Duck And Rabbit

In November, we lost my grandmother.

I say lost;as though she were an umbrella, temporarily misplaced, when we know that I employ this euphemism to avoid saying that she died. It’s an inescapable fact: she is now dead.

For all the members of my family, this seemed - and still seems - a most impossible thing. She was woven into the fabric of my existence and into the very concept of who I consider myself to be. We thought she would endure forever, being at the time of her death, a venerable 103 years of age.

Just when we all thought that our cultural obsession with Marie Kondo had finally tapered off, she’s suddenly all over my newsfeed again, thanks in large part to her new Netflix series, Tidying Up with Marie Kondo.

Yes. I’ve been watching it too. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I’ve spent the last month cleansing and yoga-ing - why not throw decluttering into the mix too?

Of course, I approached the show with a wee bit of skepticism. I, like over 7 million other people, read her book a couple of years back. At that time, I found her process way too prescriptive. I remember thinking, “There’s no way I’m spending hours folding shirts into little standing bundles.”

The Internet is full of parenting hacks, some of which are amazing. Many others wander off into completely ridiculous territory. For example, “vacuum ponytail.”

Memories of Flowbee, anyone?

By no means do I consider myself to be an expert in the arena of parenting. I’m just muddling through and trying to figure everything out like the rest of us, but here are some useful bits I’ve put together along the way.

I am stuck in that parenting doldrum where I spend way too much of my time negotiating. And coaxing. And convincing. And bribing. The four year old, obviously. The 10 year old is currently in the golden tween age of parental cooperation.

This, to my mind, is one of the biggest drawbacks of parenting, trying to “make” a kid do something that they don’t want to do. And in the process, realizing, with that sinking sense of futility, that it’s f$&ing impossible to force a small human to do things that they don’t want to do. You can’t “make” them eat healthy food. Nor can you “make” them go to bed, or get in their car seat, or keep walking, or put on their socks, or stop talking when you require quiet right now.

Welcome. Welcome back!

I love fresh starts, and new beginnings. There’s nothing quite so appealing as the promise of a New Year, with 365 pristine days spread out before us, all holding so much potential.

This year, I always think, is my year. I’m definitely going to get it right this time! I’m going to get enough sleep, start exercising, and stop stuffing my face with Chicago Mix at midnight. I’ll study another language, plan exotic travel and become the most amazingly serene parent ever. I’ll finally finish that book I’ve been working on for, well, ever, and while I’m at it, I’ll declutter the house.

I’m not a human!!! I’m a girl!!!" - Lark, aged 35 months

My daughter is an animal.

As I write this, she’s lounging on the couch in her undies, eating cream cheese straight out of the container. With her hands.

In some ways, she’s right. She’s not a human being just yet. She’s a toddler. Toddlers are really teeny wild beasts that we adults have to mould into full-fledged humans. Homo sapiens have all of these great ideas; like manners, culture, inventions, et cetera, et cetera. These are the things that set us apart from the other animals, yes?

I’m having one of those weeks.

One of those is obviously code for somewhat crappy.

Monday morning, as I was getting the bikes out of the shed to take the kid to school, Bean suddenly piped up behind me, “I hate to tell you this, Mum, but there’s something really furry up there on that shelf.” A quick glance revealed a raccoon, curled up in a ball, sleeping. If you are not from Canada, you may not understand why this was an annoying discovery. Raccoons are cute, nocturnal, territorial, destructive and hard to get rid of. With a sigh, I ignored the fuzz-ball and left for school.

A few weeks back, I was hiding in my bedroom, trying to find ways to free up storage on my phone, which had reached capacity and was in a feeble state. I heard Bean looking for me around the house, while I continued tapping away at my device, in stealth mode.

“Mum! Muuuuum. Where are you?” He bounced into my room and saw me holding my phone. “Hey!” he said accusingly. “Isn’t this supposed to be screen-free Sunday?”

We’ve all been on the receiving end of nosy questions from perfect strangers. Right? Personally, my life is a mostly-open book - I mean, I write a blog about me and my family that is read by actual dozens of people, so obviously I’m not averse to sharing. But, even I have wondered what is going through other people’s heads when they inquire about some intimate detail.

In the age of the overshare, there are still some things you just shouldn’t ask other people - particularly, strangers. We’ll start things off with the basic stats: “How much do you weigh?” “How old are you?” “Have you ever had plastic surgery?” Fact-seeking inquiries all, yet questions about our physical properties are considered rude by most people over the age of 12.

It’s 5:00 in the morning and I’ve been up for over an hour already. My experiment of early rising that I spoke about in my previous post is well underway. Except, it hasn’t been a conscious decision to be up and at ’em at this ungodly hour. I’m dealing with a massive case of toddler jet-lag over here. My 26-month-old woke me consistently and hourly from 11:00 pm to 4:00 am, at which point I gave up on sleep and succumbed to the inevitable.