I’d say my kid watches too much TV. I’d love it if she were out running around all day. I’d be so happy if she was making things out of PlayDoh, or colouring, or reading. I’d love it if she were doing crafts.

But I’m not that mom. It’s just not who I am. I can’t micromanage and direct her activities that much, and honestly, at three, she has the attention span of a soap dish. And I have things I have to get done in the course of a day. It’s just the way it goes. I have to chop onions, or unload the dishwasher, or sweep. I have to throw stuff in the laundry.

And sometimes? I just want a little time to connect to the outside adult world via the Internet. Truth be told, I spend a lot of time alone with a three year old. Some days, on soccer days, the only meaningful adult conversation I get is with the checkout people at the supermarket, or via the interwebs and email. So sue me.

I’m finding it’s just an easy out, sometimes, when I have something to do that requires my time and concentration, to plonk my kid in front of a DVD for awhile. She’s three, and she’s at that stage where she wants somebody to play with and interact with and whatnot. But I find that sometimes, I just can’t be that person.

The Wiggles can. She sings along, and dances, and does whatever moves they do. Same thing with Sesame Street. And a couple other educational TV videos. She’s learning and moving and dancing and counting. And it’s not like she watches commercials or daytime TV or endless Dora crap or anything — we have a limited number of things for her to watch, thanks to DVD, Netflix and no cable.

(Okay. I’ll confess she watches Top Gear with us. WHAT SHUDDUP YOU DON’T KNOW OUR LOVE OF THE HAMSTER AND CAPTAIN SLOW. Okay, and Mythbusters too. WHAT? IT’S KIND OF SCIENCE-ISH.)

And, because of her oral-motor issues, our OT recommended watching something during mealtime, to distract her from the textures and fear of what is in her mouth. A piece of toast used to take an hour and a half. This morning? 40 minutes. That is progress. So until we get over the issues, we do what it takes.

But we DO get out. Our schedules are fairly busy, with swimming lessons and gym classes and our regular errands and going to the sitter. And, in a couple of weeks, school is in the mix. And we go for walks, and go for play dates, and go to the park, and swim, and play in the yard…

And yet? It’s the TV time she has that gives me the endless Mommy Guilt. I cannot help but think I am Harming My Child by letting her watch TV. It’s what the books say. It’s what the interwebs tell you. Good Moms are ENGAGED and CRAFTY and ORGANIC and GREEN and GRANOLA. And I am so not.

Oh well. That Girl is healthy, and happy, and thriving. And as she gets older, she’ll get busier and more independent. And it’ll be less of an issue. I hope.

Besides, I was raised by a TVSitter. I was a latchkey kid who grew up during the golden age of TV comedy, and saw world events unfold on the nightly news. And look at me!  I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of useless trivia, a love of good quality television, and can recite most of the first 4 seasons of M*A*S*H dialogue by heart.  I owe much of my love of music to The New Music.  I learned about atoms from Venus Flytrap. I’m only just SLIGHTLY deranged.

She’ll be fine.

And WHY, you are asking yourself, would I reference one of the worst songs in recorded history in my post title? I dunno. I felt like it. Plus, now that I’ve mentioned it, some of you have the earworm. You’re welcome.

But, D00DZ. It is just one of those weeks. Earthquakes on the East Coast. Human sacrifice. Dogs and cats, living together. Mass hysteria!

(Okay, so… maybe not so much the human sacrifice. But definitely the other stuff.)

ANYWAY…

The world, it is changing and things are happening all over. You can’t stop it. And, as evidence of this, I give you Exhibit A: Yours truly.

(Note: Not to scale. Also, my head’s not really little and squished.)

Ahem.

So. Today, while there was APPARENTLY AN EARTHQUAKE… I didn’t notice. NOT A THING. Rien. Nada. Bupkus.

And just WHAT, you might ask, what was I doing?

Cruising the Toys Backwards R Us website (the clearance section, OBVS) FOR… wait for it… A BACKPACK FOR MY DAUGHTER.

WHO IS STARTING SCHOOL NEXT MONTH.

I know. Shocking. I should have gotten you to sit down first.

And alright, it’s PRESCHOOL, but STILL. SCHOOL.

My tiny little newborn-sized baby has suddenly all grown up and is GOING TO SCHOOL.

When did all this happen? What was I DOING???

Yesterday, we walked the kilometre or so to her school and paid her fees. And the whole way, we talked about school, and how she would go and meet new friends, and who her teachers were, and about being at school without Mom, by herself, and all that. And she was all YEP WHATEVER MOM.

Possibly she had me on Ignore. Likely, she didn’t understand any of it. Or didn’t much care.

But I did. And I have to say, it’s kind of bittersweet.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I want everyone to hear this now: I AM TOTALLY EXCITED AND JAZZED ABOUT MY KID GOING TO SCHOOL ARE YOU KIDDING ME? TWO HOURS IN THE MORNING TO MYSELF OMG I COULD GO TO THE DOCTOR OR GET NEW GLASSES OR MAYBE EVEN DO SOME ACTUAL PAYING WORK.

So, that’s not the problem. I am so thrilled seeing her grow and learn and seeing the awesome, way cool person she is becoming.

But part of me is sad to say goodbye to the baby times. Because, let’s face it, we hit the jackpot, baby-wise. The kid has been a dream come true in so many, many ways.

But now she is older. And we have to say goodbye to some of those things.

