Dogs, Children and Pee

We’ve finally cracked through the boundless piles of garbage bag poo – yes, our youngest, Cecilia (better known as CeeCee) finally gave up pull ups for good. I won’t get into what age she was, or how much we had to bribe her, as we all know that every parent out there has endless fodder for comparison data. It is like that fun mom you meet at the playground, the one whose 2-year-old plays chess and speaks three languages (not to mention will vacate her bowel on command). I don’t want to be that mom – so we won’t go there.

Every evening CeeCee would happily poo on her talking potty. Yes, you read that right, a talking potty. It was a gift from the grandparental units. It speaks French, so we used potty time as a way to get that second language exposure (kill two birds as they say). Who needs a French Nanny anyway when you can sing the “Papier Toilette Chanson” with a talking commode?

A couple months into our new found diaper freedom, we experienced a small set back. I had to go away for work – strangely enough my work trips had been infrequent enough that this was my first passage away from home since CeeCee had permanently moved into her big girl panties. The first day I was away she peed (in her pants) once. The second day, she wet herself twice. And the third day – yes, you guessed it – three times (I was impressed at her display of math skills, as she was obviously cranking up the disobedience day-by-day, with sequential precision).

The forth day culminated with her peeing just inside the bathroom door, at which point she called for Daddy and waited patiently to the side until Byron came around the door and stepped his socked foot into a nice warm pool. When Byron looked at her with obvious disgust all CeeCee replied as, “I peed, Daddy,” no look of remorse, but with the calculated expression of a child with a plan.

Of course the plan worked, as I returned home from my work trip the next day, at which time CeeCee returned to daily dry pants with not even a drop of offending bodily fluids falling anywhere outside of the required location. All was back to normal – and thankfully I was there to operate that strange white box in the basement which mystically removes pee from spousal foot attire and return thus object unharmed, mate in hand, to the drawer.

This whole experience has brought another story back into my memory. One that many of you would be familiar with; a story about Akita, our since passed on husky-mix old pooch dog. Akita was an obedient old mutt, who knar would bark or even defend our residence from strangers who might step right over his 100 pound body leaning against the foot of the entrance way.

But when Akita felt like he was being ignored, and not walked enough, he let his anger and frustration be known. He knew the offending threat well – as anytime not spent with him was spent with our television (this being the Yukon, dear readers, as we were not couch potatoes, it was just too frigin’ cold to do anything else!) So, in order to neutralize this threat, Akita waited until we were gone and using lazer-like precision, fired a stream of dog pee straight into the flap of the VCR. To this day, we have no idea how he managed to do this, without leaving any evidence around, so that when we slid the next video into the slot and found the picture to be strangely fuzzy and non-functioning (my sister and I were planning to watch “Spice World”, which interestly enough, I have not since found the time to watch, so if I’m missing out, please let me know) we had no idea what was going on. I vehemently accused my sister of pouring something into the VCR, but the real culprit soon became clear (or more correctly, faintly yellowish in colour).

We (the Harris Family) did not learn our lesson, as Akita managed to pee into the same VCR two more times! A testament to the repair folks at Erik’s Audio on Main Street – who dutifully repaired the VCR each time (yes, at one point in our human existence electronic appliances were actually repaired when they were broken – crazy I know.)

In this round-about way I guess I’m comparing my children to dogs – not really uncommon I should think. Akita was a great dog – we loved him dearly, and I think CeeCee, if she could remember him, would be happy to be shed in the same light, even if it does have to do with vengeful pee-tactics.

Creepy Children

Have you ever been spooked by your own children? I’m wondering if this is a normal feeling, as it seams to happen to me every so often, prompting me to wonder if I’m just a wimp or my children really are creepy sometimes. (I am still scared of roller coasters, ATVs and Christopher Walkin – so maybe I am a wimp.)

Nathan tends to dabble in the paranormal. I get the feeling that he can see things that we can’t. Ever had a cat? You know when they sit completely still and stare intently at empty space in a room, prompting you to wonder whether or not they are watching some ethereal being? Well, Nathan will do this.

He’ll just be sitting at the dinner table, innocently telling you about how Danika at daycare asked him if chocolate comes out of his penis, when he’ll stop mid sentence and stare intently over my shoulder, eyes glazed. I turn and look, to find – nothing – of course. I do a little “hand wave” in front of his face – but it is to no avail, a small roll of drool running from the corner of his mouth.

