Pick Your Nose and Eat It

You know you have all seen it and probably have all discouraged your own kid from doing
it — I know I have. This article in the Toronto Star discusses an interesting theory on why
kids pick their noses and then eat it.

What if this scientist is actually correct and there is a biological reason kids have this urge?
What if a good pick and snack after daycare helps fight off the colds that the other kids brought
with them that day? What if discouraging them from eating their boogers means they will get
sick and inevitably so will you? I don’t know…maybe it’s worth staying quiet about. I’d rather
avoid a cold and endure stares from strangers. You’ll have to decide for yourself.

-Sleepwalking Mama

[image: Nose Picker by Ellieo]

Happiness Is Ticking “Write a Blog Post” off My To-Do List

About a year after I should have, I hit a bit of a low patch. Cookie was over a year and a
half old, so it was perhaps post-post-partum, but there were many factors. It was winter, my
least favourite season; I had just launched my freelance career, but hadn’t picked up much
work; I was questioning my role in my household, my social circle, and my industry; I was
uncomfortable with my new status as a mother. It wasn’t serious. I didn’t seek therapy, I just
upped my dosage of happy vitamins. Not sure if that helped, since the eventual improvement
in mood probably had more to do with suddenly having more work than I knew what to do with
and not having the time or energy to think about my level of satisfaction. You see, I find I only
become dissatisfied when I have time to think about how I have almost everything I want and
yet still am not happy. When I don’t have time, things are fantastic, at least as far as I know.

My husband was naturally concerned, and at one point suggested I try reading The Happiness
Project by Gretchen Rubin. I resisted; I’m not a self-help kinda gal. I bought other books with the
bookstore gift card he gave me. I sidestepped the book at the family Christmas book exchange.
But then I bought it for a friend who I thought could use a boost, and I happened to scan it. Of
course, it looked just about right for me.

The author was kind of in the same position as I had been. Things were fine, but then one
day she realized that they could be so much better, and that she couldn’t really say she was
happy. And why shouldn’t she be happy? So she started studying happiness — what others had
discovered or speculated about it or done in an attempt to attain it — and set out a plan to follow
over the course of a year.

She struggled at times to defend the value of such an enterprise. It seemed such a problem of
privilege, or a shallow wish, to be happy. Which is something I struggle with every time I think
about being unhappy. Who am I to be dissatisfied with my lot? So what if I’m not loaded or living
in California or two inches taller? My complaints are insignificant and non-life threatening. Just
the fact that Rubin acknowledged her discomfort with her project made me buy in. (The answer
is: if you could be happier just by putting your mind to it, why the hell wouldn’t you be? Also,
your happiness affects the happiness of those around you, so if you want your loved ones and
co-workers to be happy, you’ll work on your own happiness. And then there are the effects of
unhappiness on health and productivity, and therefore the economy…)

Rubin set up cumulative resolutions, adding a few each month, and I was fascinated by the
areas she identified as those that she needed to work on to improve her happiness. Some of
them had no relevance to my life, but others set off alarm bells in my head: “This is something
that makes you unhappy!” Like failure. In one month that she dedicated to work-related
happiness, she resolved to find fun in failure. Alarm bells.

I dread failure. I react physically just recalling a math test I failed in Grade Two. I taste bile
anticipating failure when I consider activities potentially hazardous to my self-esteem. But,
as Rubin points out, if you take chances and allow yourself to fail, you’re more likely to try
more things and have more success. Logical, I know, but fear of failure and humiliation and
disappointment normally forbid me from doing anything that would threaten my pristine (and
deadly boring) reputation.

So I challenged myself to court failure. I had written a story, and a friend was interested in
publishing it. I didn’t want anyone to read it, but in the interest of failure I braced myself and
sent it to him anyways because he was supportive. Plus, it was something he was looking for,

so there was a slim chance of success. The problem was that it had a significant grammatical
characteristic that most publishers shy away from. Which I reminded him of several times.

After weeks of procrastination and premature negotiation (both on his part, not mine; after all,
I was embracing failure), he rejected it…because of the significant grammatical characteristic.
Well, duh. And guess what? Failure was fun. It wasn’t really my failure, after all; he had failed
to listen. He loved the writing otherwise, so I succeeded as a writer. A failed writer, that is. This
time, failure didn’t sting so much, and it gave me confidence for more attempts. Happiness is
confidence in my abilities.