And unlike so many other families, having another baby is most probably not going to happen. By birth or adoption, it does not look to be in the cards, for a number or reasons. So we kind of have to make peace with that, too. (In that respect, it’s a good thing we have a kid with personality to spare to always show us we’re not missing too much.)

So… that’s hard. Up to now, it’s been theoretical. It WILL happen… sometime. But this summer, of potty training, and Big Girl Beds, and now getting ready for School… Now, it’s all happening.

Time is passing. And you begin to realize, it really IS fleeting.

I started to become aware of it in the spring, while we were beginning to plan for her support workers for preschool, and finishing up paperwork, and facing the stuff to come. So I decided to try to enjoy our summer together. There was not a lot planned, so we did stuff. We went for walks. We talked and danced and played. We spent time in the pool.

I tried to enjoy her company. I tried to cherish moments. I tried to capture things she said, and remember things she did. I tried to lock the feelings at those moments away in my heart.

Because I knew once they were gone, they were gone.

And it was nice. I really did enjoy a long, slow summer with my girl. It was nice.

Alas, time still passes. That Girl is still growing and changing. The world is still happening.

But unlike the earthquake today… I felt it.

 

I’ve seen a number of articles and blogs posted by parents of girls, in which they (usually moms, but some dads) say that so many people comment on how pretty their daughters are, and how they wish they wouldn’t.

Some parents say they think it is shallow or superficial — or even creepy — to comment on their daughter’s looks. Some say strangers come up to them and say “Oh, she’s so beautiful!” and that they would rather they comment on how smart the girl is, or her personality. I’ve also read posts where parents complain that they think that people are overcompensating about some sort of fear of the race of the child, so by commenting on a child’s beauty they are trying to show they are not racist.

And then today, a friend brought her daughter over for a play date, and we were discussing this same topic. She commented on how beautiful Stinkerbelle is, and then felt a little embarassed and apologized. She said she read a study somewhere that stated that parents of girls overwhelmingly comment on another little girl’s looks before anything else, and that she was really trying not to. She mentioned that the study talked about the superficiality, maybe, or that it shows an underlying competitiveness, commenting on another girl’s looks to get justification of your own child’s looks, or some such thing.

There seems to be a lot of apprehension out there about the concept of beauty, and talking about it.

So my friend and I got to talking about it. And I thought, when did it become wrong to tell a little girl she is pretty?

I don’t get it. I mean, I understand that parents have their reasons, and a lot of them are really quite sound in their situations. Fair enough. And I would respect that.

But here’s the thing: what is wrong with a little girl growing up believing she is pretty? What is wrong with loving how she looks?

I thought to myself, all little kids love to look at themselves in the mirror. Vanity is not an issue — they’re too little for that. But they are all beautiful. So why not let them believe it? My thinking is this: It’s going to end soon enough.

As women, we have all been there. We all hit an age, nearing puberty, or even earlier, when we begin to feel ugly. We compare ourselves to others, and we don’t measure up. We are judged mercilessly by our peers. So what is wrong with teaching a little girl, right from the beginning, that she is beautiful?

I’m not saying I would advocate saying a child is beautiful, above all else, and that’s the end of it. Of course, you want to fill your child with confidence on so many levels. But at some point, fairly early on it seems, we leave off commenting on looks. We take great pains to emphasize what our kids are good at, or the successes they have in school, or what they can do well. But we shy away from saying “You are beautiful”. Who says one cannot be pretty, and still be smart? Or athletic? Or good at math? Or play the violin? Why do these things have to be an either/or?

Maybe it’s a flaw with our definition of “beauty”. Why does beauty have to stop at the skin? Why can it not encompass both what is on the inside and what is on the outside?

Why NOT have a little girl grow up believing that she is pretty, and growing in self-confidence, for as long as she can?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as the saying goes. I want my daughter to love how she looks. I want her to be confident as she is growing up that she can be anything she wants, as any parent would. I want her to believe in her abilities, and be happy with who she is, and to know beyond all that how much she is loved.

But I ALSO want her to look in a mirror and, regardless of shape, size, colour or conventional standards, really LOVE what she sees.

I lack positive self-image. I am loathe to get my photo taken. I am painfully self-conscious of my weight. I can tell you every flaw on my person.

I don’t want that for my child.

Dawn French once said that she owed her success to her self-confidence. And that a lot of that came from her father. Every day, her father would tell her how beautiful she was, and how brilliant, and how loved. And she just grew up believing it was so. Now, Dawn is a big woman — not the conventional standard of beauty — but she is undeniably beautiful. She is funny and brilliant and successful and loved. AND beautiful. What an amazing package.

My daughter right now is one such amazing package. I never want that to end. I love to see her look at herself and comment on her pretty hair or her pretty dress. I hope she can take to heart as she grows the comments about her beautiful almond eyes and her sweet dimple and her winning smile. I want her to be able to hold onto that self-love, and package it up with a passion for whatever she becomes passionate about, and a confidence in her abilities in whatever she becomes good at, and a joy in doing what she really loves.

I want her to be confident in the beautiful, amazing package that we see. And to see it for herself, too.

So I will continue to tell her, every day, how beautiful she is. And I will agree with whoever tells me she is beautiful, too.

So, you may have noticed that I took a bit of a break. I’ve been here, just not posting much except our weekend photos.

I’ve had a bit of a hard time, having a good old-fashioned existential crisis, like every parent has every now and again. I’ve been stressing about stuff, and feeling isolated, and struggling. I’ve had a couple of challenging, tiring, hard weeks.

