Mediocre or Magnificent?

A friend of mine posted this article on Facebook. I think it's a little extreme but it's certianly a good read. I'm wholly on-board with the Free Range Kids philosophy and I think this is central to what the article is getting at (even though it's never mentioned). I want to raise an independent child with a wicked immune system who has a mother who lives her dreams, even if that means she has to spend a fair few hours self-occupying and occasionally eats Cheetos for dinner (not that that ever happens in our house, ahem). I spent many a year working in daycares and felt bad for the kids who had no problem solving skills, cried at the drop of a hat and couldn't even use the toilet on their own. Their parents had become so obsessed with everything that was bad for them I was dealing with 6-year-olds who had never made a single independent choice. Needless to say these kids were in no way prepared for life on the outside. I don't think NOT over-parenting makes me "mediocre", in fact I think it means I'm going to raise someone who can one day function in our less than perfect society. And isn't that sort of my job as a mother?

Thoughts?

Every Can't

I like to think of myself as a pretty strong person. I’m confident, independent and fearless. Intense, focussed and driven. According to my mother I’m “scary” because I get more done before breakfast than most people do all day. All of this is true when I’m in my element, but if I get pushed outside of my comfort zone I tend to crumble underneath the weight of every ‘can’t’ I hide behind. My world is divided very clearly between what I can and what I ‘can’t’ with the proverbial line-in-the-sand drawn so long ago I don’t ever remember a time I lived without my list of self-imposed limitations... until lately. You may say it’s growing older and more comfortable in my skin, but I’m pretty sure it’s Gaia that’s done it. Being her mother has made me question every ‘can’t’. If I want her to believe that anything is possible, then the very least I can do is lead by example.

For years I exercised half-heartedly, barely breaking a sweat with a half hour on the elliptical as I watched the hardcore runners on the treadmill. I’d look up training programs online before quickly reminding myself “I can’t run”. Still, as my world was falling apart over Christmas in Peru I began running along the boardwalk at the beach every morning. I did it as a way to escape when running in circles for forty-five minutes a day was as close as I could get to running away.

Walk nine minutes, runpantcrydie 1 minute.

When I came home I set my alarm for 6:00am every morning and learned to love the treadmill. These days I typically walk five minutes for every ten I run. One day while I watched Tiger Woods atone for his sins in a press conference booming from the gym TV I ran for the entire twenty-some minutes without even noticing. I’m seriously considering training for a marathon.

Running makes me feel strong, confident, independent and fearless. Running makes me feel brave.

I tried and failed at every attempt to learn the Spanish language in my years in university and beyond. I cried in the advising office and choked out “I can’t learn languages” until they believed the truth I’d created. Still, when Gaia was born I was determined she be bilingual so I enrolled in Spanish 100 at the University of Regina. I went to every class and studied for hours a day. I spoke to Gaia in broken Spanish and read her Spanish stories and conjugated verbs every night before bed.

Yo puedo, tú puedes, él/ella/ud. puede, nostoros(as) podemos, vosotros(as) podeís, ellos/ellas/uds. pueden.

I got an ‘A’ in Spanish 100, spoke the language every chance I got in Peru and enrolled in Spanish 101 when I got back. I aced it too. Last week I received the following letter.

I had officially declared my intention to get a Certificate in Spanish about a month ago.

Mastering Spanish makes me feel strong, confident, independent and fearless. Mastering Spanish makes me feel brave.

I started cooking meals from scratch and looking for freelance writing jobs and lifting weights. I sang out loud in Starfish class and made a monthly budget and applied for jobs that scared me (one of which, I now work at). I started dancing in the kitchen and dancing in the park and dancing at work. When I think of every ‘can’t’ I’ve left in my wake since Gaia was born I feel powerful, which is a very different thing than everyone just telling me I am. Especially when I remember that I did it all on three hours sleep with the very best of me going towards the epic tornado that is my daughter. In essence, sloughing off every ‘can’t’ that’s lurked in the shadows of my past is how she gets the very best of me.

She deserves to have a mother who is strong, confident, independent and fearless. She deserves to have a mother who is brave.

Oh C-Eh-N-Eh-D-Eh! Eh?!?

HAPPY CANADA DAY!!

I love beat poetry and remember seeing this during the 2010 Olympics and thinking how perfectly this represented Canada. Enjoy.

Report Card (Part I)

Have I mentioned how much I love the daycare G goes to? It's amazing. Period. Each day she get's a little "report card" that outlines her day... input (yumyum), output (numéro uno y dos), time outside (including an timeline for sunscreen application), naps (typically of a questionable length) and a comments section that is pretty much the highlight of my mother/stalker life. From now on I plan on sharing the better comments with you. I particularly enjoy today’s.

"After I put one ponytail in Gaia's hair she asked for more, so I put another one in her hair and she asked for more again. I put a third ponytail in her hair and Gaia said more again, but she had no more hair!"

In other news I’m kind of obsessed with the new tea place in the mall. Try the Mojito. Tell ‘em Risa sent you.