Rubin spent another month focusing on family, and part of that involved appreciating time
with her children more. Of course I knew this was important — always alarm bells with this
one — but it didn’t really hit me until Tightrope Mama’s recent post, “Why Are We Rushing?” It won’t be long indeed until they no longer want to cuddle with us, so I’ve begun to
embrace hour-long bedtimes. I now snuggle with Cookie in a bed that’s not meant to support my
weight and we tell stories and sing songs and talk about our day, and eventually she says, “You
can leave now.” And everyone’s happy. I’m dying to relax at the end of a day of chasing after
her or tethering myself to my laptop, but miraculously I’ve discovered that letting go of the free
time I’m missing out on and just appreciating this time with her is just as relaxing and rewarding.
Sure, our half-hour three-stories-and-we’re-out sleep schedule has completely gone out the
window, but it won’t be long until she’s holed up in her room not bothering to say goodnight
at all. Happiness is a cuddly child. Happiness is knowing I’ve given my child everything she
needed.

I’m not about to embark on a happiness project. I’ve got enough unfinished projects on the go
already (another resolution), and although I’m trying to embrace failure, I don’t need to go out
and actively pursue it. So instead I’m gradually working on resolutions as I become aware of
them. And trying to become aware of them, which I think is part of my problem. Happiness is a
work in progress.

For more on The Happiness Project, visit www.happiness-project.com.

East End Mama

Call the Dentist

When I was a really little kid I had a magical dentist. His name was Howie Garnett. He
lived around the corner from me and worked out of his house. He used gas, and never
hurt me, and gave me little presents. Then he stopped being a dentist. Something about
the suicide rates. So Mom sent me to Dr. Pollard. A sadist. He drilled countless holes in
my teeth over a number of weeks (and blamed Dr. Garnett), and continued to do so until
I finally moved out and never went to a dentist again. The needle always hurt and my
mouth never froze properly. It hurt. It was a horror show. When I cried I got in trouble.
Things got out of hand when my orthodontist ordered four permanent teeth pulled. He
didn’t freeze my mouth. He yelled at me, “What’s wrong with you?” He was angry. If I
told Mom, she didn’t hear it. It’s a miracle I am able to get my teeth cleaned now. Which I
only do about once every three years. And the last time, it was when the Guppins was a
baby. It was my first time leaving her with Sir Dick alone for a substantial period of time,
and while I was at the dentist, Sir Dick fell, while holding her, while jaywalking across
busy College Street, breaking his wrist, bumping her head, and almost getting them
killed.

I am reluctant to go to a dentist.

One day, while I am swimming in a pool with my daughter (she’s now two and a bit), I
noticed, to my horror, her front teeth are rotting. Two tiny black holes close to the gum
line. I google. Classic bottle-baby cavities.

Die.

I try to stay calm (impossible).

Has this happened to you?

I want to help you. I want to make you calm. I am hoping you google ME instead of the
images and articles I discovered.

You can freak out and read blogs but it won’t help. You can go buy some Trident gum
but it won’t help. You can try cutting out all dairy and sugar and good luck to you. What
you need to do is call a dentist. Preferably mine. My current dentist, that is. His name is
Ramone Humeres, and he practices in the west end of Toronto, Canada. And he knows
what he is doing. I trust him.

I was asked to bring the Guppins in for three appointments over three weeks. From the
moment we entered his unintimidating office, my girl was treated like a precious little
VIP. Dr. Humeres slowly broke her in to the idea of being in a dentist’s chair, of feeling
little unhurtful things in her mouth, and of hearing what a drill sounds like. He assured
me he wouldn’t need to freeze. He let me stand and watch. His assistants were fun
and loving in a real way. He gave her rings and a toothbrush. He talked with her. He
made a game of it. He marshalled his assistant in a manner which belied his extreme
seriousness despite all the fun. He fixed her teeth and she was fine.

She was fine.

He said she would have been fine even if she didn’t get the holes filled as long as we cut
out bottles through the night (achieved) and brushed her teeth before bed.

She was fine.

Here’s to you, Howie Garnett. Thank you for being a loving dentist. And to you, Dr.
Humeres, for being a real pro dentist. And to me. For trusting in a dentist despite all the
Dr. Pollards.

(Caution: teeth drilling on a two year old. No two year old was hurt filming this).

