Month: July 2005

Potty talk

I’ve given up. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Tristan will never in fact be potty trained. We will just have to contact Pampers and special order diapers in sizes 7 through 15, which should transition him into the adult-sized Depends. Hopefully, he will pair off with an understanding young woman who can take over his diaper changing from me when they get married, and they will live happily ever after. Because the potty training thing is not working out for us.

He’s almost three and a half. I have been fastidiously not pushing him, not making a big deal about it. I’ve even blogged about my resolve not to make an issue out of this. And we’ve done such a good job of making a non-issue out of potty training that it never going to happen.

It’s not that he doesn’t get the concept. He’s p’d in the potty on numerous occassions. (Note: I am using euphemisms not out of any sense of decorum, but simply because I don’t want that kind of Google traffic.) He’s done the other business on the potty a few times. He’s even been in the bathtub and told me he has to p and held it while I dried him off a bit and set him on the throne, so he understands the bio-mechanics just fine.

Yes, he uses the big people toilet. The boy is over 40 lbs and somewhere around 44 inches tall. He’s the size of a five year old. I think he outgrew the plastic potty a couple of years ago. We’re just barely able to strap a size 6 Pampers on him, and I have no idea what we’ll do if he grows anymore.

He’s just not interested. I even (gasp!) resorted to bribes. For a while, Smarties were doing the trick for us, but lately he’s gone a little blasé on the whole bribe thing.

Me (brightly): Hey Tristan! Wanna go p in the potty?
Tristan: No thanks.

Me (enthusiastically): Are you sure? You can have a Smartie if you p in the potty.
Tristan: No thanks.

Me (exhuberantly): And you can have THREE Smarties if you poop in the potty!
Tristan (considering): Smarties? Um, no thanks.

Me (deflating): You don’t want any Smarties? What about jelly beans? Mmmm, jelly beans!
Tristan (distancing): No thanks.

Me (desperately): Okay, well what do you want? Chips? Popcorn? A pony? A Camaro? What will it take, boy? What do you want from me? OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST P IN THE POTTY WILL YOU!!!!
Tristan: No thanks.

And so it goes. I have resigned myself to the fact that he may never, in fact, be potty trained. Because I managed to housebreak the dog, I still hold out hope that I’ll have some future success with his brother. But for now, I’ll be off to write a note to Pampers, pleading for some supersized free samples.

And you can bet the cost of those diapers will be coming out of his college fund.

Needed: moms and dads who read blogs! Now!

The inimitable Cooper over at Been There is writing a feature article on parenting in our generation, with a specific emphasis on how blogs help us connect with each other. She is looking for interview subjects, but is on a very tight deadline – tomorrow! If you could take a minute or two to read her request (below) and write up an answer, I know she’s appreciate it. Here’s Cooper:

QUESTIONS: I am interested in why and how you started your blog and the benefits you have seen, with an example or two, especially in parenting; if you don’t have a blog, what value do you get from the blogs you read; the importance/significance of (mom/dad) blogging, from your perspective; and your opinion on how blogging plays out in modern day parenting. Any observations on the sometimes complicated nature of blogging, in terms of relating to people you have never met in person, as well as editing what you write so not to offend friends and family, would be welcome.

Cooper’s e-mail address is here.

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Endless hours of entertainment

I’ve been peeking in the referral logs again. I tell ya, there be some weird people walking around out there. I can only imagine how disappointed some of these people were when they found blog, based on their search criteria. Despite the inherent ick factor, my favourite google this month is “free videos of tickly feet”, followed by “100 things to do at Zellers.” I quit university to work full time at Zellers for a couple of years, and I can assure you, there are far less than 100 things to do there.

But why should I hog up all the fun? And why should I blather on, when other people are so much more interesting than whatever I’d post for your entertainment and edification. So here you go: here’s the contents of my referral logs (the search terms people used to find the Mothership) from June 19 to July 18. I’ve even bolded a few favourites for you!