And I generally don’t feel it’s something to write about on The Internets necessarily. Not everything needs to be put out there for public consumption. I try not to be that Drama Llama Mama.

But the reality for everyone is that the challenging times happen. And you just put your head down, and you work through it. You cry, and you bitch and moan, and you work through it as best you can. And you don’t take yourself too seriously. And eventually, like every other down time in life, you come out the other side.

You try to learn some lessons.

I learned that my kid does indeed have significant language delays. I admitted that I need to recognize that it’s not my fault. And I learned that since it’s not my fault I shouldn’t take the therapy and the discussion and the exercises personally when they happen. And that this stuff doesn’t show what she CAN do and what She DOES know and What she DOES understand, and I have to bear that in mind. And I decided that she’s happy and healthy and talks and sings all the livelong day and that this was the most important thing, and that she will catch up eventually.

I learned that my kid’s oral-motor issues will take time and patience. I recognized that I have to dig deep and continue to find that reserve of patience, and that capacity to think creatively at mealtime. And I can’t show my frustration to this beautiful child who wants nothing more in the world than to please me, because it is NOT HER FAULT. I learned that it’s a challenge that we’re just going to have to continue to roll with. And I still have to learn how to advocate better for more effective help for her.

I learned that conventional milestones can bite me. And that anyone who questions why we do what we do when we do it, just because it doesn’t fit with their arbitrary milestones or expectations of conventional behaviour or whatever, can just fucking bite me too.

I learned that feeling isolated and alone passes. I recognized that I have to share the burden with my husband. I admitted that I have to find some ways to make friends and get out of the house and make myself happy.

And I reconfirmed what I’ve always known — that by comparison to what I know other people are dealing with, or what challenges I observe other parents facing, or the myriad other things that could cause stress and difficulty in my life… this stuff is minor. Easy peasy.

Perspective. It is important to get some.

And now, at the other end, I realize the good things that happen during the hard times.

My kid is doing great at using the potty, with only a few accidents here and there.

Her language production is growing by leaps and bounds and I think her comprehension is way beyond what we believed it to be. But what’s important is making sure we understand each other and are patient with each other when trying to communicate.

She’s really, really trying to eat what is put in front of her, even if it’s just to venture a taste. And she’s working really hard to chew and swallow as best she can what she feels she can eat, which is huge. And I have tried to just go with it and blend up the challenging stuff and not letting it feel like failure.

She loves her big girl bed and goes to sleep without fuss. Waiting until she was better able to comprehend the change and the new rules was absolutely the right idea.

The bottom line is, no matter what the challenges, our daughter is the greatest thing to ever happen to us. She is and healthy and happy and bright and funny and beautiful. We fall madly in love with her over and over again, a hundred times a day. She makes us better people, and she has filled our lives and our home and our hearts with love.

Just have to keep it all in perspective, is all. I’m not saying it’s always easy, but it sure does make life happier and easier to roll with if we can.

You often hear women say, disparagingly, of each other, “I don’t want to be THAT MOM.” Or with an exhausted envy, “Must be nice to have the money/time/support/whatever to be THAT MOM”.

We spend a lot of time, as moms, talking about “That Mom”. And for me, the concept of “Mom” is so foreign. I was always on the outside looking in at moms, and wondering what having a mom was like, and regretting what I was missing. Or what I believed I was missing. So, perhaps my ideas about what That Mom is may be a bit skewed.

I just know that I think about being That Mom a lot.

I waffle on it, you know. Sometimes I just don’t want to be “That Mom”. Other times, I wish I were “That Mom”. It depends, really.

There are days when I know what it is I want to be for my daughter. I want to be That Mom who hugs and kisses and cuddles her kid at every opportunity. I want to be That Mom who is always baking something and there’s always cookies in the cookie jar and the house always smells warm and comforting. I want to be That Mom who is engaged in her kids’ care and knows how to be part of the process of helping her child learn and grow.

I aspire to be That Mom. I hope to be That Mom.

But it is hard. I know that some days I am That Mom who is too tired to sit on the floor and do the work that That Baby needs to help her meet her developmental milestones. I am That Mom who has things to do and parks her kid in front of a video while she makes supper. I am That Mom who just can’t face another pureed meal, who can’t be patient for another hour-and-a-half lunch, who can’t bring herself to get all dressed up and trudge through the cold and snow and wind for some outdoor time.

I hear the voice of That Mom speaking sharply to That Baby, or dismissing her dramatic sorrows, or sternly telling her to lie down and go to sleep. And I regret being That Mom. Because I know that, if the world could change from wishing, I would be That Mom who doesn’t often raise her voice, and acknowledges all her girl’s feelings, and has no problems going in and cuddling her when she is having trouble falling asleep.

But I am not.

I dream of being That Mom who is young and fit enough to never tire of chasing her child about and playing with her. I dream of being That Mom who is always engaged and doing crafts and teaching her child and being inclusive about cooking together and making cakes and cleaning up. I dream of being That Mom who keeps a clean house while having meaningful and fulfilling work and hobbies and doing volunteer work. I dream of being That Mom who is slim and fashionable and well-liked and always has a kind word for others.

I will never be That Mom.