Misty Watercolour Memories

Two years ago today JM and I were celebrating our half-birthday in Barcelona. I was clean, I had makeup on and I was drinking beer in the streets. Later that night my girl was conceived. Currently it is 8:00am on Saturday morning and she’s throwing a patented monster tantrum because I won’t let her watch her Baby Einstein World Music DVD. I'm forced to make this decision because a month ago she broke the DVD player. Did I mention I was up no less than eight times last night?

I feel like there’s an ad for birth control in here somewhere.

Art Prodigy (Proof)

I’ve talked before of my daughter as a budding artistic genius here and here. Still, I’ve done so with my tongue planted fairly firmly in cheek. Now that she’s actually started creating art it’s a whole new ballgame.


Take, for example, the following drawing, created by Gaia in Mid-May 2010.

Notice her choice dark, muted colour palette of browns, slate blues and greys? See how her lines vibrate with raw anger in their sharp, staccato placement across the page? Notice how the artist (formerly known as G) has ripped a portion of paper at the right of the page. Was this a way to highlight the artist’s (decidedly negative) take on the state of our broken world or perhaps even confront the viewer with their own mortality?

The day I found this drawing tucked in G’s cubby I was greeted by a baby ball of rage and a daily report reading only “This morning Gaia enjoyed screaming loudly with (her baby BFF) in the aquatic viewing area.” I noticed she also refused to nap, eat or generally be pleasant in any way. This behaviour carried on well through the evening. I wouldn’t hesitate to classify to the day this drawing was conceived as a decidedly bad one.

In contrast take the following drawing, created by Gaia yesterday.

Notice the bright, tonal colour palette of greens, reds, purples and blues? See how her lines flow along the page in rhythmic harmony? See how the artist is attempting to recognise the beauty of nature with the abstract representation to the left of the image? Is it a tree, perhaps a symbol for her own growth or simply a rush of frenetic energy reaching skyward?

Yesterday when I found this drawing tucked in G’s cubby I was greeted by a giggly baby and a daily report that read “Gaia coloured with so much enthusiasm today! She had a crayon in both hands and moved them quickly across the table.” She took two naps, played outside and ate two servings of meatloaf at lunch. Her behaviour was such that kissing her on the forehead as I gathered our things caused her to laugh so loudly it set the other babies off in waves of glee. I’d say it’s clear that the day this drawing was conceived was a decidedly good one.

My point? My daughter is a true artistic genius, in touch with the very deepest corners of her soul with the ability to capture her emotion on her chosen canvas (scrap paper – ever the environmentalist) that I have no doubt the world will take notice.

I told you so.

Blame it on the Rain

“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” – Bob Dylan

Gaia’s been sick the last few days. An invisible ear infection that in turn caused a bit lip to fester into some weird, swollen, oozing sore that made my baby girl smell like an old man whose finally given up on hygiene. Meanwhile I somehow managed to log thirty working hours in three days while still taking a whole day “off” to stay home with my little geriatric. Hmmm. Anyway. Antibiotics, a good night’s sleep and a sunny walk to daycare this morning and we’re (almost) good as new.

But the sunny walk to daycare? By the time I left work I was faced with no less than a torrential downpour with the occasional sharp burn of pelting hail and wrath of thunder and lightning. Regina, like everywhere in the world it seems, is a little confused. I’d like to take a moment to point out, should Mother Nature read this blog that it is, in fact, SUMMER. But I digress. My point is not to complain. I feel like everyone else in this waterlogged town has got the complaining thing covered. Plus, it’s not my style.

So I braved the fifteen minute walk to my car with only a brief desire for the umbrella tucked safely in its backseat. By the time I got over the initial shock of going from dry to soaking wet in under a minute I realised there’s something beautiful about the rain. The way it smells (cliché, I know) and how it washes the city clean, blurring the steel and glass and making it shimmer like a Matisse painting, all brushstrokes. The way the dark clouds look ominous and lush all at once, a study in contradiction. Strolling stoically past the masses huddled under awnings with my dripping face turned up to the sky I enjoyed the rain like I had as a child (standing in wet pyjamas, barefoot with my brother on the grass in our yard, watching as my father checked the rain gauge). I even justified jumping in a puddle when I realised I couldn’t get any wetter. When was the last time you jumped in a puddle? I highly recommend it.

Small rivers dripped in my wake as I let myself indoors to pick Gaia up from daycare. She laughed when she saw me and stuck out her tongue to catch the beads of rain that dripped from my hair. I didn’t bother with her jacket, just held her close as we ran out the door, past the growing crowd attempting to wait-it-out at the entrance. The minute she felt the rain on her face she looked and me and smiled, then held her hands up to the sky to catch it and screamed with joy. We let the car’s seats be our towels and sang along with the raindrops on the windows. She clapped every time we drove through the puddles that splashed up in waves on her window.

How can you stop yourself from loving the rain? Besides, it’s only water.