Toy butter, dragons and Afghan food

Things I never thought I'd say but have now, in all seriousness, simply because I am so blessed to be a mother:

"Butter is not a toy."

"No, we don't put dragons in our vagina."
"Or our bums."

"We don't touch poop. We stomp on it."

"Don't drink from the dog's dish." SIGH. "Whatever. Go ahead."

Everything is now "special" in order to appeal to Chou. "Here's your special dinner!" "Mummy bought you special panties!" "Here's your special chair!" Why is everything an exclamation! Because it's special!

I am so tired of special.

Oh, and the Afghan food? I'd never had any until tonight. It's amazing. As is the tea. It's too bad the country is essential a crater that people fight over or I'd want to go visit.

Next blog: How I managed to climb back on the wagon. To which I am clinging to for dear life, but still, I'm on there.

Role model

In an effort to keep upbeat and positive here's a list of things I'm loving these days:

Chou loves to "go running." She dons my hat and headband and takes off.

She's taken to hanging off every bar at the park trying to do chin ups (she's more successful at it than I am).

Chou says, "Let's stretch" and "I'm stretching, mama!" And then promptly does the splits.

Her favorite things to do are walk, run, jump like a kangaroo, climb the climbing wall at the park then run some more. She's also taken to tree climbing and managing to make it to the top of our porch railing. For those who know, it's darn high and she sits right on top all on her own giving me a heart attack.

Chou planted carrots, beets and peas at random in my flower bed and they're growing better than the ones I planted oh so carefully in pots.

She asks for sushi, quinoa, chickpeas, carrots (pronounced cah-rutz, emphasis on first syllable) and asparagus for dinner. I love that she knows what these things are at two.

I've managed to find a running buddy — sort of. More specifically, I'm encouraging a new mum to run and she's happy I want to run with her. It also means I've taken Chou running twice this week. It's been so long since that's happened. Today she even fell asleep in the stroller. It's been oh so long since that happened. It's been lovely.

What it's like to be punched in the boobs

As Jen P will often remind me, our kids are smarter than us.

This time last week, I made the decision to begin weaning Chou off her bedtime numnums. She had skipped it on her own now and again, or hubby had put her down for nightnight without me around and she did just fine. With a two night trip away looming on the horizon, I thought that going from twice a day (early morning and night) to once a day before being gone for two days would help.

Then, Tuesday morning, the day before I was set to leave. Chou didn't nurse. Holy doodle. It's like she had ESP or something.

I headed out Wednesday, feeling a bit top heavy but comforted thinking that my baby was weaning all on her own. She had no idea how good her timing was.

Of course, then I spent two days in pain. Not wretched, horrid pain but enough engorgement to have me buttoning my sweet polka dot blazer very carefully. I was shocked (and still am) as to how much milk I'm still making even when I was down to once/twice a day feedings.

Then I get home Friday night. And if I thought the Dolly Parton boobs that felt like they had been mammogramed a little too hard were bad, it was nothing compared to my sweet baby decided that being weaned meant she should stay up an hour later every night. Um, yes. My perfect, put-herself-to-bed sleeper has become a "Come snuggie, Dada!" "Mama, stay!" baby.

Never before have we stayed with her to sleep, not ever! This is new...and getting old quickly. I'm trying to be very understanding, and am quite glad that I can go in and comfort her and she not expect numnums. But evening is "us" time, and 1.5 hours of night time routine is just plain silly. This will pass, I know.

But you walk around with two huge bruises on your chest and we'll see how sweet and snuggly you are.

Ebb and flow

I'm sometimes amazed by how distance doesn't seem to interfere with wavelengths. Until I speak with her, I suppose I'm assuming some things here, but Jen P offered up a lovely post today that mirrors my feelings too. No, I'm not a mummy of two, but the idea that our identities and priorities shift so dramatically in motherhood is something I've been mulling over only too often these days.

Her other point — the blogging, or lack thereof — is one I'm struggling with too. There are so very many posts that rattle around in this headspace of mine, and yet, if you take a look you'll notice a severe lack of recent entries. Of late, most not-quite-posts have been serious and life-altering, but the blog isn't always the best (or safest) place to work it out. For me, marooned here away from friends and family, running as therapy has started again. I just hope it works.

Today marks one year since packing up and leaving our fair capitol city and hunkering down in the wilds of Saskatchewan. While this prairie town has been both welcoming and not, and even as I struggle to build a support network and find my kindred spirits, I still, perhaps unbelievably, feel that I am home.

Green, pink, dark, mine, own

Everyone tells you how much babies change in a month, how toddlers suddenly acquire new skills and language, but to see it happen is another story entirely.

I'm a bad mum, that's for sure, in that I've missed the last few "monthaversaries" of Chou's. My listing of her feats, skills and loves has fallen by the way side as life gets in the way of blogging (stupid work/life!), but it struck me yesterday that I need to get some of this down as she's changing so quickly.