I am That Mom who is always dressed in sweats and has a ponytail. I am That Mom who speaks loudly and laughs even louder and cannot carry a tune in a bucket but sings all the time anyway. I am That Mom who procrastinates on paperwork and worries about choices. I am That Mom who has few friends and even fewer interests outside her home.

I am afraid that my daughter will look at me from a distance one day and be embarassed that she was saddled with That Mom.

But I am what I am. I am That Mom who lives large and loves hard and dreams big and fails spectacularly. I am That Mom who cries many tears and dresses badly and holds many hopes in her heart.

I am That Mom who will always have a hug for her daughter and will be proud of her every day and wants nothing more from her than for her to come home safely at the end of every day.

Whatever else I am or am not or dream of being or never will be, I am That Mom who loves her child more than anything on this earth.

It was a long weekend around here. And not of the holiday variety.

Saturday we had planned to have some friends over to share Ethiopian food, lively conversation and good wine. So, we spent the better part of Saturday cleaning, baking, chopping, preparing, as one does. And later Saturday afternoon, our friends showed up and we ate and laughed and had a most excellent time.

This was the high point of our weekend.

Saturday around mid-day, Stinkerbelle started showing signs of the sniffles. I had already emailed everyone to say our plans were a go, but Stinkerbelle did not seem very sick, so I figured as long as everyone took due precautions not to lick anything she has or let her sneeze on them or anything, they’d be fine. So that was good. But around 7 pm, That Baby began to cough.

Now, I’ve mentioned here before, that Stinkerbelle got sick about a week before Christmas, and while she shook that cold soon enough, she’s had a lingering cough. Normally, she seems to be 100% fine each day, but after she exercises or at nighttime, she begins to cough. We’ve been treating it as best we can with honey and lemon, and homeopathic cough meds, and the like. We haven’t gotten more than one night’s uninterrupted sleep since Christmas, but it’s been fine. We waffled on taking her to the doctor, but it just never seemed to be worth the trouble. Kids get lingering coughs all the time.

But last week it was getting a little rougher, so I booked an appointment with Stinkerbelle’s family doctor. The soonest he could get her in was Tuesday (so, tomorrow) morning. Fine.

And then, this coughing began Saturday evening.

We put That Baby to bed, and said our goodbyes to our friends, and went upstairs to unwind. We noticed it was taking Stinkerbelle a long time to settle. She was coughing a lot. So we got her back up, gave her the usual stuff to treat it, and put her back to bed.

10:30 rolled around, and she was still coughing. Continuous, non-stop coughing. So we added Tylenol to the mix to help her relax and get to sleep.

An hour later, and That Baby was coughing so hard she threw up. I was holding her in a comfy chair in her room, settling her down so she could fall asleep a little more upright, in the hope it could help her breathe. BDH was in the other room on the phone, on hold with Ontario Telehealth until somebody was available.

After 45 minutes, the nurse began to try to help Stinkerbelle, asking questions, listening to her cough, and giving us advice. She told us she thought it was probably not an emergency, but to get Stinkerbelle to a doctor within 24 hours. With no walk-in clinics in the area open on Sundays, that meant going to Emergency. We set in our mind that we’d likely have to take Stinkerbelle in to the hospital in the morning, but at least with the Telehealth nurse’s recommendations we could maybe get her a decent night’s rest before doing so, so that spending hours there would be a little easier for That Baby to put up with.

But the coughing and gagging did not stop. So at 2:30 am, we were getting Stinkerbelle dressed and into Emergency.

Now, Saturday night in a university town is the ABSOLUTE WORST time to go to Emergency. The place is usually jam-packed with drunks, and homeless, and students who have had too much to drink and/or have gotten themselves into fights or car accidents. Some nights, it can be 12 hours before you see a doctor.

Saturday night was no exception. There were loud, drunk, trashy, obnoxious people a-plenty.

Still Stinkerbelle coughed.

We got through triage and began to wait. We found ourselves a quiet little nook away from everyone and waited. People mercifully gave us a wide berth, some because they were sympathetic to us having a small child, and others because she was coughing like crazy and what she had, they didn’t want. That was fine with us.

We kept her as busy and content as possible. She was as good as gold. She did not cry once. But neither could she sleep. She kept coughing. People were called in to see a doctor. We waited. Mercifully, some of the drunk students began to sober up and get bored and decided to leave. Things began to get quieter as taxis were called and people filed out, and as an added bonus, the queue began to get shorter.

Finally, around 5:30 or so, the exhaustion got to her, and she fell asleep in BDH’s arms. And about 15 minutes later, we were called in to see a doctor.

There was still a wait, as there was only ONE DOCTOR ON CALL OMGWTF ARE YOU KIDDING ME GUELPH GEN? REALLY??? ONE DOCTOR ON A SATURDAY NIGHT?? But at least Stinkerbelle got a bed.

We put her in her bed. She was so tired, and so tiny there in her bed. And as we had been waiting, a fever had developed, and she was really flushed, so the nurse came by and gave her some Tylenol. He was very sympathetic, and thought that even though it might be nothing, we were wise to bring her in. He has two girls and that’s what he would have done, he said.

So we waited. And at least Stinkerbelle was getting some rest.

At 7 am there was a shift change, which meant that another doctor was coming on duty. We saw him fairly soon afterwards, maybe 7:30 or 7:45, and he was concerned. It was not so much what he could hear, when he listened to her breathing (which was lots of crying from That Baby who does not appreciate doctoring very much) but rather what he DIDN’T hear. He said he wanted to put a mask on her and give her some Ventolin, and then afterwards, get an x-ray of her chest.

