the stockings

My attempt to "do" Christmas this year was going to consist of making some stockings and filling them with a few little things.

Not being with my inlaws this year means we don't have the tree and the presents and the candy and the religion by default.

So there has been no real talk of Santa, but the Monster does like loading up his pillow-sleigh with toys and dragging them around the house "for all the kids". And yesterday he said: "I'm so hungry, I'm going to eat Christmas!"

We haven't really talked about Santa because I can't bring myself to participate in the whole lie/fantasy, but we also don't want him to ruin his friends' delusions/fantasies. I kind of mumble a half-assed version of this, but I can't figure out how to make it coherent with all the prezzies his friends are going to be rolling around in.

Good thing that this age isn't all about solid logic and sound theoretical reasoning.

Back to the stockings.

When I say that I was going to make them, I was clearly a bit delusional. I imagined simple, anti-commercial, much-loved, unique stockings, to be increasingly decorated with cuteness and funkiness as the years went by and our family built our own traditions.

I bought some funky orange fabric when I was in Buenos Aires (see? I was planning and prepared and everything!), and I asked my partner to get me some fabric glue yesterday. (You didn't actually think I was going to sew! I wish I could say that it at least crossed my mind, but no.)

Now, I know perfectly well that it is completely unfair to blame this all on the glue, but that's what I'm going to do. I imagined a glue stick kind of thing, and he brought me a crazy glue kind of thing. Picture a gloppy, stringy, uber-sticky, impossible-to-apply-evenly mess.

I'm sure the stockings would not have lived up to my imagination anyways. But, they are so...wierd...that when I showed them to Macondo Papa we both kind of laughed, snorted, and cackled that This-Is-So-Funny/Embarrassing/Wierd kind of laugh.

Good thing I don't really care that much, and neither will anyone else.

Plus, I impressed myself and totally came through for Chanukah (at the Monster's prodding, I must admit). We made plasticine dreidels, we remembered to light the candles every night, and we even Skype-sang the Chanukah songs with the grandparents.

I still have Three Kings' Day to figure out. What to do about the lie/fantasy about the camels that will come a-visiting for some grass and a drink of water?

Too bad there is already so much celebrating to do. I would have loved to have tried for a fun Solstice celebration, but enough is enough.

:::::

One evening in my bilingual relationship:

me: I think we should do stockings for Christmas.

him: You want to spy on someone and follow them around?

me: (ha ha ha ha ha!) That's stalking. This is s-t-o-c-k-ing.

him: You think we should accumulate stuff for the winter, so that we have a stock?

me: Christmas stockings, they're like socks. You hang them from the fireplace, with goodies inside. We could hang them from the staircase.

him: Oh, Christmas sock-y things. Ok, whatever. We can use my socks, if you want.

Driving in Macondo and small-town bureaucracy

I wrote this post before the loss of my beloved bag last week. Some or all of my affection for local bureaucracy may be put to the test in the weeks and months to come.

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License to drive

me: Good morning. I need a driver's license.

her: Give me two pictures, a photocopy of your ID card, and your blood type.

Notice the absence of the following requirements:
- a previous driver's license
- a current driver's license
- knowing how to drive

I guess that both Buenos Aires and Toronto are pretty good evidence that driver education and driving tests do not good drivers make....

Now I just have to laminate my flimsy, official little piece of paper, and I am set.

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(Not) Getting paid

Breezing through bureaucracy is not the usual, here in Argentina. This is the reason that my kids are still here on overstayed tourist visas.

And my partner still hasn't been paid, for example, for the job that he officially started in April, with a contract not signed until August, followed by months of X-rays, psychological tests, dental exams, certified diplomas, waiting in lines and filling out forms by triplicate, all collected in a specific type of folder and submitted over two months ago. It may take yet another month, because one of the forms included his middle name, and, alas, the rest did not.

This is normal. Yes, all this is for a job. A normal job.

When he does get paid, it will be another several weeks until he will be able to stand in line all day to be able to withdraw it from his not-yet-in-existence bank account that must be opened and used for this purpose. He may or may not ever get a debit card for said account.