Within a week, her vocabulary and sentence use has more than doubled, maybe even tripled. She recognizes her own name if I print it, and points to green and pink without fail and identifies them. Black she gets sometimes; blue and red she doesn't say. She now counts two and three, but never says one. Maybe my favorite thing is she loves to tell us "It's dark!" when she looks outside, upstairs or into an empty room. She grabs toys, yells "Mine!" and runs away and more than once has insisted on a snack of her own instead of sharing. "No, OWN!" she cries.

Chou dresses herself...often, as in, many times a day. She's mastered getting nude, smacks her rump and yells NAKED! (Thanks to Jen's Newt for teaching her that one). She's pretty good at putting on her gitchies and pants and attempts shirts and coats to much less success. She diapers her dolls and teddy bears and makes them sit on the potty too.

Chou is unfazed by the weather. It was -20 something plus a windchill and the kid refused to come inside. She screamed and yelled and stood frozen in the yard while I tried to coax her in. Daddy went out and bought her a toboggan (known as "boat" to Chou) and now we can't ever get her in without carrying her.



She commands Pico to stay "off" and "down" and loves to get her dog to chase her. If I give the dog heck, so does Chou, complete with little finger pointed at Pico and a very stern look.

Chou has finally started saying words that until now were only signs - please, sorry, more and milk - are all now Peas, So-wee, Mone and Mok. SO. DAMN. CUTE.

She starts back at daycare tomorrow and her care provider is on board to get rid of the diapers and really allow Chou to potty train. I am so very glad. And unlike many mums I know who are sad to see their babies grow, I'm loving the new level of understanding Chou has of what we're doing, of taking direction, of actually helping, and I think "I can't wait 'til we can do all this together."

We'll be there soon enough, I know.

Making gingersnaps. Chou can smell a sweet mixing spoon or beater from across the house.

I had forgotten the joys of playdoh. It smells the same. Like childhood.

Saving Chuck Bass

There's nothing quite like a toddler kick to the head to get you to remember your dreams.

Chou is in her big girl bed, sure, but she's not staying in it all night. Sometimes, yes, but with eye teeth coming in and a snotty nose, she's been miserable. She wakes at 2 in the morning snurgly and angry and in need of snuggle time. I try and keep her in her room, but at that hour all I want to do is go back to my warm bed. So I, being the weak mother, bring her back to our bed and get a few more blissful hours of sleep.

That is until she has one of her rearranging sessions and ends up sideways, upside down and flailing at 4 in the morning.

Did I mention she never ever slept in our bed until a few months ago? Those were the days.

The unexpected side effect to this early morning flail is that I'm remembering oh so many more of my dreams. I've always been a vivid dreamer and used to love waking up laughing or simply happy having enjoyed fun or excitement while I slept. Sure, there are the bad ones, but the good drastically outweigh the bad.

This morning, for instance, I dreamed I was Chuck Bass's lady love (you don't watch Gossip Girl? Shame on you!), and had to save him from imprisonment by a well-meaning aunt trying to get him to clean up his act. Most of the dream I spent on horseback, riding through a mansion, up stairs, over fallen tables and the like (I know, WTF?). Sad for me, but most of the dream was spent saving, and not smooching, Chuck. But I also penned a lovely letter to my trapped darling. I woke up giggling.

See? There's a good side to mummyhood and the sleep interruptions. Really, there is.

What happens when I do this?

The Chou is in a new experimental phase, which is how kids learn, so this is good. And for the most part it's not the heart-stopping kind of experimenting, you know the kind that endangers life and limb, but it sure is the kind that can make a giant mess.

Chou has started swimming in the tub, floating, expressing her wonder at the sensation. She's also loving putting feet, hands legs in the running water. She's starting to blow bubbles and get her face wet...and then she starts to splash and move and make waves, then more waves and so on. It's fascinating to watch her drink in the movement, the sensation, the buoyancy. Brilliant.


She's also testing her parents' patience. We're full on into the terrible twos, I'm sure. But part of what frustrates Chou and sets her off is not being able to DO all the grown up stuff we do. Gone is her willingness to climb into her booster seat and buckle herself in. Nope, now she'll only eat sitting/standing in a grown up chair. Gone are the sippy cups. She wants a regular cup like mum and dad. She doesn't want cut up food or anything baby. She puts on her own socks and boots and refuses to let us fix them. She is toddler - hear her roar!

So I'm trying. I'm trying to encourage her, to let her try, to do it herself. I'm trying to be patient, to wait, to keep her busy, to keep her entertained.

It's so hard some days.

But so worth it.

On measuring up and vomiting

That's right, I said vomiting.

Chou was sent home early today from daycare with her very first stomach bug. Poor thing was asleep in the high chair when I got there. I scooped her up, brought her home, she was sick again, I changed her and put her down for a nap. Two hours of sleep later and she was up, managed to miss herself and her cuskie but messed up her entire crib and blanket. I brought her and the laundry down, she had a big nurse and we snuggled and watched backyardigans. Within a bit, she decided she was better and dressed herself to go outside (well, I helped, but she really is getting quite good - she gets her socks and boots on and her tuque. Jacket and mitts are mum's job). Two minutes outside and she was yakking breastmilk all over the deck. Back in we went and it was another episode of backyardigans, then Maisy, then some Sesame street, more yakking, and then -poof- at 330, my darling daughter was back and very hungry. I wish we could all get over a bug like that.