postcards from the mothership 6.90% (editorial aside: I’m glad this was #1)
dani tristan simon 3.45%
danigirl 3.45%
camping with preschoolers 2.59%
mothership 1.72%
weights watchers nursing mothers how many points 1.72%
weight watchers points tim hortons 1.72%
proud canadian 1.72%
tim hortons barrhaven 1.72%
confessions postcards 1.72%
Time traveler s wife analysis 0.86%
time travelers wife 0.86%
time traveler s wife analysis 0.86%
boob are everywhere 0.86%
what the heck is CIO 0.86%
desperate to pee 0.86%
1971 topps raw set 0.86%
used lawn mower sales ottawa 0.86%
he talks with me and he walks with me 0.86%
touch my breasts new yorker blog nanny 0.86%
bugs bunny whats up doc what s 0.86%
weight watchers points eating out tim hortons coffee 0.86%
ottawa boobies 0.86%
lawn 0.86%
stay at home routine 0.86%
mamas ta tas 0.86%
points in tim hortons food 0.86%
TIM HORTON WEIGHT WATCHER POINTS 0.86%
harry potter barrhaven 0.86%
i lost 15 pounds 0.86%
old canadian postcards 0.86%
skimming ottawa 0.86%
strawberry shortcake baby cartoon 0.86%
embittered 0.86%
tim hortons weight watchers points 0.86%
critique of The Time Traveler s Wife 0.86%
amazing race charity 0.86%
women s boobs 0.86%
drilling fillings cavities my mouth 0.86%
Barrhaven Hair Stylist Ottawa
best doggie in the world 0.86%
kiss postcards 0.86%
hair design barrhaven blog 0.86%
tim hortons and points for weight watchers 0.86%
bugs bunny barber of seville wallpaper 0.86%
baby names boy Richard hyphenated 0.86%
Barrhaven BLog 0.86%
blog time traveler s wife 0.86%
Weight Watcher Points for Tim Hortons 0.86%
Carl Sagan autograph book for sale 0.86%
desperate to pee holding it 0.86%
Time Traveler’s Wife blog 0.86%
uchenna and joyce had IVF 0.86%
shell canada krispy kreme 0.86%
100 things to do at Zellers 0.86%
short flippy hairstyles 0.86%
tristan postcards 0.86%
canadian mommy 0.86%
CSS image map in Blogger template 0.86%
skim it pool 0.86%
makes her poop 0.86%
deacon bench for sale ottawa ontario 0.86%
granny girl short haircut 0.86%
krispy kreme convenience store petro canada 0.86%
free videos of tickly feet 0.86%
DANGLING BREASTS 0.86%
weight watchers tim hortons 0.86%
tim horton double cream coffee weight watchers points 0.86%
keeping kiddie pool clean 0.86%
milf stories blogspot 0.86%
pisces virgo rising 0.86%
blog 2005 pull-ups potty 0.86%
as sweet as candy Greek shirts 0.86%
an ounce of cure by alice munro 0.86%
yamaha soundproof booth 0.86%
pool skimming 0.86%
how many points are in a tim hortons bagel 0.86%
weight watchers points tim hortons coffee 0.86%
funny expecting mom postcards

There sure are a lot of people looking for information about doughnuts, boobs and the Time Traveller’s Wife out there. Glad I’ve found my niche.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever found on the Internet? Share your favourite links!

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This should bring some interesting Google traffic

I’ve been a member of four or five gyms over the past decade or so, everything from the local community centre with five pieces of equipment, some freeweights and an ancient standing bicycle to the commercial gym I now frequent. Up until now, though, I’ve managed to avoid the phenomenon of the locker room shower. Unfortunately, since I live in the suburbs and workout downtown before work, showering at the gym is an unavoidable necessity.

Ick.

It’s not that I have modesty issues. Heck, my parents were nudists after all. It’s just such a holy pain in the ass to be organized enough to remember to pack everything into my bag in the morning, decide what to bring into the little shower stall, shower, get dried off and dressed and out, all without forgetting something and being elbow to elbow with a bunch of other people. My inner diva is not impressed.

The very first day I worked out downtown, I forgot to bring my towel. It takes a really long time to dry yourself off using those brown paper towel squares made out of recycled cardboard. The second time, I forgot to bring fresh underwear. Sigh. The third time, I remembered everything – and then forgot my hair dryer in a locker when I left. Luckily, it was still there the next day when I went back for it.

The showers in the locker room are really quite unappetizing. Dank, airless, unpleasant. I went out after my first experience and bought myself some shower shoes for the first time in my life. (And don’t get me started on shower shoes. I can see why some people call flip-flops ‘thongs’ because the human body is just not designed to have hardware crammed into its cracks. Why women wear thongs on their feet or their asses is a complete mystery to me… I can’t see how they can get over being irritated by them long enough to concentate on putting one foot in front of the other, let alone being a productive contributor to society. But I digress.)

The showers are on a kind of a pump thingee. You press the button, and get X amount of time. In my case this morning, you get four seconds of water. Four seconds. Count with me now: one buttercup, two buttercup, three buttercup, four buttercup. That’s how much time I had before I had to press the button again. That’s not enough time to wash an armpit, let alone to rinse half a bottle of shampoo out of unruly, sweat-tangled curls. I think I worked up more of a sweat trying to keep the water flowing than I did on the eliptical trainer.