Eventually he’ll snap out of it, and the conversation will continue like nothing ever happened. For the rest of the meal, I’ll inadvertently be shoulder checking, half expecting Freddy Kruger to jump out of the toy box.

So it is not like I expect Nathan’s head to start spinning one day while watching a fuzzy TV screen, but you have to admit, it is a little peculiar, right? The first time Nathan did something a little weird was just after he turned two. His dear Great Grandmother Cecile had passed away and for a long time after the funeral, Nathan kept picking up the phone and having conversations with her. “Hi Great Gramma. How are you? I’m fine. See you later!” After which he would cheerfully hang up the phone and continue playing.

At first it was endearing and cute, and never failed to bring a tear to my eye. But after this went on for a couple months, it became really creepy. Don’t get me wrong, we all loved Grandma Cecile, but the last thing you want to imagine is that your husband’s maternal grandmother is ever present in your home – it makes for awkward moments in the bedroom.

After Cecilia was born, the phone calls to Great Gramma stopped (she was little CC’s name sake, after all). Okay, so I’m going to get a little airy-fairy here, but part of me wonders if there was some kind of transfer going on there? Did Grandma Cecile find her happy place with her new Great Granddaughter? Maybe it was just that she happened to be around to witness the whole home birth thing, and that was enough to send her packing to the comforts of the pearly gates. Who knows?

The Hair Cutting Incident

Lately all my writing occurs during the nap hours of the weekend afternoon. 2-4pm, what a lovely time, Cecilia all snug as a larvae and Nathan happily entranced by Transformers. No – not the Michael Bay movies (I could hardly expect an intelligent four year old to be complacent watching a movie so clearly written by an intoxicated imbecile.

“Mommy, why did Starscream just walk out of the back of the Air and Space Museum into a desert?”

Okay, so Nathan hasn’t been to Washington, but Cecilia has, and I’m sure if she could express herself coherently she would be screaming in protest.)

What does this have to do with hair cutting? Nothing really. However, if I could find a Transformer to cut my son’s hair I’m sure he would prefer that to the Croatian barber we take him too. It is an experience not unlike Tooth brushing (see previous entry). Not even the enticement of a tooth rotting, carcinogenic Red Die Number #40 on a stick is enough to pull him through without much gnashing of teeth. So what did I do when my daughter’s pale brown locks began to brush the tops of her eyelashes? Did I take her to the dreaded Torture House (a.k.a. Kid’s Cutland)? No – I thought (stupidly), “why not cut these bangs myself?”

A little history here: for my mother, I am child number 5. In other words, by the time I had come along, mom had figured out the most efficient methods of parenting. Hair cutting was no exception. Mom’s method? Take a piece of scotch tape, plaster it across the offending bangs on the forehead of your seven-year-old daughter and then cut neatly along the top of the tape. Presto! Bango! Nice evenly cut bangs (think the well cut lines of a 1960s Paul McCartney ‘Do), and the scotch tape adheres to the falling hair. No mess to clean up - job done and humiliation provided in less than 5 minutes!

Who could think of such brilliance other than an experienced parent?

Of course, like much abuse, it is passed on generation to generation, so hence I would apply the same technique to my daughter; strapped her into the highchair, threw a few cheerios down, on with the scotch tape – snip, snip. Done! (Do you think the CEOs of 3M ever would think of such an application?)

This process was all taken in under the watchful eyes of young Mr. Nathan. Nothing was said at the time, but little did I know what was running through that Red Head – I was soon to find out.

Next day we arrive, as per usual, 5 minutes late, to pick up Cecilia and Nathan from their beloved “May’s Daycare”. On this particular day, faces were solemn.

“We’ve had an incident,” says May. “Nathan, do you want to tell mommy what you did today?”

I looked at Nathan, my mind instantly imaging the worse; hitting, swearing, throwing, or (heaven forbid), ultra conservatism (if you know Nathan, you would understand why I am concerned). Nathan didn’t speak. He slowly blinked his eyes, lowering his chin - an expression I knew all to well – guilt. I looked to May, anxiously awaiting her explanation.