And now we come to the part of the story where grown adults cry.

Because to give her the Ventolin, BDH had to sit on the bed with her, and wrap her in a bear hug, pinning her arms down and holding her still, while I had to hold a mask on her face. She was TERRIFIED. She sobbed huge tears and cried “ALL DONE! ALL DONE! TAKE IT OFF! PLEEEEEEZ! TAKE IT OFF!! TAKE IT OFF! PLEEEEEZ MOMMY! ALL DONE!” for about 5 minutes while both my heart and BDH’s broke into a million tiny pieces. It wasn’t hurting her; in fact, her crying meant that with each inhale she was actually getting MORE meds into her lungs. But it was heartbreaking to NOT help your crying, pleading child. And, in fact, to be the ones causing her torment.

Once it was done, we snuggled her close and tried to make it all better. And then it was time for the chest X-ray.

If you’ve not given a toddler a chest X-ray before, let me tell you that it involves a large, bastardized high chair, and your child is strapped down in the chair so she does not move, and then her arms are strapped up above her head. It is terrifying. Necessary, of course, but scary as hell. I was not there, and good thing. BDH did it and still feels horribly guilty about it. But it had to be done.

After that, it was back in the bed in Emerg to wait and hold That Baby close. Around 9:30 the doctor came by and said the X-ray came out clear, nothing to worry about, and wrote us a prescription for an aerochamber and some Ventolin. His concern is that she may have asthma. As an asthmatic, I was happy and relieved. Asthma exacerbated by a cold was familiar territory, and something easy to deal with.

And with that, he said we were free to go home, and to follow up with our family doctor on Tuesday as planned.

But the hardest part of the morning was hearing my baby say “Thank you doctor” as she broke into sobs of relief and happiness at being allowed to go home. It was all I could do not to break down crying myself.

So we were home by 10, and spent the rest of the day napping, giving That Baby anything she asked for, and snuggling her close as much as was humanly possible. And crashed into our respective beds shortly after dinner for as much sleep as the night would allow.

So our first of probably many trips to the Emergency Room with our child is done and dusted. Yeah, I am exhausted. We all are. But on the other side of the coin, I am grateful that it was nothing more serious that brought us there. I know some parents are not so lucky. And I will remember what it was like to look at my tiny girl, sleeping in that big hospital bed, and be thankful that we are fortunate enough that we have a healthy child for whom this was a one-time, short-lived, routine visit.

Well, it’s official. I’m sick, for the 4th time since September. That Baby was coughing and fussing all night as well, so we’re both home sick today. So it will be a day of trying to keep Stinkerbelle quietly amused. That will be a tough task. Thank doG for Sesame Street and Curious George.

One thing about feeling lousy is that it is not just physical. You just feel lousy in general.

It’s hard to be home sick and be a good parent. You have to pretend that you feel cheerful when you don’t. You have to pretend you have energy when you don’t. And you have to try to have patience when you don’t.

By any yardstick, we are lucky to have such a good kid in Stinkerbelle. She generally doesn’t give us a lick of trouble. She’s easygoing and funny and cheerful, and full of love and enthusiasm for everyone and everything. But it takes effort to remind yourself of that when you are feeling under the weather, and and trying to get through your day with her.

So when you lose patience, and speak harshly, and react less than patiently to what she says or does, it makes you feel even lousier.

My kid is a busy, active child. She’s not much into crafty stuff at the best of times. So sitting and trying to do something crafty, like making paper snowflakes or Christmas-y stuff, is going to engage her for maybe 5 minutes on a good day. And not at all when she is sick. Plus we’re still working on her sensory issues, so fingerpaints or playdough or sand or anything textured is often not a good choice for her. Baking together would be a bad choice. If she’s tired and sick, her sensitivities are going to be bigger and intensified.

So, you’d think it would occur to me that trying to keep her still and tracing her hand would be a bad plan on a day when she’s not feeling tops, and when I am feeling tired and crabby.

You would be mistaken.

You’d think I’d also know enough to just let it go and not react when it all goes pear-shaped.

Yeah. Not so much.

So, okay. There are all kinds of games and toys and stuff we can play together, right? We can sit quietly and do things together, right? Well, her patience is low. So is mine. Her attention span is considerably shortened. And she doesn’t want to be pushed to think or engage when she’s not feeling tops.

You’d think I could accomodate that, right?

Well, it seems… not so much.

So what’s left? Well, there are videos and TV shows. She’s quiet, and it doesn’t take much effort, and if you choose well, it can be educational.

But then, what parent doesn’t feel like a crappy parent for parking their kid in front of the boob tube?

So not only do I feel sick, but I am feeling like a pretty lousy mom today too. I’m having Mom Fail on almost every front.

Okay, stepping back with perspective: She’s not out playing in traffic. She’s warm, and fed, and safe, and loved.

But when she’s laying on a pile of pillows, and she’s got a sore throat and is coughing, and she’s crying because Mom has snapped at her… perspective goes out the window. And all you feel is lousy.

Baby’s First Step-by-Step Guideâ„¢ to killing one’s parents
by Stinkerbelle

1. Go to bed at the regular time of 7:30 without complaint.

2. Begin wailing and sobbing 45 minutes later.

3. When Mommy comes in to comfort you, let her know that you are having issues with Blue Blankie. Let her sort that out for you, and agree to settle down to sleep.

