I haven’t had a chance to write this week, not for lack of wanting, but I’ve finally gotten busy at work (and the feeling of actually being able to contribute to meaningful work again is wonderful, as opposed to the dullness of my newly-returned-from-mat-leave brain), and we’ve been busy at home, because Mark’s dad is coming over from England for a visit next week, and so Mark took on a rather ambitious project of turning a room in the basement into a liveable spare bedroom.  Which is a huge task because 2 weeks ago that room was a big empty cave that smelled of animal excrement.  No kidding.  The previous owners, we think, had their dog spend a lot of time down there, and the stank was compounded by the activities of that lovely little cat we live with, who got really pissed off that we left him for 2 weeks last Christmas (don’t worry, he had visitors to feed him) and decided to use the room as his personal litter box.   He’s pulled up the carpet and underlay, removed the skirting board, painted everything with my dad’s help, laid down some laminate flooring, and it’s almost done. So anyway, I haven’t been able to get on the computer at home since my nights have involved all domestic duties that we normally share.  And man, my PVR box is FULL of shows I’ve got to watch.

I wanted to write to note the fact that we’ve now lived in Canada for 2 years, that I’ve been back for 2 years, that Mark emigrated 2 years ago.  That one year ago, it was Callum’s due date and wow I needed that giant baby out.

But I haven’t even had a chance to carve our pumpkin – Oliver will have to help me tonight or tomorrow, bit late but he won’t notice.  I’m leaving work early to go to his Hallowe’en party at daycare, and then we’re going to take them to Ikea, of all places, to trick or treat.  We don’t get kids to the door in our neighbourhood, that isn’t really a neighbourhood, so we have to take them somewhere.  And as Ikea is right by their daycare and offers candy + meatballs, Oliver is going to love it.  And I suppose this year, I won’t be able to steal all his candy without causing a screaming fit. Oh well, I’ll get Callums’. 

This morning at work, I’m leading my work colleagues to destroy our sister branches at a pumpkin carving contest (a fundraiser for the United Way).  Which, when I did my research, I determined was more ‘extreme pumpkin carving’ than a Martha-Stewart-a-thon.  So we’ve got a cannibal theme going, but plans are top secret, and I can’t say much.  Photos later. 

Happy Hallowe’en. 

So this weekend I got to go to a swanky event that I actually WON TICKETS to.  I never win anything.  And I do like to enter contests.  Because I am all about the free and the inexpensive.  And particularly at a time when I’ve got huge bills to pay (two kids in full time daycare, people) and I haven’t actually been paid yet (eek), free tickets are a wonderful thing.

Nadine, of Martinis for Milk, organized a Mother’s Day Off Spa-a-thon as a fundraiser for Sick Kids’ Hospital (where Oliver will end up having his hernia surgery once they write me back about the referral) through her work.  I begged for a ticket, basically, entering three different bloggy contests to get one, and ended up with two.  I briefly sought another mother to attend with me, but then I came to my senses and invited Tami (who isn’t a mother but is at least female and, you know, takes very good care of her dog).

Anyway, we went downtown, got there a bit later than I had hoped, and found the very cute and tiny Nadine at the door.  My first meet-in-real life blogosphere person!  We also found the event very well attended.  You were meant to go around getting mini-appointments with the different spa services offered, but as we tried, we discovered that every station was very busy.

While looking for services, and stuffing our faces with free cupcakes, I spied the immediately recognizable Catherine of Her Bad Mother, who I just had to introduce myself to, and who was very gracious.  Her and her friends were immediately warm and invited us to sit, but we were determined to get something decadent done to ourselves, so we kept wandering.

Alas, we could not get any appointments.  We wondered what we were going to do for the 2 hours I had planned to be there, other than eat candy, cupcakes and drink tea.  I didn’t really feel like doing a yoga class in public, but at least it was a chance to catch up and gossip as we hadn’t seen each other in ages.

A bit later, Catherine came over to say goodbye; she’d had a bad night up with the baby, I think, and was really tired.  I realized at that point she was with Katie of motherbumper fame, which I found when I started reading Better Than a Playdate, which they both work on.  Of course, being introduced to Katie earlier, I hadn’t made the connection.  Dolt.  Anyway, they VERY generously gave us their remaining spa appointments, and said their adieus.