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I could go on - it really is more absurd than you could probably imagine.

But my shiny new driver's license was painless, and no newcomer to Toronto or Buenos Aires can say that.

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The small-town, Latin American bureaucratic office

The overly spacious or impossibly cramped room, big metal fan standing in a corner (not turned on, of course), naked light bulb with perilous wiring, two or three lone seats, thick binders labelled with fat markers stacked on the shelves, and The Desk.

The large, bare desk, with a telephone, an ashtray, a few pens and some scissors. Possibly a calculator, or a hole punch. Perhaps a small plant.

And, of course, a little pile of Important Stamps - the goal of visiting such an office is inevitably to have one of those stamps pounded onto one or more important pieces of paper.

But... NO COMPUTER. Possibly, in a corner, a typewriter. Yes, a typewriter. Think back to the last time you saw a desk anywhere without a computer. I know, it's crazy.

Sometimes, this small-town home of the ubiquitous tramite (bureaucratic process or transaction) reminds me of the slimy, moustached police officers and border guards on power trips from my backpacking days. Ick.

But, when it isn't way too hot and crowded to be sentimental, I also feel a bit of affection for these places, which surely are doomed to extinction, eventually.

And when I imagine what the lines would be like in Buenos Aires, I can't complain. I just load on the bug spray and wait my turn. And having a kid in tow means I jump to the front of the line.

Woe is me

What a shitty, shitty, shitty day.

Screw rigour. I am not going to try to find any little pearl of wisdom, universal theme or thread of deep thought in all of this. I am not going to worry about boring my mysterious readers (who are you guys, anyways?) Do come back for another post, another day. But now I am just going to describe the shittiness of my day. And I probably won't even do it justice, because it is really shitty.

I lost my bag. My BAG. It is gone, gone, gone. I want to cry and carry on for a little while, rather than accept it and put it into that odious "perspective": at least we are all healthy, blah blah blah.

Macondo Papa wishes that I would stop, that I would get over it, that the kids shouldn't see me like this. Well kids, it's time that you learned this: when I'm not on auto-drive, in patience-infused mama-land, I Cry A Lot. Not always this gushing, sobbing kind of crying, but tears and wobbly-voice make very regular appearances in my life. So there you go.

Right now, I don't want to have to do one single thing more for anyone other than myself. And all I want to do for myself is to feel sorry for myself for a little while, since I can't do anything else.* Boo hoo hoo.

(*I tried to hang on to all these feelings long enough to get this blog post written before life took over, but no luck. It's already two days later. I still feel sorry for myself, but not with quite the same passion as before. Macondo Papa made me some freshly squeezed orange juice. I squeezed in a nap at some point. The monster wanted to play "something fun like 'dance teacher' or 'shark'" to make me feel better.)

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On Monday night, the 15-month-old monkey and I got on another overnight bus to Buenos Aires.

Why do we take these trips every two months or so? Ah, the wierd, random details of my life. To take advantage of the last drops of the best health insurance coverage I will probably ever have in my life, just before we left Canada I got invisible braces. Check them out, they're cool. And they were free, covered by my benefits package. But I have to follow up every now and then with a certified, invisible-braces orthodontist. There are only four in Argentina, and they are all in Buenos Aires.

So, yes, I've been taking 12-hour bus rides with my toddler every two months to visit the orthodontist. Anyways...

While these trips are exhausting and expensive, it is also nice to get to Buenos Aires every now and then. I watch people, I go bra shopping, I browse book stores, I eat empanadas. I soak in the big city. I contrast my beach and my alligators and my bizarre Macondo anecdotes and encounters with the beauty and insanity and noise of Buenos Aires, and my brain has some stuff to chew on and some perspective to glean for a while.

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The post I would have written, had I not LOST MY BAG, would have been about these impressions that I gather, and about the luxuries I indulge in (eating empanadas, buying the latest Le Monde Diplomatique, walking along Corrientes Avenue).