4. When Mommy leaves, wait two minutes and commence wailing and sobbing again.

5. Repeat steps 3 and 4 several times until Daddy comes.

6. When Daddy comes, very dramatically cling to Daddy. Agree to go to sleep only on condition that he read you another story.

7. Listen rapturously to a story of your choice.

8. Agree to go to sleep.

9. When Daddy leaves, wait two minutes and commence wailing and sobbing again.

10. When Daddy returns, greet him cheerfully with “O HAI DADDY!”

11. Agree to go to sleep, on condition that Daddy stay in the room with you.

12. Fiddle faff around for half an hour before finally going to sleep sometime after 9:45.

13. Wake the entire house at 4:30 am with screams and wails and sobs. Wake the entire neighbourhood if possible.

14. Sit and cuddle in the dark with Daddy. Doze as required.

15. Tell Daddy that you want to go back to bed and sleep. When Daddy confirms that it is time to go to sleep, say “No.”

16. Repeat steps 14 and 15 several times.

17. Agree to go to sleep around 5 am.

18. Wait two minutes after door closes, then commence wailing and shrieking again.

19. When Mommy comes in, greet her with “O HAI MOMMY!”

20. Agree to go to sleep on condition that Mommy stays in the room with you.

21. Doze in your bed until Mommy can no longer stand it and has to go to the bathroom.

22. Scream and wail like your life depends on it.

23. When Mommy comes back in, note that she will be very, very cross. Greet her with an extra cheerful “O HAI MOMMY!” Tell her about your plans for the day.

24. Doze in your bed for awhile. Periodically talk to Piglet.

25. When Mommy says “SHHHHH”, repeat “SHHHHH”. When Mommy says “LIE DOWN” or “GO TO SLEEP”, repeat same in a very cheerful tone.

26. Repeat steps 24 and 25 as often as necessary.

27. If Mommy happens to doze off in her chair, wake her up by telling her something. It doesn’t matter what.

28. Wake for the day as fresh as a daisy, promptly at 6:50.

29. Agree to be a good girl and wait patiently in your bed while Mommy has a shower.

30. Shout and laugh and bounce around until you wake Daddy up.

31.Greet Daddy with “O HAI DADDY” and tell him about your plans for the day.

32. Have a giant poop waiting when Daddy goes to change your diaper.

Today’s drama is brought to you by Meryl Streep, a purple Dora chair, and Rougemont Apple Juice.

(Scene: A playroom somewhere in Suburbiaville)

That Baby: MOAR TEETEE!
Me: What do you want to watch?
That Baby: (surveys DVD collection thoughtfully) Mommy Me Me.
Me: Mamma Mia?
That Baby: Awight!! (she settles into her comfy purple chair)
Me: Okay. Mamma Mia it is. (puts DVD in) Here’s your juice. (hands her a sippy cup containing two ice cubes and some apple juice)

That Baby takes a long swig of apple juice, then sets the cup down on the floor beside her chair. She looks at me, fixes me in a VRY SRS BZNS look, and then points her finger up at my face.

That Baby: Buh bye.

~ FIN ~

When you adopt, especially when you adopt transracially, as a parent you often find yourself in strange social situations. You get people who ask strange questions about how your family came to be. You get people using inappropriate phrases when discussing your child. You get prying, insensitive questions. It happens.

And today, I got all that and more. For today was the first time since we brought Stinkerbelle home that I have had to deal with racist comments.

Now, let me preface this by saying that, in many cases, the stupid and insensitive comments and questions I have often gotten usually do not come from a place of malice. They often come from people who are curious and just don’t have the experience or the tools or maybe just the common sense to discuss adoption in a more enlightened manner. And that is okay — I don’t mind that so much. I find that people often have good intentions, but their execution is flawed. And so, in those conversations, I try to use appropriate adoption language, and model more sensitive phrases, and correct where I can.

Racism, on the other hand… well, it never comes from a place of good. How could it possibly?

And so, today, I found myself in a very strange conversation. I had taken Stinkerbelle to her class at The Little Gym. It’s a small class, maybe 8 kids and their moms or dads or caregivers, and That Baby is usually one of the most enthusiastic participants. She’s definitely the most visible, in the centre of every activity, expressing her full-throated joy.

Plus she’s the only black child, and has a white mom, so she is highly visible.

One little girl in the class, Riley, is a sweet little slip of a thing. Strawberry blonde, quiet, but physically the top of the class. Riley got game. And often times, she is there with her nanny — at least, I would assume that the woman is her nanny, as Riley is as white as white can be, and the woman with her is, I believe, Filipino. Plus, I’ve seen Riley’s mom or dad come in to pick her up after class, so the woman with her is not her mom.

Anyway.

After class today, Stinkerbelle and I were getting our shoes and socks and sweaters on to go home. We were seated on the floor in the reception area by the cubbies, with all the other moms and kids. And Riley and her nanny were standing nearby, looking at us.

Riley’s nanny began to ask some questions. Now, she was as pleasant as can be. She was really, genuinely trying to be nice, and Riley seems to like Stinkerbelle, so I think she was encouraging them to be pals and was trying to befriend me as well. But it was one of those situations where, as nice as she was trying to be, the questions were ALL WRONG.

Nanny: Is she your daughter?
Me: Yes, she is my daughter.
Nanny: Oh that’s nice. How old is she?
Me: She’s two and a half.

See? Nice, right? Friendly and everything. Then…

Nanny: Is her father black?