There are showers here in the building where I work, but I am not sure I am in any hurry to see any of my coworkers naked. Not sure, for that matter, to share so much of myself either. It’s one thing to publish my naked insides onto the Internet through blog for all the world to see, and I’m okay with being naked on the outside in front of strangers. But do I need to strip in front of people I might later ask for a job reference?

Are you modest or an exhibitionist?

10,000 maniacs

Back on February 2, I posted my very first blog entry. I wondered, in considering whether to blog or not, “What if I install a hit counter and I have to spend all my free time hitting refresh so it looks like somebody is reading my blog?”

Well, either I’ve got waaaaaay too much time on my hands to play with that refresh button, or at least a few of you have been coming back to help me move the hit counters along. Today we should trip over a nice little milestone: 10,000 hits in just under six months. Not too shabby, eh? Of course, we are far too sophisticated around here to obsess over something as plebian as hit counts. No really, I haven’t been anticipating this magic number for weeks now, honest I haven’t.

Okay, yes I have. Why do numbers matter anyway? Why do I think 10,000 is cooler than 9,912? Because the zeros are all so round and appealing?

I am, quite frankly, amazed. I’m amazed at the response to blog – amazed that you are here, that you keep coming back. I am amazed that I kept up with this, amazed that with a few exceptions, I have posted fresh material at least five times a week since I started this back in February. I am amazed at how much your feedback means to me, amazed at how much of a difference you make in my life every day. I am amazed at how much I love this blog.

When I started blogging, I did it for me. I was curious, and not uncomfortable with the idea of talking to myself. To my astonishment, some of you were listening. And then you started talking back. And from that moment, I was hooked. Now I do it for you, and for me. I always think of you when I blog, which some consider to be a bloggy faux pas nearly as heinous as hit counting. But oh well. If I’m happy and you’re happy, we can be heinous together.

Scroll down, the hit counter is at the bottom of the page. Are we there yet? You can bet I’ll be watching on and off all day. Heck, it’s Friday after all!

To pass time on this auspicious (now I’m pushing it, aren’t I?) day, I’ve stolen this from Andrea and Running2K:

Please leave a one-word comment that you think best describes me. It can only be one word. No more. Then copy & paste this in your blog so that I may leave a word about you.

Happy 10,000 day!

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10-pages-in book review: Eleanor Rigby

I’ve just started reading Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland, so here’s my 10-pages-in book review, at about 30 give-or-take pages in.

I should admit a bias up front. I have a sentimental thing for Douglas Coupland, and he could write the instruction manual for my sewing machine and I’d read it three times. And because I have such a fondness for him, I tolerate, in the way we tolerate the idiosyncracies of the ones we love, a certain amount of quirkiness that I might not take from an off-the-shelf new author.

The thing about Coupland is that he writes to a me I sometimes wish I were. He writes to a me that is a little more hip, a little more jaded, a little more cynical. His work appeals to the slacker in me that rolls her eyes at the bright-eyed enthusiast who is usually in control. And yet, the same thing that draws me to his work is what makes me impatient with it. Sometimes it is too laissez-faire, too negative, too bleak.

This book seems a little bit less hipster than some of his other work, but his voice is so incredibly distinctive that I’m sure I could pick his style out anywhere. Ironically, voice is my only complaint with this book. The main character Liz Dunn is, demographically at least, quite a bit like me. She’s a mid-30ish Canadian working girl. She also happens to be friendless, incredibly lonely, and by her own description, quite fat, three things which I am gratefully not. But her voice lacks the insecurity that a lonely, overweight woman of my age would have. In fact, she doesn’t ring true to me at all. Then again, that divergence from what we might expect from stereotypes seems to help keep me interested in what happens to Liz.

It’s been a while since I’ve read it, but isn’t She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb also about a lonely fat woman? I hated that book. Found it depressing and pointless. Eleanor Rigby, at least, has some potential. Although I am having a hard time connecting with the protagonist, I at least am curious about her and wonder what her story is. It’s enough to keep me hooked.

I need some new suggestions. What have you read lately that you loved? I’ve requested The Kite Runner and Will Ferguson’s Happiness and Yann Martel’s Self from the library, but am queued at 302 for the former and 12 for the latter, so I need some instant gratification with vacation time coming up. Any recommendations?

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Why we should explore space

This is for Nancy, because she asked.

I, too, watched the space shuttle explosion in 1986, and the more recent Columbia disaster in 2003 (or was it 2002?) and I remember crying my heart out watching the coverage. But I still believe that the space program needs more, not less, funding.