Excellent.  We walked around, having stolen their identities briefly, and told people we were Catherine and Katie.  First thing, a hand massage/exfoliating treatment thing.  Nice one.  Then, on to the psychic, who’d been one of the most popular stations of the day.

I can’t really tell you WHY I wanted to see the psychic.  I don’t have any particular beliefs in psychic powers.  I had some sort of reading done once in university at a dessert café in Ottawa, at a time where the future was opening up ahead of me, and I had so many questions, and it was rather fun to hear her talk about travel and kids and relationships.  Now, I don’t really have questions.  I’m not pondering my existence.  I’ve taken a path and I generally know where I’m going.

On Saturday, I guess it was just curiosity, for fun, whatever.  So I sat down with this pleasant woman who asked me to shuffle and cut a deck of round tarot cards.  I speculated afterwards that perhaps I had just shuffled them too half-heartedly.  Where do these thoughts come from?!  The 99% of my brain that is actually RATIONAL tells me to shut up and that it’s a bunch of hooey so shuffling doesn’t MATTER, dumb ass. 

Anyway, so she proceeds to tell me that the overwhelming message she’s getting from my cards is that I am going to meet a FABULOUS man (if I haven’t already in the very recent past) because the man I am married to is clearly oppressing my power, can not meet my emotional needs, and if I stay married to him, I’m going to get to 45 and think I’ve wasted my life.  Oh dear.

There were a few other details, like that Mark’s making a lot of decisions right now around work, like I’m in a place of taking stock and examining my life, that the Spring is going to be a calm time for me, and that’s the time for me to make some big decisions.  But she ended up basically counselling me into leaving Mark for this wonderful man who’s going to really be fun and loving.  But maybe not ‘til the kids are older.

Yeah, I just can’t relate.  I tried.  I really tried to stretch my life to fit her diagnosis.  But none of it, except a thought that I might go back to school, made any sense.   

I did open up to her, this stranger, like she was some sort of therapist – I said: he doesn’t always hear what I am saying.  He’s not a great communicator.  This is true; I know he’s reading this; these are facts not in dispute.  And I am so incredibly far from perfect, let’s be clear.  But to suggest that he’s holding me back, that I am disempowered, is ridiculous.  I just couldn’t be in a relationship where I didn’t control the TV remote.  He was really nervous about purchasing laminate flooring to go in our basement yesterday without me making the design & colour decision, even when I insisted that I defer to his choice because it’s the basement, for a spare bedroom, and I really don’t care.  Main floor of our house?  Oh yeah, you bet I’ll care.  But you get this one.

We both wear the pants. We share the pants.  The pants probably stink.  The pants probably need to be washed, or repaired.  But I’m not going to throw the pants out with the bathwater, just yet. – and I’m not going to plan ahead to do so.  That would be pants*. 

*Noun/Adj. Nonsense, rubbish, bad. From the standard British English of pants, meaning underwear; also a variation on ‘knickers’. E.g.” The first half was pants but I stayed until the end and it was actually a great film.” [1990s]
Exclam. An exclamation of annoyance or frustration. From the noun, (above).

The shoes! The shoes! Squeeeeee!

Snow.

It’s too soon! Not already! I don’t remember how to drive in it! I haven’t determined whether or not everyone’s snow suits still fit!

(thankfully, will melt tomorrow)

Can’t remember the last time I learned a new word – this is a good one: idioglossia.

And what made me look up the right word, why I was thinking of it – Oliver and Callum have this way of communicating, most often at the dinner table or in the bath, through high-pitched screaming:

And Callum and I like to talk with our tongues out:

(and yes, yes that IS what my living room floor currently looks like.  Sunday is now going to be tidy up the toys night.  Got that, Oliver??)

It’s Canadian Thanksgiving, a time where I could be reflecting on all the good things, all the things to be thankful for (who I am thanking??  never mind).

But I am a little ball of ingratitude.

I know many, too many people, whose path to their desired parenthood is riddled with loss, with medical complications, with having to literally reach around the world to grab a hold of their children, their desperately wanted children.

