Category Archives: crazy rant
a crazy rant post
About a month ago, we brought the kids to the store to pick out their costumes for Halloween. My son wanted to be a Pilot, and my daughter chose a Cowgirl outfit. She was very excited about her costume, and has danced around saying “yeehaw” and “giddy up” all month long.
Something very strange happened the weekend before Halloween. During our renovations (which you can read about here, if you’re interested) we knocked down a few walls. Literally 5 days before Halloween, we stumbled across this inside a wall:
At first, it was just plain old funny. Boots inside the wall, what an odd thing to find. But then we realized, hmmm, that’s strange, our girl is going to be a cowgirl this week, that’s awfully coincidental. But it really blew our minds when we realized that these boots were EXACTLY the RIGHT SIZE! Seriously, what are the odds?!?
A few people mentioned that perhaps they were haunted. I’ve chosen to believe that they will be her lucky boots.
I keep getting asked whether I fear the milestone number that’s approaching. And I’ve given it a LOT of thought. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it for years.
Thirty is a good age. In fact, I think it should stick around for a while. Maybe extend the decade a little bit, add in a few more years.
Many people I know who have already crossed the proverbial bridge into their thirties have given me some great insight. I’ve been told over and over again that thirty is the year where you stop questioning who you are, and you finally just KNOW. Yes there is always something more to discover, as there is with anything in life, but it’s more than that. It’s knowing when to trust your instincts. It’s knowing when to stand up for your opinions, and knowing when the battle isn’t worth the fight. It’s knowing that you aren’t perfect, and that you don’t need to strive to be. There’s always going to be room for improvement, and choosing which things to work on will always be a “flavour of the week” thing. Do what makes you happy.
In the words of a great friend of mine, my twenties were full of life-building experiences. Going to school, getting a career established, getting married, having two beautiful children, and filling my life with some FANTASTIC people. True friends, people I love. Now I have the rest of my life to reap what I’ve sewed. Slowly watch my pension build as I put more countless hours into the daily grind (okay, that one is a little less fun, but necessary nevertheless.) Watching my beautiful children grow, and learn and surprise me with their awesomeness every single day. Spending time with so many remarkable people who I am proud to call my friends. People who accept my absolute insanity, and some who specifically love me FOR it. And being amazed with each passing day that the partner I chose to go through these motions with is becoming more and more incredible with each passing day. Thirty is the time where you get to sit back and watch your flowers grow. Water them and nurture them of course, tend the weeds, allow room for growth and change, but most of all enjoy.
Thirty is when you have lived long enough to see that much of the advice you received growing up actually makes sense. And you are old enough to have the sense to listen to reason (sometimes), instead of stubbornly needing to find everything out for yourself. The most important being “it doesn’t matter what other people think.” We spend so much of our lives trying to live up to these self-created ideals that are actually based on what we THINK other people want to see or hear from us. Well, obviously we all need to make an effort to get along with each other. That’s not really what I mean. What I mean is in the details. What you wear, what you watch, where you go. These things are uniquely your own decisions. It’s no one else’s business what you want to do with your spare time, as long as you’re enjoying it, (and not breaking any laws… cause it would be other people’s business if you picked a hobby like cannibalism or bank heists.)
One more point to make is in regards to a working environment. I feel like age gives your more of a leg to stand on in a professional environment. Heck, I suppose it works in a “parenting” environment too. The conundrum is, no matter your level of ability, people do not see you as being as “good as” the more experienced workers/parents/etc. If you haven’t hit that thirty mark, you’re much less likely to become the boss, because frankly, no one in their thirties or forties or whatever they are at really wants to take orders from a twenty year old. And let’s be doubly honest here. I don’t think I would either. If a completely qualified, fresh from university grad came walking in calling himself or herself my boss, I might do that exact thing that I can’t stand. I might be one of those self-righteous “I’ve-been-through-more-of-the-motions-than-you-so-I-am-more-deserving-despite-your-dougie-howser-ability-to-excel-at-something-at-a-young-age” people. I don’t want to be one of them. I want to accept that people can have a knack for something at whatever age they happen to be. But it happens. We forget what it feels like to be young, and able, and treated like an imbecile for no other reason than the numbers on our birth certificates. We fall right into the pattern, despite our better judgement. So to reiterate, thirty is old enough to be taken seriously, but young enough that people don’t think of you as “past your prime” (which is a whole other battle I’ll have to fight a few decades down the road I’m sure.)