For a really great list of spin-off benefits from the US space program, visit The Space Place:

One of the many spinoffs from the Hubble telescope is the use of its Charge Coupled Device (CCD) chips for digital imaging breast biopsies. The resulting device images breast tissue more clearly and efficiently than other existing technologies. The CCD chips are so advanced that they can detect the minute differences between a malignant or benign tumor without the need for a surgical biopsy. This saves the patient weeks of recovery time and the cost for this procedure is hundreds of dollars vs. thousands for a surgical biopsy. With over 500,000 women needing biopsies a year the economic benefit, per year, is tremendous and it greatly reduces the pain, scarring, radiation exposure, time, and money associated with surgical biopsies.

Other technological spin offs from the space program cover everything from golf ball aerodynamics to doppler radar (weather) imaging to improvements to school bus design and even better baby food.

Of course, this only covers some of the practical things we have learned in the pursuit of space. To me, it’s not even half of the best argument. For a more poetic description of why we should continue to explore space, please do take a moment to read the Bad Astronomer on this subject. He’s a terrific writer! Make sure you read the comments, too. No really, go! It’s important.

And on a completely unrelated but perhaps not so unrelated after all topic, have you guys seen Google Earth yet? So way wicked cool you have to see it to believe it! Google sightseeing has now gone international as well.

So, now you know how I feel about it – what do you think? Is it worth it to explore space?

A little something for everyone

Every morning, I read the newspaper on the bus ride into town, making mental notes of stuff that might be interesting to blog about. This morning, there is so much going on that I have no idea where to start!

First and coolest, NASA will be launching the space shuttle Discovery at a little after 3 pm today. I love shuttle launches – they give me the same breathless feeling of wonderment that the boys do, but originating in a different place in my heart. Some day, I’d love to go to Cape Canaveral and see one in person. I’m hoping the launch goes off on time so I can watch the Web cast at the end of my work day.

Also in countdown mode, only three more days until my Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince arrives via Canada Post special delivery on Saturday morning. Ahem, not exactly my copy – I pre-ordered it for Beloved as a Christmas gift, so I know I’m supposed to let him read it first, but he reads with glacial slowness, savouring each word and idea, whereas I read voraciously, as if the words cannot be gobbled up quickly enough. Sharing is all well and good for the preschool set in the house, but I may well have to buy my own copy or die of impatience.

At the risk of coming of as completely against religion (which is not entirely true) after probably alienating half of my loyal readership with my comments on creationism in the schools, I must now turn my mocking attentions directly to no less personage than the Pope for castigating the HP books as being a “subtle, barely perceptible seduction” that can “corrupt the Christian faith in souls even before it is able to properly grow.” (From the Ottawa Citizen)

This continues to make me crazy. Teachers around the world are falling all over themselves complimenting JK Rowling on getting children, especially harder-to-reach boys, into reading. Yet people who have likely not even read the damn books are castigating them as corrupting the faith. I’ll never forget the first time I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, the feeling of wonder it gave me. I couldn’t get over how many ways it appealed to me: to my barely-repressed inner 12 year old geek; to the parent who can’t wait for her boys to be old enough to have these stories read out loud to them; and, to the wanna-be writer in me who would give her left arm to be able to spin a tale with such imagination and appeal.

Without any kind of segue at all, the third thing on my list of things to draw to your attention is the campaign by Brit blogger Nosemonkey. In a very British (and lovely) response to the terrorist attacks, he and an American friend discussed that what is needed in London is not so much the Red Cross disaster relief kind of aid as a morale boost for those still working in the aftermath of the bombings. So he’s raising funds to buy a few pints for emergency workers – and has rasied enough so far for “a hefty piss-up for at least one London police station” – in the neighbourhood of 200 pints. To me, this perfectly encapsulates what I so admire about the British response to the bombings – a stoic determination to carry on regardless, and up yours while we’re at it.

And finally, just a little post-script to confirm that yes, we both survived yesterday’s dental interventions. Tristan was an angel, so much so that I am wondering where I can get my own supply of behaviour-enhancing antihistamine/laughing gas cocktails. For therapeutic use only, of course.

Three year olds shouldn’t have cavities

I’m bringing Tristan to the pedodontist today for two fillings. Really, three year olds shouldn’t have cavities, and they certainly shouldn’t need fillings. I feel awful for him.