I also would have written about the incredible amount of work that it is to travel alone with a little one. And how well I pull it off.

But now I am writing a post about how hard I worked on this trip, how exhausting it was, how good I felt about how I had managed it all, and how I managed to completely fuck it all up and make it completely meaningless and pointless and just a gigantic pain in the ass.

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First, I must credit the monkey - he is an excellent traveller, so I fully appreciate that it could have been a lot harder.

If this were that other post that I was going to write, I would tell you about how he slept, he didn't get sick, he didn't poo anywhere inconvenient, he smiled and waved at all the right people, at all the right times. He let me carry him around in the sling for endless hours, with only minor and occasional complaints.

But still.

Twelve hours on a bus with an energetic little dude takes a lot of energy and a big bag of tricks. Offering our unused champagne cup as a new toy at just the right time; a fun game of fingers crawling on the window instead of eating my dinner; a concerted effort to not have to use the bathroom for the entire trip, because it would just be way too complicated. And booby all night long.

Then lug baby, suitcase and bag (oh, my BAG) through the bus terminal, walk several blocks to the subway station, take two subways, walk several blocks, and get to hostel. Now, if you can, imagine what you think that might all look like in Buenos Aires, with noise, crowds, broken sidewalks, and less-than-convenient subway transfer points.

Now, fill two full days with the following ingredients:

- a one hour bus ride there and back to the orthodontist

- a visit with the orthodontist with toddler on my lap, keeping him out of her box of old toothbrushes (why does she have such a box?)

- some play time and exploring time in our hostel, which is absolutely lovely but not without some scary-looking electrical outlets, a breakable-looking stereo system, a few irresistible stairs to practice endlessly on, other people's rooms to break into, and several deadly balconies

- not going to the bathroom ONE. SINGLE. TIME. without the monkey, except for one super quicky before bedtime, because I was afraid he would wake up and/or fall out of bed

- making sure he didn't fall out of our bed all night long (I couldn't push it up against a wall)

- restaurants! Trying to feed the monkey, trying to feed myself, wondering why on earth high chairs in this country do not have that middle bar that goes between the legs, or any kind of strap or other type of safety feature

- Chanukah and Christmas shopping with the 11-kg monkey on my back

- a return trip to the bus terminal, and another 12-hour bus ride home

- waiting (= keeping the monkey entertained and happy, without destroying any property) at the bus terminal for another 45 minutes for Macondo Papa and the monster to show up

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I did all that. I was exhausted, but happy to be home. Happy to pick up the monster and see his shy smile as I kissed him and told him how much I'd missed him. Happy to feel Macondo Papa's arms hug me quickly before he grabbed the monkey out of my arms for some tossing up into the air.

I felt good about some of the special moments I had shared with the monkey, without the distractions of the internet, the dirty dishes, the demanding older brother. I felt proud about how hard I had worked and how well it had gone. And completely exhausted, I was looking forward to a bit of down time.

We loaded up the car, drove for 40 minutes, unloaded the kids and...MY BAG WAS NOT IN THE CAR.

I had set it down to strap the monkey into his car seat, and I left it there in the parking lot.

I panicked and freaked. I wanted to run back to the bus station, but Macondo Papa wouldn't let me. He called, got transferred around. Somebody checked, it wasn't there.

My mind raced: All that I had done, the kazillion details I had managed so well throughout the trip, and I was so close to being peacefully and thankfully at home, and at the very last moment I had spaced out and done something so stupid and LOST MY BAG. It wasn't fair. I can't convey how unfair it was.

I wanted to go to back to the bus station, but MP wouldn't let me go in the state I was in, so he went, against his will. Again, how unfair! Of course he didn't find anything, and meanwhile I was a wreck and I had two kids to take care of by myself for 2 hours. Not the way I had envisioned my return.

What, you may wonder, was in the bag? (The most awesome diaper bag, by the way, that I bought on a memorable day with my best friend when we were both about 8 months pregnant, that only cost $25, that was the perfect size, with the perfect pockets, the perfect colour brown, that I was going to be able to use as my bag even when I no longer had to lug diapers around.)