So the answer is this. No. I do not fear the number thirty. I embrace it. I feel young and old in perfect harmony. I am surrounded in the best things in life. Children, family, friends and love.
And if all else fails, my husband is older than me, so I will always feel young next to him 😉
She was an easy baby. Much easier than her brother. To the point where I distinctly remember telling myself that this was the calm before the storm. I knew I’d pay for it one day. Although, I thought it would be the teenaged years before payback started.
Well, I’ve learned in the past year that two is the new twelve. I thought I’d lived the terrible twos, but I hadn’t seen nothin’ yet! This girl is sassy! She is the most stubborn person I’ve ever met! Her phrase of choice since around 18 months: “ME DO IT!”
To the untrained eye, she appears to be a very content little girl. But that is simply part of the “arrangement.” As long as I don’t tell, suggest or force her to do anything, she’s a perfect little angel. So the arrangement is, when we are in public, I try REALLY hard to gently shepherd her in the right direction without telling her what to do, where to go, how to go about it, etc. Bribes are an essential part of any outing. (Although I steer away from the word “bribes” and often opt for “physical objects [or food] to encourage persuasion of difficult people.”)
Well, let’s just say that she sure knows how to tell ME where to go! (Not in so many words of course, more so in high-pitched screams, with head tilted back and fists clenched – and if she really wants to make a point, throwing herself onto the floor.)
As soon as she clues in that I would like things to go a certain way, she will go out of her way to steer things in the complete opposite direction. One minute she’ll be asking to leave the park, and as soon as we agree, she doesn’t want to leave. Or she’ll beg for a pair of socks to wear to bed when it’s over thirty degrees outside, only to scream at you that she doesn’t want them after all and she wants them placed back in the same drawer they came from one minute ago, immediately. These things, in writing, sound rather inconsequential. But what you must understand, it is a continuous stream of difficult behavior from this child from dawn until way past dusk. Every little thing is a battle.
Bedtime is the worst. I could probably get by just fine if it wasn’t for bedtime. We’ve tried routines, we’ve tried “crying it out”, we’ve tried to do things her way, our way, grandma’s way, and nothing works. If we do things her way, she tells you exactly how it’s going to go. She wants a book. Now another. And now the first one again. This loop could last for hours, but usually we have to put our foot down. [buzzer] First mistake: cutting off the books. You receive 5 minutes of screaming for your infraction. Now she wants her blankie. And another. And the one with the polka dots, can’t forget that one. And where’s the one with the stripes? Laundry? Uh oh! [buzzer] Second infraction: penalty is repeated whining “ I need my striped blankie”, followed by full-on sobbing on a broken-record repeat cycle until you finally cave and get the damn blankie, dirty from being dragged around the neighbourhood all afternoon, and let her have it. The bright side is, all this blankie drama has distracted her from her other 12 favourite blankies that she MUST have in her bed or she won’t go to sleep. Moving on now to “babies.” Stuffies, dollies, random troll dolls from the nineteen-sixties that she found in the basement at Grandma’s house, the baseball she stole from the neighbour girl that we keep meaning to give back (except that it’s made it’s way into the way-over-complicated bedtime routine and might take a few more days to slowly phase out.) Her water cup. Her back-up water cup. Really child! You’re going to bed, not on a cross-continental trip to Tibet! Although, perhaps you could use one of those. There’s probably a LOT you could learn there. Like how to go to BED!
The bedtime routine continues. She wants you to lie down. She wants to chat about the boy at daycare who hit her FOUR WEEKS AGO. She will repeat this story every night for the next six months I’m sure. (What she won’t tell you is what she did to have it coming! That part is conveniently forgotten.) She wants to hold hands. She wants you to sing “I want to hold your hand.” As adorable as the swaying interlocked hands and the two year old’s Beatle reference is, it is now an hour past bedtime. You don’t want to hold anyone’s hand. You want to hold a glass of wine, a good book, food you can binge-eat, the tv remote… anything else! But you cave, and sing about three rounds of the chorus and then finally give up.