I think the worst part will be that he has to fast from midnight to the appointment at 9:50 Tuesday morning (I’m typing this Monday night, guessing that tomorrow morning will be a little rocky.) There is going to be one cranky-ass preschooler on the loose tomorrow morning when he finds out he can’t have his morning chocolate milk and cereal bar. I would sooner deprive Paris Hilton of her daddy’s credit cards than deprive Tristan of his morning treats.

When we get there, they give him some sort of antihistamine in a drink to make him drowsy, and we have to wait around for an hour for it to take effect. Luckily, there are trains and books, so we could in theory pass an entire month there and Tristan would be content. They will also give him laughing gas (I want to say it’s nitrous oxide, but that may well be some incediary chemical that will bring terrorists googling bomb recipes to this blog. If that’s how you got here, go plant some flowers or something, will ya?) so he will be relaxed but awake. They haven’t yet confirmed what they will be giving me, but it’d better be good.

I am having a very hard time picturing any state of consciousness, however drowsy and drugged, will keep my wriggling three year old still enough for two fillings. I am hoping that this is just another instance of something being far worse in the anticipation than it is when it comes to pass.

I don’t think I mentioned the laundry list of problems the pedodontist found during our first consultation. Not only did she confirm the two cavities in two molars and Tristan’s extra tooth, but she pointed out that he has a sideways bite and his upper teeth are all crowded together, so he’ll need some sort of retainer to push them apart when he gets to be six or seven, and he’ll need something to compensate for his side bite. Sigh. It took me 20 years to get over my fear of dentists, and now I have a fear of funding the college education of my dentist’s four kids.

Think a kind thought for us today. Three is just too little for cavities.

Bedtime rituals

Bedtime is one of my favourite times of the day, and not just because a few hours of blessed peace and respite are close enough to be palpable.

I love the rituals of bedtime. I love that Simon gets excited and runs to the gate at the bottom of the stairs when you say, “time for jammies” or “time for bath” (they get a bath every second night, for the most part). I love that Tristan is now capable enough that in the time it takes for Simon and me to make our way upstairs, he has already stripped out of his clothes, pulled off his diaper and tossed his clothes in the vicinity of the hamper. (Okay, about one time in seven his clothes are near the hamper without a gentle reminder. But we’re getting there.)

I love the sound of kids in the bathtub together, and I love babies with the pre-bedtime crazies running nekkid around the upstairs. I love the smell of freshly washed boys in clean pyjamas.

I love the fact that Simon grunts along with me as I count down the last 10 seconds of his bottle being warmed in the microwave. (I finally weaned him about a month ago. I’m still a little sad about it.) I even love the fact that I have about 12 seconds to get the bottle from the microwave into Simon’s mouth before he completely melts down with desire.

I love the calm brown gaze of a sleepy, slurping baby regarding me over an upturned bottle. I love the fact that he has barely swallowed the last mouthful of milk before he demands, “PEEZ!”, meaning, “Mummy, could you please find my soother and insert it into my mouth post haste?” And I love the way his little eyes roll back in his head in blissful satisfaction when I finally give him the soother.

I love standing in Tristan’s doorway while Simon says, “Nite-nite!” to Tristan and Beloved, as Beloved reads the first of four or five nightly books for Tristan. I love when Tristan calls back, “Nite, Simey.”

I love cuddling my not-so-tiny baby in my arms as I settle into the rocking chair and turn on the CD player, playing the same gaelic lullaby CD we’ve played every nap and bedtime for nigh on a year or so. I love telling him the story of his day, reliving each day in broad strokes. I especially love that he has taken to nodding solemly at key points as I retell his day, reminding me yet again that he is listening attentively to every word I say.

I love the sleepy grin I get as I place Simon in his crib and tuck a blanket under his chin, stroking his cheek and telling him how I love him so, then bidding him “Nighty-night” as I close the door softly behind me. I love going into Tristan’s room, leaning over Beloved stretched out beside Tristan in bed as they read yet another book together, and letting Tristan honk my nose before I kiss him goodnight. I don’t know why he honks my nose, but we’ve been doing it every night for at least six months, and he seems to derive great joy from it.

I love walking quietly down the stairs, usually into a living room that looks like Hannibal’s invading hordes had been through on a day trip, knowing that at least for a few hours, I don’t need to worry about lifting the dog’s water out of reach, making sure the cupboards are locked, making sure the bathroom door is closed and the front door is latched and the gates are set, and I will be able to sit on the couch for more than three minutes without hearing a crash or a holler or a plantive, “Mummy?”

And I love creeping up the stairs, on my way to bed, and peeking in on them as they sleep the sleep of angels. The minutes that I spend gazing at their sleeping faces are the highlight of every day. I treasure this time, because I know it won’t last much longer.

What’s your favourite time of the day?