• Money - I have no idea how much, probably about $70 US, which is a whole lot to us right now, but not so important, in the end.

• Credit cards - I spent the afternoon Skyping with Visa and Mastercard; it's the only way we can call overseas. Good thing the power didn't go out (a frequent occurrence).
  

• Driver's licenses - Canadian and Argentinian.
  

• National Identity Card - this is going to be a major headache.
  

• Cell phone - boo hoo.
  

• Memory card with all of the photos we've taken over the last few weeks, which we hadn't downloaded yet. With a video of the monster singing "Dreidel dreidel dreidel" all by himself. Boo Hoo!
  

• Change of clothes and a few toys for the monkey, no big deal.
  

• THE REST OF MY FUCKING INVISIBLE BRACES. I only had two more to go. Just one month until I was done. Only one more visit to the bloody orthodontist. Now, to continue I would need to go to Buenos Aires to get the molds taken, pay $300 US to send them off, and $900 US for the replacements, along with at least another two follow-up visits. I can't do it. It's way too much money, especially for what were supposed to be essentially free braces, other than the expense of the visits to Buenos Aires.
  

Okay, I'm done complaining for now. I know it's all just stuff. Not even a hard drive, or a lifetime of photos, or an irreplaceable address book. On Monday, I'll file a police report to get the ball rolling to replace some of the ID that I lost. Life will go on.

Maybe it hit me so hard because of my exhaustion. Because of all the effort wasted. (My teeth!) Because I wanted to write about other things but instead had to write about this first. Because instead of a happy and cuddly rejoining with the rest of my family, I got panic and tears, money wasted and more work to do.

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Have you lost anything valuable? Are you able to keep things in perspective, about what really matters, all the time? Do your kids see you cry? Have you travelled alone with little ones?

Sneezing for laughs

How I love these quirky, intimate moments with the little ones.

On the drive home from our friends' place, the monkey starts crying and doesn't stop. Since Macondo Papa isn't there, and I'm driving, I can't climb into the back seat on the go and smush my boob into his mouth while he's strapped into his car seat (sounds really safe, I know).

The monster and I try singing to him, playing the kiddie CD that's already in the CD player (maria elena walsh =  brilliant) and finally hit on the one thing that has always managed to get a good laugh out of him.

We start sneezing.

Ha-choo. Ha-choo! Ha-ha-ha-CHOO!

And since we're a bilingual family:

Ha-chis! Ha-ha-chis! HA-CHISSS!

And so on. (You might not have known that ha-choo in Spanish is ha-chis. I try to keep my blog educational...)

Well, it didn't have him hysterical with laughter like it usually does, but he stopped crying for the remaining 15 minutes of the drive.

And the monster and i had a pretty good time of it too.

On motherhood and rigour

I have this desire to write profound words about all this and many other half-written posts. To reflect upon it all in a deep and meaningful way. To write something really honest, or thought-provoking.

I am feeling less than thoughtful lately (as in less than 'full of thoughts', not as in considerate, although probably that, too).

At the same time, though, I am trying to be patient with myself, and trust that my brain power may return one day. Sleeplessness, house chaos, spousal exam stress, intense heat - when these things pass, my lazy brain might roll out of its bed now and then.

Is it okay to wait a few years? Because that seems like a really long time. But how can it be sooner?

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At times, I'm convinced that it is okay for me to take this time while the monkey is still small and I figure out how to live here. To not already have developed a few good PhD ideas to toss around. To not have followed global and regional affairs as closely as I would have liked. To write about whatever, to think less than rigorously, to not find that essence in the everyday that makes the best mommy blogging - and the best cultural commentary in general - so honest and meaningful and provocative.

By writing about whatever, I am practicing something else that is important and doesn't come to me easily: just jumping in and doing something, even when it isn't perfect or great. Yes, I edit a couple of hundred times, but in the end I do it. I am finally, finally starting to write. Even if I am writing crap, it is still a good thing (for me, not for you...). If I didn't have a good excuse for my lack of depth (no time, no sleep, no life), I might have never started writing at all.