On to measuring up (aren't you glad I'm done talking about yakking?).

I realized today as I tidied my kitchen, put a near-perfect carrot cake in the oven, wiped the counter and flicked on the dishwasher, that a) I'm quite domestic b) I'm getting much better at keeping house and c) I really am OK with measuring my success by my own yard stick and not ever feeling like I have to have the same things as everyone, or the same new kitchen or the same new car.

Wait. This is seemingly non-news to y'all who know me. Ms. Wumpus is synonymous with practicality, ask anyone. Really, truly there are times when I thought that all these years of frugality were temporary, that when we had more money we'd spend it more liberally, travel more, buy more, do more. Yes, there are places in the world I want to see. Yes, there are some new pieces of furniture I'd like, but really, truly having more disposable income hasn't meant buying more. Instead, we're investing more, weighing our options carefully, over-thinking home renovations and trying to make our money stretch the furthest.

Other people go on yearly (even more!) vacations, or buy huge houses or new leather furniture or the EVEN BIGGER television. Some just blow it all on clothes and wine. All these things are OK, they're just not for me. I get more joy out of spending an extra hundred bucks on groceries so I can make my man real, quality sashimi at home. I'm going to splurge and book some riding lessons (yay!). And yes, I'll finally get new underwear. But the wanting what others want? Don't want it. And that makes me happy.

And so concludes the two most randomly paired topics in the history of the blogosphere.

You're welcome.

Positivity

Maybe it's a first time mummy thing, but figuring out how to teach by example instead of by rules is bloody hard. Case in point, I have an 18 month old. Do you know how many times I say "No!" in a day? More than I can count. The tough part is that I try not to. I'm always trying to phrase things in the positive, trying to say We DO rather than We DON'T as much as I can. Yes, there is a time when No is the only appropriate response, but it isn't the only one I want Chou to hear.

Tuesday afternoon I picked up Chou from daycare. Her hair was in a ponytail THAT SHE WASN'T PULLING OUT. I asked her caregiver how she managed this, because frankly, Chou looks like a lion most days with her blond afro growing every week. I try and tame the beast but it's a losing battle when the kid just rips out elastics, clips and ribbons. She'll wear a headband, but only if it's someone else's and she's not supposed to have it. Sigh.

Where was I?

Right.

So I pick her up, and ask S, "How do you get it to stay in?"


She says, "Well, at first she was pulling at it. Then I started telling her how pretty it looked. How nice it was. After a while, she left it in."

See? Why can't I think of this stuff.

Sure enough. We get home and I have to put the elastic back in after the tuque came off. Chou starts pulling at it. "Wow, Chou, look how pretty it is!" She agrees and leaves it in.

Now, how do I get her to stop hitting, grabbing toys and running, jumping in the tub, not letting me wash her hair, throwing food on the ground, etc. etc. etc....in a positive way?

Hmmm. Yeah.

The F Word

No, not that one, worse than that.

That's right, focus.

It's a term that keeps coming up, usually following the words "I can't".

What's got me a little put out is that it's not just work, it's life, it's training, it's my health and my home. Sure, I'd like to blame it all on the craziness that has been our life for the last few weeks, but that's only been the straw to break the camel's back, not the problem itself.

Any mums can relate. Lately the only conversations I have with my momma friends revolve around this return to work, in no matter what capacity. We're all bright women with goals and aspirations, and not all of them job-related. We're struggling with balancing time with our children with bringing home an income, but more than this we're struggling with promising more than we can deliver or, gasp, not being able to focus on what we do have in front of us. Personally, what I'm CAPABLE of and what I'm WILLING to commit to are two very different beasts right now. That goes hand in hand with feeling somewhat unfulfilled with work and questioning the balance of time spent working.

In reality, my days are not so bad and the my return to earning a meager wage has gone swimmingly. Chou transitioned to day care like a duck to water. I've managed to pick up right where I left off and I'm at least mostly excited about the tasks at hand. If I suffer from focus issues now and again, I blame the still somewhat sleepless nights and making milk (it's a very big draw on my system, OK?)

Where I'm really struggling to focus is on training. In fact, I can officially say I'm no longer training. For anything. And it's a slippery slope. My Weight Watchers coupons ran out this week. In two weeks I've pounded out....three.whole.miles. I'm carbo loading, boredom eating and watching the pants get tighter, the sleep get worse and my skin break out. This isn't about weight loss, this is a lack of focus on health. See? It's that F word again.

And just when I needed it most, the latest Running Room magazine arrived in the mail. There's an article in there that really hit home. I do need to take a step back, REFOCUS, prioritize healthy eating, build core strength and lean muscle mass, stretch and drop some unnecessary pounds. I officially admit that my periformus (sp?) is not getting better. Guess what was also covered in today's magazine? Yep. I need to address this before it hamstrings my running for good.

I dropped out of the Ottawa half last week. I'll consider my $45 entry fee a goodbye gift to my former home city. I started looking at signing up for the Manitoba Half, and then realized I don't have to run a half this spring. I can run the Queen City Half in September. Nearly a year between big races is just fine.

At the very least, it'll give me time to focus.