-Drama Mama

The Evolution of Gossip

 A couple of weeks ago a young girl in Nova Scotia attempted to end her life and ultimately succeeded. For over a year she was persecuted after being sexually assaulted by four boys at a party — the cell phone picture was sent around her school; her classmates called her a slut; her friends abandoned her. School staff claimed they knew nothing of what was happening to her. The police said there was not enough evidence to act. Her mother moved her family twice to help her daughter try to escape her pain, but since the photo was online and out there her pain only followed her. It continues to follow her after death; a photo of her smoking a joint was posted to show what she was “really like.” (Okay, first of all, she was a teen, so she was “really like” a teen. And second, apparently it was taken after the incident and the subsequent persecution, so one can hardly blame her. And third: really? REALLY? The mind reels.)

Initial calls after her death to reopen her case were shot down by the province’s premier. Only when the outcry became too loud to ignore did anything happen.

This story demonstrates both the best and worst of new technology and social media: how it was used as a tool to break a child, and how it was used to make her story known and force the powers that be to do their jobs and protect her. Far too late, of course. We thought we’d learned this lesson last year in a similar case in British Columbia, but apparently not.

I’m not going to write any more about the events and the repercussions. It has broken my heart. I’m simply going to write to my daughter.

Dear Cookie,

People are cruel, and they always will be, and there’s not much you can do about it. Often they don’t mean to be; they’re just protecting themselves, and you will come to understand why.

At some point something humiliating and hurtful will happen to you. Maybe it will be the result of a mistake you made, or maybe it will be for no good reason you can think of; both are possible and probable and neither are really your fault. Mistakes are allowed. In fact, many are encouraged. Life isn’t worth living if you’re not allowed to make a mistake now and then. Your daddy and I will not judge for the occasional mistake. We only want to guide you. And for you to talk to us.

Because of this mistake or this no good reason, people will say and do cruel things and post them on whatever your generation’s equivalent of Instagram or Twitter will be and then everyone will see your humiliation. This is pretty much inevitable. When we were your age, your daddy and I did the occasional stupid thing and our friends laughed about it, but the gossip died a natural death because of the logistics involved with sharing the source of our humiliation (etching the image in lead; making paper from wood pulp; printing one page at a time using brute force; distributing via horseback, etc.). Unfortunately, you don’t have the luxury of such technology. Your mistakes or unfair persecution will be broadcast instantly and widely and will follow you wherever you go.

You must remember this: you are not alone. Mainly because this will happen to everyone you know. When this does happen to someone you know, think of how you would feel. Consider what you would need from them. Be their friend, please. If you need help being their friend, talk to us.

You are also not alone because, of course, always, we are there for you. We will do anything and everything we can do. You just have to talk to us. This will be hard, very hard, because it will involve admitting to things you don’t want us to know about you or telling us about things you just don’t understand. When you feel like telling us but just can’t bring yourself to do so, remember that we were your age once too and we did stupid things or had things said about us for reasons we didn’t understand. All adults did, even your teachers. If you’re not ready to talk to us, talk to a teacher you feel you can trust. If they won’t listen or help, please please please talk to us. We will understand. We will hug you until you can’t stand it. We will yell and fight and pester until something is done. (We will try not to embarrass you, we promise.)

People are naturally scared and vulnerable, just like you, which is the main reason they do the cruel things they do. They don’t really want to hurt you in particular, most of the time. They just want to divert attention from themselves so they don’t get hurt. This is an ancient and instinctive behaviour that we have little need for today, which is why you won’t do it, right? So if someone does or says something horribly cruel and hurtful to you or a friend, do not take it personally. It’s rarely personal. It’s rarely about you or your friend. It’s important you remember this and remind yourself or your friend over and over. It’s simply not your fault, and it won’t last forever, even if it seems as if it will, and there are always things that can be done about it.

Maybe this won’t happen to you, though. Because people can be cruel, but they’re also caring and generous and there for you when you need them. You just have to let them know that you need them. Please let us know when you need us. Please.

Love,

East End Mama

[image: MaiAutumn Bird Print via etsy]

Why Are We Rushing?

When bedtime rolls around I am usually pretty tired, especially if it is a Saturday or Sunday because that means no daycare and my husband’s been working all day.

I look forward to bath time because, although it will take forever and I will have to drag W kicking and screaming into his room, it signals the final task. Stories — the final frontier. After the stories I get to watch Top Chef and eat a chocolate bar (on a good day). Lately, though, W has reverted to staying up for a solid hour after the stories and sometimes playing quietly, but sometimes crying out for me to come back and “lay with him.” I hate this. I want an hour alone; I don’t want to lie in a Lightning McQueen bed and be poked at. I would say that 50% of the time I cave and lie down. But tonight, as I threatened to leave unless he closed his eyes, I had a thought: It won’t be long before I won’t be allowed in his room, and I definitely won’t be asked to come back in and snuggle. I had brunch with a friend and her ten-year-old today; he was already waaay too cool for school. He only hugged her once as a fake-out for her iPhone.

