Happy Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for the amazing, inspiring and generous women I have met through blogging.

What are you thankful for?

Ebay Anonymous

So we all know that parenting is one long experiment in trying to fix the 'wrongs' in our own childhoods. We vow never to do certain things or say certain things. If we didn't have wealth we strive to have abundance for our children. If our parents were strict - we are less so. If they were not - we are. If we never got that one special toy we yearned for - our kids will have the ones they want. If we never had Jordache jeans - our daughters will have several pairs. (Not that I'm bitter.)

It's often subconscious. We don't even know we're doing it. Well I do know I'm doing it. I am actively doing it. The biggest example of which might be that I now live in a sunny place where playing outside does not involve 13 layers of clothing and a permanent runny nose. I'm also sentimental. I want my kids to have some connection to my childhood. I bake things with them that I baked. I tell them stories and sing them Scottish folk songs. I make them wear tartan.

To that end - the last time I was home I raided my Dad's attic. I was in search of some remnants from my long lost childhood.
I found them. My Fisher Price A-Frame Cabin and my Fisher Price Camper Van. Oh the memories. I played with those things daily for years. It's possible my RV obsession is rooted here. I was so excited to see my trusty old play pals after all those years. Not all the accessories and people had survived but there was enough. My kids and I were delighted.







We boxed them up and shipped them off to California. It cost a small fortune but what price childhood memories and happy children - it was worth it. Or it would have been if I could have stopped there. I couldn't. I became obsessed with making the sets whole again. Damn you Ebay. I found everything that was missing - yes! At a hugely inflated price - nooooo!

I stepped away. I would end up spending hundreds and I could actually buy complete sets for less that I had already spent.
If only my mind would switch off there. That's not me. It wound itself back to justification. These toys feel like a part of me. They have history, sentiment. I bid. I won. Is there an Ebay anonymous because I need it. I spent $17 on a plastic toilet. My set was complete! My memories restored. Now the girls and I could spend hours together lost in the imaginative play of my youth. Except we don't. They like my old toys - they don't love my old toys. They love their toys - the ones they chose. The sheen has worn off these old treasures already. They clearly did not get my sentimental gene.

Still, not all is lost - if you happened to be in my neighborhood and you happened to peek in my window, it's possible you might see a grown women, with a happy heart and big grin, playing camping.

Hanging By a Thread.

*****************************Christmas Spoiler Alert******************************

I shot myself in the foot. Again. It seems to happen around this time of year.
The subject of Santa has been raised. The three year old is just beginning to feel the magic. The eight year old is skeptical.
She has been told by 'friends' that Santa is a myth. She has been told that Santa is the husband and I. She has doubts.
When asked, I rely on my old staple - that I think a world where we believe in Santa is more fun, so I believe.

I see in her face that she wants to believe and the fact that we have a three year old with full conviction in the house means that's what I'm going to encourage. We talk about why some people don't get a visit from Santa because of religious preferences. We talk about different cultural, traditional and personal choices. We talk about why some people don't believe and it doesn't mean we have to think like them. She skips away seemingly satisfied. Phew, bullet dodged (again.)

Until - you knew it was coming - we go to tidy her room. This too is an annual tradition. We fill a box with toys for others. We clear out months worth of 'treasures', art and broken bits of who knows what. In the back of a drawer full of knick knacks - is a note from Santa - in my hand writing. I wrote it when she was 2 or 3. It was a little note for her stocking. I can see myself writing it - I thought it was such a cute idea. The eight year old looks delighted and deflated all at once.

"This is your writing mom - I know it is."

Well crap. There's no point in denying it. This is one of those moments. I feel like I am holding her childhood in my hand.
You hear people still talking about when they uncloaked Santa thirty years after the fact. Running through my head is the phrase - 'don't blow it.' I put on my best poker face and confidently state;

"Well sure, that's my writing. Santa brings you his one present but I think it's fun to write gift tags from Santa. I always write 'from Santa' on Daddy's gift. It's just my tradition." My tone is light. Inside my guts are churning and my heart is banging in my chest. Her face relaxes. She smiles.

"This year let's keep the tag that's actually from Santa OK?"

"Great idea," I say casually.

Parenting - not for the faint of heart.

Sunday Ride.