Me?  I’d like to ship Oliver off for a week, so I can pay someone to potty train him, because it’s REALLY not going well and I just don’t get why he’d rather stand there, looking at me sheepishly, with piss running down his leg.  Kid, why can’t you put it in the piece of nice red plastic?  Or the other white potty we got you?  Or the toilet insert?  BECAUSE WE BOUGHT ALL OF THEM TO PLEASE YOU, IN CASE YOU HAD A PREFERENCE.  Because I’m trying to do it by the book, by the very helpful literature preschool sent home, by what I’ve read online, and it’s not working.  You don’t care.  You don’t actually meet the first criteria of potty-training readiness, the one that states ‘your child is bothered by sitting in his own excrement’ – because, in fact, I think you LOVE IT.

So intensive potty training, on this long holiday weekend, which seemed like a good idea at the time, is causing me rage.

So many people are (for better, it seems, in some cases, but in some, for worse) raising their children alone.  Some people are struggling in their relationships.  Instead of being thankful for my marriage, I am annoyed as hell that Mark went flying this morning while I dealt with the training-resistant toddler and cranky nose-running again baby.  I am thankful, however, that he’s now taken both of them out on a car ride to get them to sleep.  That I have some time on my own.  So maybe I won’t end up tossing Oliver across the room tonight (the rage, I swear, it’s bad – I need to go do some Wii Boxing or something).

So many people are losing their homes, particularly south of the border.  I should be thankful for shelter, for our circumstances that leave us greatly protected from the economic upheaval that is affecting so many.  Instead I am frustrated by our limited time to clean the house, by our limited resources to make the house how we want it, by the damn stained carpet in our family room (that is now getting more and more stained, thanks kid).

I am stirring my homemade cranberry sauce, the one I always make with orange zest, and thinking – why the hell I am bothering?  I should have just opened a tin.  Turkey’s in the oven, a small whole bird, instead of the boneless turkey breast we normally do.  It better be worth the hours of cooking.

I think I might ask Mark to slap me across the face when he gets home – I am truly, pathetically ungrateful.

I feel the need for a glass of wine (none in the house, DAMN IT) and pumpkin pie.  Emotional eating, here I  come.

Callum enjoys daycare.  He smiles all day, rolls around on the floor, and sleeps a lot.  Score.

Oliver and Callum have both had pinkeye and bad colds in the past week or so - Oliver somehow got it a loss worse than Callum for once, requiring time off of daycare this week.  So as to not completely shoot myself in the foot when first back at work, Mark was thankfully able to work from home those days.

We are organizing a naming ceremony for Callum’s first birthday.  Turns out Canada is catching on to the UK trend (won’t be any naming day greeting cards here, though!).

I am really happy to be back at work.  I’ve got a lot of stuff to catch up on, and work is different when the economy is crashing down all around us, so at least it’s interesting…

I’m feeling all virtuous because I’m bringing in my own coffee in a flask, and second breakfast food (when you eat breakfast at 6:30am, you NEED a second breakfast), and lunch.  Saving the planet, saving money, yeah me!  (kick me)  Yeah, except for today, because today is Thanksgiving lunch day in the cafeteria, and the turkey…the sweet, sweet turkey… and the stuffing was calling my name.  Plus, Lean Cuisines are pretty gross and I’ve got to find some better stuff to bring, anyway.

I don’t have a lot of blog fodder right now.  I’ll be back when I find something to write about (perhaps when new routines are old routines and I can make some room in my brain again)
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I can’t do it.  I’m going to be a bad Canadian tonight.  How can I watch our leaders debate when I have the spectacle of Palin vs. Biden, must-see-tv if there ever was any, on the other channels?  I am going to dishonour my citizenship in the name of, basically, pop culture.  Because watching Sarah Palin debate isn’t exactly going to be an intellectual exercise, is it?  [I've set up the PVR box to tape Canada's debate]

I strongly believe that voting is important, that it’s so important as a citizen that I continued to vote in Canadian elections even when living in the UK (and also voted over there when I was resident).  But I’ve never been so uninterested in an election as this current federal one in Canada.

Part of the reason is it’s probably going to be another minority government, that the leaders are pretty dull,  and we have no Obama or Clinton charmisa (yeah, it’s obvious I’d be voting Democrat if I lived south of the border).  Most of the reason is that life is a little too busy right now, so I’m pretty inward looking.  It’s hard to contemplate our role in Afghanistan and whether or not the ‘green shift’ is a good idea when all I’m focused on is how the hell I am going to manage all the things that I need to get done in a day, in a week.