I sat on the edge of W’s tiny, uncomfortable bed and tried to really take in the moment. I looked at the books and stuffed animals thrown around. I looked at his adorable footed pajamas and the penguin bandage on his forehead (there is no real boo boo under it), and I looked at myself. Why was I desperate to leave his room? Only thirty minutes earlier during bath, my husband left for work and W said, “Mommy, you don’t work.” And I said to him, “You are my life’s work.” He didn’t reply.

It’s true (if a bit dramatic), but then here I was practically peeling him off of me so I could do what? Not much. Don’t get me wrong, I know mommys need time and I know bed time can’t go on for two hours, but really, where exactly am I rushing off to?

As I said, my husband was at work, LouLou was already sleeping, and other than this blog post percolating in my head and some Facebook time (oh, and laundry), what did I have to do? So I sat there and sat there, and we giggled, and he said drowsy things like, “I am an orange octonaut,” and then I said, “I'm leaving.” He grabbed my fingers and said, “I still have you,” and looked right into my eyes like only he can. He does, he still has me. I sat back down for another stint of quiet reflection.

-Tightrope Mama

[image: Speed by Yael Frankel]

Moms Do Weird Things

LouLou is teething – and sleep training. A bad combination.

As I have written before, she rarely cries, so listening to her wail is hard, but I do want my space in the evenings. Out of desperation lately, to help her settle in her crib, I have been – wait for it – getting in the crib.

I know. It’s terrible. And weird.

The first time I did it, my inner voice was screaming, “Slippery slope, slippery slope,” but there I was Cirque du Soleil’ing myself out of there once she drifted off.

And like any good junkie, I had to do it again. I haven’t even told my husband yet that I have done this.

So I ask you universe, what now?

-Tightrope Mama

[image: beach acrobats photo]

Please Stop Talking to My Kids

What is wrong with people? Seriously.

I know that babies are technically a sign that says, “Talk to me. Tell me about your grandkids. Give your opinion on his/her size and eye colour.” But lately the general public has been creeping me out. Big time.

W and I were at the bank a few weeks ago when an employee of the bank approached us while I was at the teller. She started to talk to W, but he wasn’t into it. In fact, he was burying his face in my leg. Ms. Pencilskirt was not picking up his vibe, and said she had a surprise for him. Still no response. “A ball!” she cried. Then I kid you not, she said, “Come to my office and get it.” What the fuck, lady. I interjected at this point and said something along the lines of “No.”

She looked crestfallen that this little boy didn’t want to ride her office chair all over the place and play with a free bank ball. Maybe she doesn’t have kids — obviously. She also has no social skills and was unable to read the intense “go away” vibe that both W and I were sending.

Then a few days after that, a man on the street said to W, “What a cute sister you have. Can I take her home?” My husband and I looked at each other and W started to cry a bit. Can you imagine saying anything scarier to a kid? Basically, I am going to kidnap your baby sister. Jesus.

Not all people are creepy, and most don’t mean to be. But now that I am paying attention, I have to say a lot of people say creepy things to kids who are complete strangers to them. I have had to start teaching my two-and-a-half year old about strangers already and not talking to ANYONE who you don’t want to talk to. And always walk away from someone who says something you don’t like.

I am also not sure what to say to these clueless people. Nothing, probably. I think most of them mean well. But I suppose what I would like to say to the general public is this: You know how you may see me in line at the grocery store and think I have nice hair? Or that I am short? Or that my shoes are dirty? You know how you think those things but you don’t say anything because we generally accept that talking to other adults (who are strangers) about whatever is in our heads is not normal? It also isn’t really normal to say these things to a child. They are young but they also know they don’t know you and aren’t sure why you are talking to them. Let’s all just keep our thoughts in our heads at the grocery store, shall we? Thanks.

-Tightrope Mama

Life Begins

’Tis the season when the thoughts of couples who read Malcolm Gladwell turn to procreation.
You know, if you want to birth a professional hockey player or a natural leader or such. This is
the last such season in our household because the big birthday is approaching in a few months.
Forty. Four-tee. Yikes.

I know; it technically doesn’t have to be the last time we think about creating another child, but
we’re worried enough about genetic anomalies and unexpected twins as it is, so delaying it any
longer would just be playing Russian roulette, as far as we’re concerned. So this is it. And yet
do you think we can make a bloody decision?

