Honestly?!

There is nothing more moving than the glaring honesty of a child. It is not filtered, or manicured, manufactured or checked. It is akin to verbal diarrhea. The brain sends an impulse and the mouth lays it out for all to hear.

A few years ago I was in the grocery store with Jack. When we got to the till I confess I let some air escape, from my behind. The store was very busy (read loud) and in my defence I was probably pregnant. Anyhoo, no one heard. Except for an arse high Jack. With his new found language skills he declared, "Mommy fart. Mommy fart." to the cashier/anyone within earshot, over and over with increasing persistence as I attempted to ignore him and get the heck out of there. Awesome.

When one of my children says to another, "you talk funny" or refers to the neighbour as "the grumpy man who lives next door" I am mortified more often than not. Sometimes it is hard to remember they are not judging, but stating what they perceive to be fact, and I receive the comment coloured by my own experience and/or embarrassment. They are not saying these things to be mean. The neighbour next door looks like a grumpy character from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, but also like Santa, so I was able to suggest as much - and as everyone knows Santa is never grumpy. I told them stories about when they mispronounced words because they too were little once and learning. Yet, despite knowing this, it still stings when a two year old makes a comment about my spotty face.

We bring them books, teach them songs, play stacking and sorting games all geared towards differentiation and separation and then we are shocked when they bring their astute observations into the real world. Because you cannot un-ring a bell, and words can hurt, especially when they come out of an innocent face. But we are all different. My children adore being told they are special and unique, so I need to seize the opportunity when they notice that others are different from themselves. To help them acknowledge and appreciate the difference rather than fear and judge. If I wait until they are in the schoolyard it will be too late. Again I am reminded of the steep learning curve that is teaching empathy without loosing individuality.

All this being said, I could have a million dinner guests singing glowing praise for my fare, but it will never mean as much as when Jack starts in about how amazing my cooking is because he is incapable of insincerity.  This morning as I was pulling my hair back, Isla announced as if she could no longer contain herself, "Mommy, you are soooooo beautiful!".  I have never ben more flattered.

A Public Shaming...

About a week ago I was reading a wonderful post on Avant Garde Parenting about unsolicited parenting advice. I was immediately reminded of a terrible, awful, no good very bad experience I had before having even pushed the first baby out. Unsolicited indeed.

When I was pregnant with my firstborn, despite my advanced age of 27 ;), I looked about 18. I was almost two weeks overdue, cranky, uncomfortable and trying to walk that kid out of me. I passed by a patio teeming with peeps. A lady literally stood up, pointed at me, and declared to her audience, "Look at this young one...PREGNANT!"

I was shocked. Hurt. Embarrassed. Although I needn't have been any of these. I thought, what if I was 16, husbandless and pregnant? What was a public shaming going to help? When has a public shaming ever been the catalyst for a heart-warming life-altering experience for either the shamer or the shamee?!! 

Well, all decorum flew out the window. My mother, having been in town for 3 weeks awaiting the imminent arrival of this grandchild (who was now without a doubt taking some sort of long distance learning course from the comfort of my uterus because he sure as shooting was NOT COMING OUT!) had to hold me back because I wanted to physically damage this woman. 

The rest is just a blur. Though I do know there was no melee. No throw down. To this day I wonder what inspires people to publicly shame others. I don't mean a roast or a well meaning albeit inebriated wedding guest, but a stranger. I don't think I'll ever get it.

Jack eventually did come out by the way, and he was well worth the wait.

Freaky Friday

I spent the entirety of yesterday driving to Vancouver. For whatever reason I was feeling a little car sick. Being carsick as a backseat passenger is something I have never really been able to grow out of, but it usually seems to be abated by sitting in the front seat.  Anyway, Thursdays all day ride sent me reeling down memory lane.

I have always had a heightened sense of smell. I am not allergic to anything per se but I am often at the whims of my nose. I must choose my perfume (which I use sparingly and only on occasion) not only based on whether or not I enjoy the fragrance, but whether or not the scent gives me a migraine and makes me violently ill.

When I was pregnant with Jack I had the perma-heaves. It was gross. I was tossing my cookies up to twelve times a day. I constantly craved whatever, but when I had secured the whatever in my chubby pregnant hands, two bites in, I found the whatever wholly unsatisfying and promptly suffered through whatever being ejected from my body. I was miserable. Despite having reservations I resorted to medication. To my dismay/delight the tiny pills simply dulled the constant nausea and did little in the way of preventing chunder, making the decision not to take them easier.

Now some smells were worse than others and even thinking about onions or coffee brought on a bought of the barfs, which lasted well beyond the "normal" 16 week mark. In fact it took months after Jack was born for my onion aversion to ebb. The strangest thing (or so I thought at the time) was that it wasn't just the smell of food that made me ill, but the smell of places. The office where I worked was one such place, which, at the time, made me think this affliction was purely psychosomatic.

Round two: Isla. Second verse, same as the first. SOOOOO sick, but now I have a curious toddler pawing at me as I hang over the commode. Oh, and this time around I manage to break blood vessels around my eyes whenever I retch. We are in a small rented apartment in Indiana while we film a movie and the smell of our living quarters makes me ill. Then a new, unexpected side effect takes hold. This is the actual strangest thing - I develop a visual/aural aversion. Not just to a food commercial, which was old hat, but to jingles. The Elder Beerman ads were the worst. They ran frequently and muting the catchy/annoying tune wasn't enough (due to my aforementioned phonic aversion having intertwined itself with the images of insidious plug) bringing me to my knees.

Fast forward three years to yesterdays motion sickness. I am rarely sick, which is why I probably haven't noticed the kryptonite to my lingering pregnancy super powers. Aside from wider feet and heightened sense of smell and mommy intuition, it would appear that when under the weather I am still affronted by musical compositions. Good to know I guess.

I like you a Latte...

I never used to drink coffee, though I have always loved the smell and enjoyed the taste of coffee flavoured things; cakes, ice cream, chocolate bars etc. In my mind it was equal to vanilla extract, smelling delicious and tasting like death!

When I was pregnant the first time, even the previously pleasant smell of coffee became intolerable. One whiff sent me reeling (and retching) to the closest latrine. Well, lots of things did, but coffee was especially offensive. My husband would seclude himself in the laundry room across the hall from our apartment suite to brew his morning cup. This is, in fact, one of my fondest memories of our first years together - him shuffling off so that I could retain most of my breakfast and some sort of dignity!

After the birth of my son we visited some dear friends at what was to become one my favourite haunts, Cafe Artigiano. Nestled between shops and right across from the Vancouver Art Gallery, walking to the Cafe with the stroller was a downtown Vancouver highlight. I have no idea why I ordered a mocha that day, but I did. The blend of espresso, milk and chocolate tasted like heaven, the caffeine boost was something I had never before experienced - and I liked it!

I much prefer a 1% latte with a hint of sweetness these days. Some new favourite locales have been added to our repetoire as well. We LOVE JJ Bean here in Vancouver and anywhere that serves Cherry Hill Coffee. Two years ago Michael bought me an espresso machine as a gift. My morning latte, whether to-go or to stay, is a well savoured ritual. We both practise our latte art prowess and even fancy ourselves baristas! The perfect foam bunny is his Easter morning latte art "accident".

Now I'll even pack the machine itself for a trip to the ski hill, the lake...or just in case!