So anyone could buy my vote right now.  Our local Green party candidate showed up to a family corn roast with free green balloons, and Callum was a recipient.  That totally could do it for me – free balloons for the kiddies?  Yeah, I’ll vote for you.  Smart guy.  NDP want to increase my child benefit?  Hello, sign me up.  Really, I don’t actually know how I’m going to vote yet.

And really, it doesn’t matter that much.  Because even the leader of the party that wins will only really affect things in my backyard.  There’s something way more important happening in the US, because that leader really does have an impact on the entire world.  Dooce recently wrote about some of her political viewpoints, and I read the comments with interest, where people kept repeating that they didn’t care what people from other countries thought because we didn’t have a say.  Well, we can’t vote.  But we do care.  And we are watching.

We pulled up in the driveway about 5pm, and Oliver was fast asleep after a full afternoon of doctor’s appointments (we wait for his referral to a surgeon; as a bonus, Callum has pinkeye and an ear infection), pharmacy/grocery store, library, etc.  Callum was fussing, but I left them both in the car so that I could carry in my much-needed coffee and the mail and my bag before one of them filled up my arms.

I noticed a tiny yellow and brown bird sitting outside the door.  He appeared to be okay, but the fact that he didn’t fly away as I approached meant that something was obviously wrong.  I put my stuff in the house, and came back out to see him.  He was breathing, looking around, but just not walking or flying.  I left the kids in the car, and called Mark to ask what the heck one is meant to do with a hurt bird.  We figured the cat might have got to him, but I didn’t know if the cat was outside or not.  Mark didn’t have any suggestions.

I realized Callum was now freaking out about still being in the car, so I went and grabbed him and put him in his highchair in the kitchen.   Oliver was completely passed out, but knowing the boy loves animals, I thought I’d wake him up with the interesting spectacle of a bird that we needed to help, somehow.  I tried to rouse him, but he was really, REALLY asleep.  So I undid the car seat straps, picked him up, and starting telling him about the bird.  I tried to get him to stand up, but he sort of fell over.  I picked him up again, and he starting responding, and wanted know where the bird was.

We went over to the bird, and I put Oliver down on the ground beside me.  I told him that I didn’t know what was wrong with it, but he wasn’t flying away, so he must be hurt.  I decided, in that moment, that I might put him on top of my still-warm car, because at least he’d be out of the way of the cat if he turned up, and if he was just stunned by flying into our door or something, he might recuperate and fly away from there.

Oliver does love animals.  One of the best things we’ve done in the past few weeks is feed the animals at the farm, which I’ve discussed previously.  He also worries about random things like balloons caught in store rafters, like they need saving.  He’s very quick to tell morality tales about other kids at daycare, or to tell Callum what he should and shouldn’t be doing.  But yesterday, I had to question whether or not we’re raising a sociopath or a serial killer or something.

I tried to pick up the bird, carefully, as I could feel how fragile he was, just ounces of feather and bone.  He kept jumping out of my hands. After he jumped out the third time, Oliver picked up his rain booted foot, and stamped on the bird.  Hard.  With intention.

We both immediately burst into tears.  And I think I pushed him out of the way.  Or he fell on his own.  I don’t know.  “Why, WHY did you do that?” I implored.  The bird now no longer had a chance to get up and fly away.  I think its neck and wing were probably broken, but it was still alive.  I couldn’t stand to look at it, knowing that Oliver had done that to it.

I scooped him up and pulled him in the house, both of us still crying, and tried to get him to explain, while explaining that he really hurt the bird, that I thought the bird was dead, but knowing that he probably doesn’t really know what dead means.  I didn’t know what to say to him, how to discipline him.  He kept crying, saying he was sick and tired, and asking for Daddy.  I put him in his room and asked him to calm down, that he could come out when he stopped crying.

I called Mark who said he would talk to him when he got home, but neither of us knew what to do.  I am still just so shocked that he did it, and it was one of the most upsetting things I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know that he knows what he did.  He told Mark, when they talked later, that he touched the bird, and said it happily.  I don’t even know if he was awake.  I don’t know if it was because he was scared.  Or maybe he can really be that malicious.

The cat came to the door, to ask to be let outside, and I directed it towards the poor bird, knowing that he could put it out of its misery.  Which he promptly did.

I still don’t know what I should or could have done.  What would you have done?