Bike rides. A perfect wholesome family activity. It's fun, it's exercise, it's outdoors - it is childhood perfection.
Unless you have a three year old. Actually our three year old is particularly tenacious. She hopped on her big girl bike and never looked back. As long as we dangle a chocolate milk as part of the proceedings she is good for an hour or more.

So, with the sun finally shining after a few days of rain and housebound boredom, we began the half hour process that is setting up a family of four for a bike ride. Once all helmet straps are fiddled with, favorite stuffies are tucked into baskets (with a blanket) snacks and water are packed, tires inflated, seat heights adjusted and spare warm clothes rejected - we head out.

It is a perfect day, sunny but crisp. The roads are quiet. The fall colors are stunning. As we peddle along I feel the wind in my hair - this is a golden moment - until the three year old stops dead causing me to ram into the back of her and fall off my bike.

"What happened sweetie?" I say through gritted teeth.

"There's a leaf."

A leaf. A leaf is the cause of my sore elbow and bruised pride. Not a particularly special or different leaf. In fact, a leaf much like the 25,000 others lying in the road all around us.

"Did you want that leaf for something?"

"Nope - it's just a leaf."

We have a short discussion about stopping. When you should - when you shouldn't. We proceed. She stops again. I have learned by lesson and have kept a safe distance.

"Why are you stopping sweetie?"

"The road is bendy."

"What do you mean?"

"It bends down here and I'm going to fall off."

She means the camber towards the curb. I patiently explain that her bike has stabilizers and will prevent her from tipping. She's safe. We carry on. When I say we carry on - you might imagine that means we cycle for some way. It doesn't - it means we cycle maybe ten feet then stop to re-arrange bunnies' blanket in the basket. Then we might make it thirty feet when a stick catches her eye. A car passing in the other direction needs careful observation - it's blue! Eight feet - her helmet needs re-adjustment. Fifteen feet, she's hungry. Forty feet (a marathon) she's cold (extra sweater applied.) Then tired, then too hot (extra sweater removed.) I have had to stop suddenly so many times my brakes are squealing.

The husband and the eight year old cycle back to us occasionally. They are flushed with exertion and have that happy ruddy glow. I want to scream. I am placated by some soothing words from The Husband;

"I'll ride with her on the way back" and a very welcome decaf cappuccino.

I want to see the joy in the Three year old's meandering ways. Her delight at the simple things. Her love of discovery. I do.
I also want to complete one full rotation of my tyre before applying the brakes.
I know that you more tenured parents will tell me that all too soon I will be lamenting the fact that bike rides don't include me at all. When is the happy medium?

Post Halloween.

The five day candy marathon that was Halloween has finally ended. Was it just me or was there a shift from Jnr. hooker to Jnr. horror this year? I did not see many young girls in sexy outfits - for which I am grateful. Is it possible that the tide has turned on that disturbing trend? Let's hope so but I fear it has just been replaced by the fascination with all things terrifying and gory.
The whole horror thing is bizarre to me. Spooky - fine. Ghosts, ghouls and witches - perfect. Scream masks and body suits with blood dripping down them - not so much. We all know that I am a great big girl's blouse and I would prefer it if everyone just choose fairy or bunny outfits but I just don't get a five year old in an outfit from a horror movie.

Then there's the whole issue of manners. Is it really too much for you to say Trick or Treat or Happy Halloween?
I know, I know, these statements mean I have officially entered the realm of old lady. So be it. Say please, say thank you - it's important.

This year I saw a lot more homemade costumes this year and some fabulous creativity. The eight year old went to parties where she bobbed for apples and made mummies out of toilet paper. Good old fashioned family fun. Predictably, I love it.
Children squealing with laughter, playing together, working in teams - it makes my little heart gleeful. I can't help but feel it's what we need. Sweet, simple fun.

The three year old chose full Oscar style. For the few days leading up to Halloween she changed her outfit every, oh, five minutes.
"Mom, I'm not going to be a bee anymore, I'm going to be a fairy."
Hmmm - let's see - I spent four hours sewing yellow ribbon stripes onto black clothes - so, no, I don't think so.
Mysteriously all other dress up disappeared from our home over night. Don't judge me - she had a great costume and got a huge bag of goodies - she was fine.

My parenting job was done, traditions kept, memories made. I just wished I planned a week in Hawaii to recover from it all.