Oh, lady. Really? But then I thought, okay, here’s someone whose first language is not English, and also, cultural differences being what they are, perhaps blunt is the norm for her. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Me: No, he’s not. Stinkerbelle was adopted.

She seemed quite pleased with that. I guessed that this was where she was going with her questioning, and perhaps didn’t have the language. So I cut to the chase. Plus, I’m quite proud of having grown our family through adoption, because I have always wanted to adopt, and think it is a fantastic way to bring families together. And I would never want Stinkerbelle to think it wasn’t something I was not proud of.

So the nanny carried on:

Nanny: Oh that’s nice. Did you adopt her here in Canada?
Me: No. Stinkerbelle was born in Ethiopia.
Nanny: Oh, wow! So you travelled to Ethiopia to adopt her there?
Me: Yes. Yes we did.

Phew. Conversation back on track. I was feeling better about it, because it seemed as though this young woman was interested and generally positive about Stinkerbelle and her story. And sometimes in a second language, it really IS hard to know what is appropriate and what is not. I relaxed.

Nanny: She’s so happy! She is always smiling and laughing.
Me: Yes, she is ALWAYS cheerful. We’re very lucky.

The Nanny encouraged Riley to talk to Stinkerbelle, and seemed to want them to be shake hands or hug or something and be friends. I warned Riley off, because Stinkerbelle has a cold.

Then she said:

Nanny: You couldn’t have your own children?

Whoa. Holy innapropriate questions, Batman! I stammered. I think she may have twigged that something was wrong, because she quickly added:

Nanny: Do you have any of your own children?

Alright, missy, I thought (but thankfully managed not to say out loud), my cutting you some slack in this conversation is rapidly coming to a middle, here. And the best friend forever thing you’re trying to encourage between Riley and my daughter is kinda teetering on the brink right now, because you keep talking!

But I composed myself, and, trying to model appropriate language, said:

Me: Stinkerbelle IS our child. Our only child.

I got up to get more of our stuff from the cubbies. Nanny smiled and said:

Nanny: She is very lucky.
Me: No, we’re very lucky. We are blessed to have her. She is a wonderful child.

I carried on getting Stinkerbelle and myself dressed, hoping this woman would just go away.

And it was then that she came at me with the coup-de-grace. With her most sincere, lovely, admiring smile, she said:

Nanny: You know, EVEN THOUGH SHE IS BLACK, she’s very beautiful.

And there you have it, folks! DING DING DING, I thought, WE HAVE A WINNER IN THE INGRAINED RACISM SWEEPSTAKES!!

OH HOLY HELL. You didn’t, you COULDN’T, have just said that to me. Not here, not in front of all these people. And not, worst of all, not knowing how incredibly, horribly wrong that was.

I took a step back, mentally and emotionally. I am trying to learn to NOT wig out about these situations, because first off, I am a big, loud woman, so I try to pick my public scenes with care — and I was not sure if this one was worthwhile.

But secondly, I don’t want to call attention to these comments within earshot of my child if she may not have noticed them, and clearly she didn’t; she was playing with her shoes. Plus she’s two and a half. The only thing she’d notice right now is that her mom went apeshit. She’d notice the anger, and the shouting, and the me going all thermonuclear on someone’s ass.

I paused, and very loudly and clearly said, simply:

Me: She IS beautiful. She is a BEAUTIFUL GIRL.

At that moment, Riley’s mother came in to the gym, and thankfully, the nanny was diverted.

I was not sure that wigging out on Nanny’s ass would have been the right thing to do in this particular scenario. First off, I genuinely believe that the Nanny’s questions and comments, however inappropriate they may be, came from a place of wanting to be friendly and were genuine. I cannot be in her head, but her tone, her body language, all led m to believe she was simply trying to be friendly. And I also wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, that perhaps language barriers may have contributed to some of it.

Having been a teacher of ESL and having worked with people of many, many different cultures, I know that institutionalized racism still exists in the world, and that it is still acceptable in many cultures to think of other peoples through racist eyes. Does that excuse the inappropriateness and ugliness? No. But here is where the crossroads was: If I were to assume that her comment was racist in INTENT, which would take into account where she came from, and that is was not just a misfire in her expression in a second language of something a little more innocent, then I would indeed be just as racist.

And I don’t want to be that person.

So I took the conversation in the light that I hoped it was intended — as someone who was curious about how our family came to be, and wanted to pay some compliments to my daughter, but lacked the language and cultural skills to do so effectively.

I don’t believe it will happen again. I truly don’t. But, if it happens again, I WILL correct her, and no mistake about THAT. I have no problem doing THAT. But I will be sure to speak to Riley’s mom, her employer, about the issue.

It has become apparent to me that, no matter what you try to do as a parent to stop it from happening, your child will become the victim of a stereotype. It’s an ugly, ugly thing. But it’s out there, and it happens.

Oh yes. I’m talking about GIRLS AND THEIR SHOES.

I tried to shield her from it for as long as I could, I really did. The last thing I wanted for my girl was for her to become some slave to fashion footwear. But you can’t protect them forever.

My kid? LOVESLOVESLOVES the shoes. She’s got a bazillion pairs of shoes. Ill-fitting. Expensive. Leather. Cheap. Bedazzled. Shiny. Rubber. My kid loves them ALL. There are days when she already has a pair of shoes on and then goes and tries to put ANOTHER pair of shoes on.