And, AND! I am finally starting to think (really think, even if it isn't profound, I am actually dedicating quite a bit of thinking time and energy to this) about me and my life and my family and my body and my feelings and my past and present and future.

I have always shied away (honestly, fled would be more like it) from doing the me and my life thinking that I think will make me more me, and also a better mother, lover/partner (I just can't say wife), friend, woman.

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I am a lazy thinker.

I love good books and films and articles and theories and analyses, for example, but rarely retain enough information to make effective use of the information later on, or linger long enough to squeeze out the really juicy stuff that is a little harder to extract.

I lack rigour.

This is why I love (and hate) being a student. Insanely long reading lists, articulate smart people, intimidating assignments - these things bring out the rigour in me (though they cause me a great deal of anguish and self-doubt in the process).

Motherhood, on the other hand - and especially stay-at-home motherhood - while important and rewarding and challenging to my core - has not exactly honed my critical analysis skills. Instead, it has been my justification for kind of setting them aside for now.

I am still outraged by the outrageous, and I still get excited when I read some kick-ass analysis. But I read (WAY) less. I often don't even get past the headlines. And I don't do anything with any ideas that might spontaneously arise. I am lazy, lazy, lazy.

As I write this I am thinking how cool it would be to somehow be more serious about all my bloggy reading and thinking and writing, and create something resembling a course, a reading list, a seminar, a study group. Something with some rigour, focused on an area that I am finding myself able to concentrate on a bit and also from which I am benefiting enormously. (Really, reading some of the brilliant mama blogginess out there is so inspiring, and I am learning so much). I will just leave the idea there for now, because it would take a lot of time and thinking to give it a structure and make it work. This is what I do, think of things, and then get lazy and let them fade away...

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Back in grade 10 English, I read a short story by Kurt Vonnegut that has somehow defied my knack for forgetting all the details about anything excellent that I read.

It was about a society built on a tyrannical brand of Equality. So that nobody should benefit unfairly from their various types of privilege, everyone had their strengths amputated or neutralized; equality meant imposing the lowest common denominator in every sphere of life. The protagonist's father was a smart guy, so he had to have some noise-making device buzzing loudly in his ear every 30 seconds or so, interrupting whatever smart or coherent thought he might have been incubating. The really loud buzzes were called doozies.

(Seems like a stab at socialism, but come on, not from our beloved Kurt Vonnegut! It must be brilliant and lefty, right? Anyways, since I am lazy and I lack rigour, you can read this, and I will get back to being self-absorbed.)

Since becoming a mother, I have been reminded of this story so many times.

My days are filled with constant, unrelenting interruptions - doozies - with absolutely no respect for what else might be happening, what thoughts might be forming, what ideas might be taking shape, what interesting or important conversation might be developing, often to be cut short and then forgotten, or abandoned, or reduced to that which can be completed in unconnected, five-minute one-minute bursts of time.

Interruptions like diapers and nursing and boo-boos and potty and play-with-me and all that, but also the infinity of indescribable, really important nothings that require stopping everything Right Now, all the time.

Mom, mom, mom, mom! Mom! Mom! LOOK! - what is it? - Look how I can bend my thumb.

And I believe that all these interruptions not only make it exceedingly difficult to get stuff done (like the dishes, finishing the page you're reading, sending an email), but they interfere significantly with forming thoughts, memories and plans.

They really do impede intelligence, these doozies.

Since I accept that having small kids is naturally and understandably doozy-filled, I am left with this: the sincere hope that when the interruptions subside, thoughtfulness may return. Other than being a bit out of practice, I see no reason why it shouldn't, but it does feel a bit scary (or lazy) to just go with that and hope for the best.

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I started writing this post because I was sad and frustrated with my limited opportunities for real thinking, and my limited success whenever I did give it a try.

Why don't I try to dedicate some time to developing a good PhD idea? Why am I going nowhere with this?