That afternoon, May left Nathan and Samantha, working alone on their construction paper cut outs, while she went to put the babies down for naps. When she returned, she found Nathan hard at work, carefully cutting foot long chunks of meticulously grown brown hair from Samantha’s head. He was extremely surprised to find himself in trouble, citing that he was only cutting Sam’s hair at her request (Nathan’s turn was next).

One might ask - why were two four year olds left alone with scissors? I’m not one to point fingers here – I’m just happy that Samantha’s mother laughed when she saw the 1980’s punk look that Nathan had applied to her daughters head (and didn’t threaten exclusion from future play dates).

My only concern now is that the whole hair cutting experience has now been elevated to new levels of anxiety in Nathan’s mind. Not only is it an extremely stressing and fearful a process, but now it will bring back overwhelming feelings of guilt. So, my suggestion? Hasbro – get on making that haircutting Transformer! Perhaps you can team up with 3M, use a patented scotch tape process, and all will be good.

WARNING: Toothbrushing Sucks

So when you were happily pregnant with your first baby, were you at all considering that you might have to brush the teeth of your soon to be progeny? This is a concept seriously missed in prenatal classes. Why do we spend so much time on breathing exercises that NO ONE ever does? Really, what they should do is say, “hey, forget all this crap, what you really need to know is that someday you are going to have to brush the teeth of a small, slippery gremlin, without loosing any fingers in the process. Here – take this brush and get to work on this warthog.” Now that would be training I would pay good dollars for.

As you can probably tell, tooth brushing time has been a bit of trying time for our family.
Lately I’ve resorted to alcohol (no, not for my children, for me). I’ve found that if I approach the process slightly intoxicated, I don’t mind getting bitten, screamed at, punched and cried upon. According to my husband, wine makes me teeth turn blue. To which my son will comment, “Mommy, you’re teeth aren’t blue, they’re nice and yellow.” Thanks kid.

If I get my son’s head into a sideways vice grip, that seams to work best (see attached). That way I can angle his mouth open with one hand while brushing with the other. And to note, the bar has been raised. Our parents never had to FLOSS our teeth, but now that is considered necessary. Why not take a piece of string and attempt to thread it through a combine? You would probably be as likely to succeed, and would not have to succumb to the mental agony that your offspring will put you through. “Mommy, you’re hurting me! Mommy, stop! Mommy, why do you hate me?” At which point you undoubtedly get bitten.

This is not to say that I don’t agree with dental hygiene. I personally brush and floss dutifully each and every day. And I also go through this terrible process multiple times per day (did I mention that I have TWO children, both with razor sharps fangs?) I know it is best for them, for everyone (who wants the dreaded cavities?) It is just that I think I would have been better had I been at least slightly prepared for this, at least warned. All you parents out there knew, but yet no one said anything. So – consider yourself warned.

Back to Work!

My year of government mommy pay has expired. Yes, I’m back at work. Each morning I drive my little ones to their new daycare, lunches in hand. I have to remove the two of them from my arms like a strip of Velcro; crying baby and clinging toddler. At least Nathan has an understanding of what is going down. He knows the difference between “weekday” and “weekend”. But Cecilia on the other hand, is comfortably oblivious, at least until the absolute point of removal, when she wails like banshee.

My mind is torn. Part of me is in mourning every minute of the day that I’m separated from the wee ones, the other part is elated each time I get to; eat a relaxed meal, go to the bathroom by myself and just sit and think about work things. It is a mental dichotomy to which my very soul is fighting to come to terms with.

I have to remember that I’m privileged with choice. Many Moms are forced to have one or the other life; either full time job or full time mom, with no say in the matter. Financially speaking I could have stayed home with the kids, had that been my selection. I’d like to say that I consciously made my decision, but I can’t say that I did. Time marched along, and suddenly I was back at work and my mat leave was over. Sure, I thought and thought and thought about my options, but in the end I took the path of least resistance, and returned to status quo.

I don’t feel guilty, and that is usually an emotion most prominent in the mommy-brain battle. I know my children are well cared for at daycare – in some ways I think they are better off. I’m a chemist. I do not have childcare training. Do I know how to glue macaroni pictures? Definitely not. Can I make playdough? No. My idea of circle time is sitting around a BBQ and drinking beer. Hardly fun play material.