Granted, most of her shoes are hand-me-downs, and so they are of so many different sizes and styles and seasons that, at any given time, only a few pairs will actually fit her well. But she does not care. She has SHOES, and she LOVES THEM ALL.

However. Next week, she will be starting a class that will involve organized time in the gym, running and playing games and the like. And so today, I had a look in her closet to see if she has appropriate footwear. It doesn’t specify that she needs them necessarily, but the weather is getting cooler and the crocs and sandals aren’t going to cut it for much longer. Plus, her beloved sandals are getting small enough that her toes are beginning to poke out over the front.

So I did a bit of an inventory today, to see what she had. She has two pairs of almost-new running shoes — actual, real-life runners. They’d be perfect, except for the fact that her feet are about 5 1/2s, so let’s say a 6 would suit her, and these were size 7. They looked like snowshoes on her. She also has a pair of those canvas sneakers with the elastic strap thingy across the top of your foot in lieu of laces, but knowing That Baby, she’d have them off in a second.

So today, it was time to go out to the mall and get her some running shoes.

This is not an easy proposition. Perhaps our mall is just ill-equipped for shoe shopping for small people, but there was not a lot of practical footwear to be had for the under-5 set. There were flip flops galore, and something resembling Ugg boots, and some crazy high-top lace-up canvas version of Chuck Taylor knock-offs… but nothing that looked like a kid could play a game of tag or Duck Duck Goose in them without spraining an ankle or whacking another kid in the head with a flying shoe.

So we went into Payless. They had quite a number of pairs of running shoes for little girls. You know how I know? THEY WERE ALL PINK AND SPANGLY AND COVERED IN PRINCESS SHIT. Every last freaking pair. Pink. And White. And covered in white-bread Disney Princesses. Or, doG help us, that Dora thing.

Sports shoes. With princesses on them.

DOES. NOT. COMPUTE.

I stood, dumbfounded, gazing upon commercial marketing gone absolutely fucking apeshit.

So then I thought, Okay, well, at least they’re sort of like running shoes, right? I mean, they’re made from a leather-like substance and they have rubberized soles and laces and stuff. So I picked up a pair.

THEY COST THIRTY DOLLARS.

THIRTY!!!11!11! For a pair of shoes for a kid who is not even THREE yet!!

Forgive me, but the last time I bought her shoes, Stinkerbelle wore them a grand total of three weeks before she hit a growth spurt and outgrew them. I was not about to spend thirty dollars on what could, very possibly, become in three weeks’ time something that takes up space in her closet.

It was all I could do to refrain from heaving them full-force back at the display.

The woman who was working in the store happened by, and asked if she could help. I stammered that I needed running shoes for my daughter, but…

And it was like she read my mind. She remarked that there was not a lot of choice — at which I blurted out “UNLESS YOU LOVE PINK AND ARE EASILY MANIPULATED BY MARKETING AND OH MY GOD THIRTY DOLLARS MY SHOES DONT EVEN COST THAT MUCH” — and that she didn’t even have anything on sale or in the back to offer me.

“But,” she leaned over and whispered, as if giving away a state secret for which she could be shot on sight if anyone overheard her, “if you don’t mind boys’ shoes there’s this pair for $17″.

She handed me a running shoe. Black and white, with a little red on it. Laces and velcro. No characters. No bedazzlement. Nothing lighting up or playing “Someday My Prince Will Come”.

Real Live Running Shoes. For SEVENTEEN dollars.

I almost kissed her.

Meanwhile, Stinkerbelle sat in her stroller, repeating “WALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKINGWALKING” like a record that was skipping. But like the record player was starting to overheat, because it was getting increasingly faster and higher-pitched and hysterical.

“I’ll take them,” I said.

I paid for the shoes and gave them to Stinkerbelle. She was enchanted. Moreso by the box than anything, but hey — new shoes AND a box to put them in. IT’S A GOOD DAY.

But I was feeling guilty. My kid wears a lot of hand-me-downs, and here we go out and buy her shoes, and I pick the cheapo boys’ pair. What kind of mom does that? But at least the money I saved on shoes I could put towards her therapy bills later, right?

No. BAD mommy. BAD.

So, we stopped at another couple of stores where there were racks and racks of shoes. But I could not bring myself to buy them. Silver rubber running-shoe-slash-flip-flop combos. Clear plastic flip flops. (Yeah. Size 3s. For a toddler. Who DOES that to their kid?) Crazy-ass thigh-high lace-up sneaker things. All priced in the thirty dollar range.

I couldn’t do it.

Then, in the deepest, darkest, back corner of Children’s Place, hidden away like the crazy old aunty you don’t want friends to know is living with you… were SNEAKERS. Regular old lace-up Keds-style sneakers. Sure, they were rainbow tiger-striped canvas things. But they were SNEAKERS. And they were only TWELVE bucks. And they were in a 20% OFF rack.

I grabbed them.

We paid, and off we went to the car with our unfashionable, on-sale booty. Making sure nobody saw us, so they could not point at our purchases and stare and say “DEAR DOG WHAT HAS SHE DONE TO THAT POOR CHILD.”

We came home, and closed the door. Stinkerbelle plopped down on the floor, and was sitting amid several shoes strewn about the foyer, taking off her current shoes to put on a pair of too-small sandals.

And was hit with a wave of shock and horror. “She needs new winter boots.”

I wonder if moving to Barbados might be in our future.