There’s nothing worse than having to face your advanced age and the idea that you’re down
to the last of the good eggs at the same time. I’m well aware that’s hyperbole, by the way;
there are plenty of worse things, but for me at this moment, it’s my whole world. I’m old (also
hyperbole, I suppose), and soon I’m going to be too old to create a healthy child. I am not happy
about this birthday. Not at all. It’s still seasons away, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dread it well
in advance. So much for forty-before-forty lists and all the things I thought I’d be and have by
now. Time to adjust all those goals and dreams by a decade. Pitbull, ever the philosopher, does
say that forty is the new thirty. (He’s closer to the old thirty, so I’m not taking his word for it,
though.)

Are we wrong to put such a focus on age and childbirth? Science says no, but my heart says
yes. I’m finally mature enough (probably thanks to child number one) to raise a family. In my
early twenties, smug friends were getting pregnant because they claimed they wanted to do
it while they had the energy. Perhaps they’re right; I wasted all that energy not working on my
forty-before-forty list, but instead watching the same Seinfeld episodes over and over again.
However, I also biked through Europe, had two careers, made out with minor celebrities, wrote
a couple of books…guess it wasn’t a total waste. Will my early bird friends be doing these things
in their free-and-easy fifties? It’s entirely possible — but hey, they won’t look as good as I did.
Ha! Whatevs.

I guess the point is that I just have to decide to get over this age thing. There’s nothing I can do
about it, and there’s nothing I can do about the fact that maybe I didn’t spend the last twenty
years as wisely as I should have, but there is something I can do about the rest of it if I just stop
whining and start doing. And we just have to decide if we really really want another kid, not if we
should or shouldn’t or better try before it’s too late. Life begins whenever I decide it does.


-East End Mama

[image: baby by Lili Fjeld]

Sleep Training 102

I did it already. I trained a kid to sleep. Well, actually he was a baby. I trained a baby to

sleep. I can do this. I can make LouLou sleep. Alone. In a crib.

She is such a happy baby it feels criminal to let her (make her) cry. But I know it is part

of the deal. I can’t have a baby in my bed forever. For one thing I have to actually sit

up and flash my cell light to see if my husband is even in the bed. Secondly, she kicks

me — hard.

When W was a baby I would sit on the couch and cry as I listened to him scream in his

crib. And up until today, when LouLou would cry I would just run up and carry her to my

bed. But today I turned up the TV and let her cry. For a whopping 12 minutes. Then she

stopped. She is sleeping again — probably not for too long, but for a few minutes at

least — and the world hasn’t ended.

Small victories. This is motherhood.

-Tightrope Mama

[image: jessica kettle photography]

Round One with Death

We have really wanted to get an animal of some sort in the house for some time now. Lo
really loves animals, and we have been talking about getting a fish to start off with. So
we went to the “animal store” and picked out the hardiest fish there was — as the staff
said — and brought the little red fish home.

We picked up all of the necessities and brought a beautiful bowl. Lo really enjoyed
watching it swim around the bowl, at some points kissing the bowl.

When we were thinking about naming the fish, Lo said strongly, “Fishes don’t have
names, they are just fish.” Fair enough.

During the first week the fish started to float on the bottom of the bowl. It was not coming
up to the top to get its food and was not splashing around as it once was.

On Day 7, the fish was dead.

One week, that’s it! I knew that in buying the fish, a talk about death would have to be
had, but I really did not think so soon.

Immediately I was on the web looking for the perfect thing to say to Lo, as I was sure he
was going to be upset that the fishy was dead.

I found this great website.  Here is what it had to say:

Use your own judgment when deciding whether to point out the absence of the animal
before the child notices — you may want to bring this up in the morning, if that’s when
usual daily pet routines begin.

A sample explanation might be:

Fluffy died last night. That means he’s not here today or anymore. It makes Mommy very
sad, and it’s okay if you feel sad too.

I waited for Lo to notice that the fish was gone. But he was totally ignoring the fish that
morning. He did not go up to the bowl as he had the past seven days. He just went on
with his business. I was getting anxious, so I told Lo I had to tell him something about
the fish, and I basically used the words suggested above.

Lo had a big frown on his face and began to slowly cry. We sat and hugged for a good
half an hour. Then he was fine. He was even talking about the fish to his dad later that
day and was able to explain that he was dead.

So round one with death…success!
Thank goodness for the web.


-Gray Mama

[image: fish by Maryam Sefati]