It is not that I don’t know I’m a good mom, it is just that at home I always felt like the kids had to compete day-in and day-out with all my other duties. Now THAT made me feel guilty. Mommy, come read me a story? Not now honey, Mommy needs to fold this six foot high pile of laundry. Mommy, goo-goo-gaa-gaa (translation: I want boob). Wait a minute Princess, Mommy needs to self-medicate with chocolate and alcohol. Okay, so I wasn’t that bad, but I’m guessing you get the picture.

In the end I know things will work out. They always do. Kids grow up, go to school, I’ll go to work and life will plow-on. I know my decision has made an affect of the dynamic of our family, but hey, I was raised in daycares and I turned out okay – right?

Forgive my spelling I am dead tired.

So Yes, I am alive. I am so sorry I havent been in touch. Europe has been so insain. I hung around in Spain, Andorra was my fav, so beautiful this sweet little town in the mountains. I parted way with the tour de france there. I then went to france, spent a few hours Passing through southern france, towns right on the ocean, Montpellier, Nice, and more northern parts like Leige and Paris, where I slept under the Eiffle tower.
Then came Belgium. Have you seen the movie In Brugges? I was there, at the bell tower, eating my fritz and belgium waffles as I reminesed of the man falling from the tower and going splat, wonderful movie. I passed through Brussles on my way to The Netherlands. Oh yes, Holland the land of windmills and wooden shoes... and pot. Amsterdam was quite the experience.
In Germany I met my Bro Cory In Berlin, we visited the Berlin Wall, it was big let down so we headed for Prague. Prague was A very pretty city with the funniest tour guide ever to grace this planet. Then through Slovakia To Budapest. In budapest We did some hiking and visited the underground labaryinth of Buda castle, freakin sweet.
Now I sit, at this moment, writting you this painfully blog. I have no wit left in me as it is 4:30 in the am. Today was a small disaster Cory became violently ill and had no travel insurance. This city is limited when it comes satisfactory health care so I preped myself for a trip to the embassy, just as I was loosing all hope he regained color in his face and seemed to be feeling much better. He is doing much better now and tomorrow I think we will head to Austria and split ways. I will head to Italy Venice, Las Spezia and Rome. Ferry to Greece where I will see the sights of Athens and take a ferry to Santorini. I will Flop over on the beach and relax for the first time during my whole excursion. I have a flight that leaves Santorini, London bound and I will Finish my travels with a trip to the Stone Hedge. There you have it. feewwww I am hitting the hay and I will be dreaming of home. Love you all Jaclyn

Landing In London

Hello!

I wish you could folded up and put in my suit case, although it might get cramped with dozens of people, not to mention the excess baggage fees.

The past couple weeks have consisted of; departing Amman, Jordan after a tour of the city(I was held hostage and force fed street-vendor food), a trip to Madba and the Dead Sea (unreal! floating around on my back while hacking a dart), exploring Petra (18KM of pure torture in 100 degree heat! The hike took 8 hours!) and of course my Camping excursion in the desert .I didn't share my bed with any scorpions, But I was sharing the "outhouse" with a spider the size of a toilet paper roll. I took a picture next to the roll for the sake of the scale.

The highlight of the desert was attempting to surf the sand dunes on a card board box (the key word here is "attempting"). It was unsuccessful. I wound up just jumping down the dunes as the beautiful red sand engulfed my feet burning them as if I was walking on hot coals.

So yes, now here I am in London, a busy place,the "New York" of Europe. I spend a lot of my time lost amongst the many "tubes"(subways) that make up London's transit system.

I don't feel bad about this for 2 reasons. 1: it makes for a good adventure 2:There are so many locals who are just as lost as I am, if not more.

Today I spent my time taking in the sights of city, I wandered about, losing myself in the crowd. I found my self again standing under the wonderful Peter Pan clock! aka "big ben" The architecture is phenomenal with so much detail in Gothic style. Tomorrow I will watch the change of the guards at Buckingham Palace, and Wednesday my flight departs London to arrive in Barcelona, Spain.

I will be hanging out in Barcelona for a few days, but my main priority is Ibiza....great excuse to let loose and party after the mayhem of the East! If you choose to quit your job, sell your house, sell your car and loose your mind, please, come join me! I would love some company to share the sights, keep me safe, and hold my hand while crossing the streets of these insane freaking cities. I love and miss each and everyone of you. Jaclyn