Now, little too late, you try to regain control of the whole event. “Close your eyes, or I’m going to go.” After way too many warnings, you finally get up out of the bed. (Screaming picks up again.) Then the nightly bedtime threats: if you don’t stop crying I’m going to go. I’m going to close your door. I’m going to leave this house and never come baaaack!!! (The third one is reserved for extra special nights only.)
Well, you can see where this is going. Nowhere. It usually ends in both of us screaming, until she finally gives up and goes to sleep.
I don’t know how our neighbours live with us.
Please tell me it gets better for a couple years between now and the hormonal years!
In the meantime, I will live for the daytime, and the moment when the house goes silent at night. I will disregard the two hours of agony in between. The day always comes to an end, and bedtime always finds its place one way or another. Even if, at the end of the day, little Miss Sassypants happens to be wearing flip flops to bed (or clip-clops as she calls them.)
PS: You still want to trade RL?
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When I was about five years old, give or take, the family was out for a drive somewhere. The topic of Sasquatches came up because I believe there was a bike race or music festival of some sort aptly named after the creature in our itinerary.
I didn’t know what a Sasquatch was, so I asked. I wish I never asked. I wish I never learned about the creepy, giant, hairy, man-beasts that lurked in the forests.
Instantly, I feared that these beings not only lived far away in forests, but in fact that there was one who lived under the basement stairs. Little did mom know, it was the highest form of punishment to ask me to go fetch something from down in the basement. It took years to get over the fear of a big, hairy Sasquatch arm potentially reaching between the wooden frames of the wall next to the staircase. In fact, I think I was a teenager when dad actually put the wall up and finished the basement. That helped a little bit.
I still to this day, get rather squeamish when anyone brings up tales of the mythical beast in the wood. Sasquatches are creepy. I’d really rather not think about it. Ignorance is bliss.
The other day, while walking past the miniature train in the park, I saw this set-up:
There was a whole Sasquatch-themed operation going on in the park. In the heavily wooded park. A Sasquatch village. They had plywood cutouts of Sasquatches, they had t-shirts, they even had a puppet show! The miniature train drove through the forest, which likely would have had a man in a yeti-suit jump out and scare all the kids on the train.
My statement is simple: I ask you, what is the target audience for such a set-up? God knows I won’t be bringing my kids there! What the hell were they thinking while putting this together? Did it not occur to a single person that this might terrify children?
I’ll tell you how it would go if my kids noticed that there was a train there. “Mommy, mommy, can we go on the train?” (Except repeating the request about a million times in the whiniest little voices they could muster.)
What I think—>No, you can’t go on the damned train! That train will give you nightmares, which needless to say, don’t have any effect on your energy levels the next morning. Mommy doesn’t get a nap time to recover from the Sasquatch nightmares that will keep you up all night for the next seven f*cking years.
What I say —>”No. Keep walking.”
Some days when I pull into my driveway, the neighbourhood kids come running, chanting my 4-year-old’s name. “Jacob! Jacob! Jacob!” They can’t wait for him to get out of the car so he can run and frolic and play with them.
I have yet to determine why I don’t have the same effect on them, but that’s beside the point.
My point is, why shouldn’t we all get this kind of treatment wherever we go? You know, the “Norm!” from “Cheers” phenomenon. In our usual places, I don’t see why it’s not the way we naturally greet those we’re excited to see. My usual places include the grocery store, work and my kid’s school… so is it really too much to ask?
Perhaps I should write my co-workers a memo:
“in lieu of the regular “good morning” banter, I would like the “how are you’s” and other such rhetoric to be replaced by lively chanting of my name.”
While on the subject, I can suggest that they replace “thank you’s” with rounds of applause. A gentle hand clap for a mundane task? What better morale-boosting camaraderie than a standing ovation for a job well done? Although at the end of the day, I suppose a paycheque will suffice.
So in the spirit of my friend Roxy’s “random acts of kindness,” perhaps mine will be to applaud my friends and co-workers just for being the awesome people they are. Ha ha, who am I kidding, I would be doing it 100% just to fuck with them!