I am antsy. Something is missing. I assume it is a little bit of brain activity that I need. Some stimulation. Saying or writing something Good, something Interesting. (Insert usual disclaimer here: yes, yes, mothering is also Good and Interesting, and I love it, and I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. But...)

Sometimes I think I need to get some more paid work, to de-antsify myself. But without a dream job on the horizon for now, I don't know why I think that a not-so-fulfilling job would somehow be more fulfilling than Mothering: The Most Fulfilling Thing in the World.

Do I like finding a good translation for "gendered" more than playing this-dinosaur-is-really-hungry-and-is-GONNA-EAT-YOU? Do I like teaching the conditional tense more than reading Green Eggs and Ham?

Are these fair questions?

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I am perplexed by the excellent writing and thinking and activism I come across by other mothers with small children. Envious. Impressed. Curious. Ashamed. Intimidated.

How do they do it?

I don't want my 'mommy brain' feelings to validate any mother-dismissing, 'it's just the hormones and the lack of sleep' discourses circulating out there. Clearly, there are lots of sharp, rigorous mamas out there, with voices that the world needs to hear. I wish they were all my friends.

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All these fragments are about the same thing. A well written piece would have strung them together in a logical and compelling argument. I am lazy. Fragments are cool too, sometimes, but that is no excuse.

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Why do all of my attempts to write about sadness and frustration turn into hand-holding pep talks and wierd attempts to be funny?

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I have reread this post countless times over the past few days. But not one of them has been uninterrupted. I'm sure I've forgotten some really wonderful things I was going to say, but here goes anyways - Publish Post, click.

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(as i continue to obsess with geeky blog details, i have registered my blog at technorati. i am not sure how it works or what it is, but i assume that once i am all signed up, i can start to figure it out. they have asked me to put this code in a post, and so here it is: M92P864XP7XZ)

If you are still reading, you might be interested to know that I have added a 'subscribe by email' option in the sidebar, so that you can get your 'mama in macondo' posts delivered right to your inbox. Go check it out. Subscribe. And let me know what you think, too!

Things I wish you wouldn't say to my preschooler

Unfortunately, we have heard all of these over the past few days:

You're big now, you don't cry anymore. That's for babies.
Macondo Papa's advice for the monster: "That's ridiculous, everyone cries! The next time your teacher tells you that, tell them that it's ridiculous!"

(Speaking loudly about his little brother):
Look at that smile! You're the friendly one, aren't you? What a cutie!!! etc. etc. gush, gush, gush.
I said, "His big brother is really friendly too. Now that he's big though, he just doesn't feel like smiling and waving at people all the time." Have you people no understanding of what shit like this does to an older sibling? On an already not-so-great day?

(In a strong Spanish accent):  
Hello. How are you?
No blame for this one, just trying to be friendly, but my poor guy doesn't understand why people don't just speak to him in Spanish like everyone else, and why they all giggle in amazement when he slips up and lets them hear him say something to me in English. I say (in Spanish), "Did you hear that? They wish they could speak English as well as you can!"

Look at you, so cool not buckled in to your car seat. Like a big kid! 
A momentary lapse of judgment from Macondo Papa, hopefully not really registered and quickly forgotten...

Ha ha ha ha ha!
From a four-year-old boy we met at the park, laughing in my son's face at his stuttering as he so earnestly tried to tell his new friend all kinds of things. Poor little monster, my heart ached at your potential future pain from this one.

You can't have the pink one, it's for girls.
Ugggghh!

You ran around like a crazy bunch of Indians all morning - what fun!
Ugggghh ugggghh! 

No, not now, stop that, don't do that, hurry up, come here, sit down, I'm getting angry...
My own stellar parenting skills.

It's hard to know how to deal with all these (other than my own, which would benefit from some deep breathing, better sleep, AND JUST A LITTLE BIT OF TIME ALONE).

I've started speaking up more in front of others, saying things like "If you don't like it when she touches your hair / talks to you in English / tries to kiss you, then tell her that you don't like it."

The bilingualism adds an extra layer of complication to this, because I have to switch into Spanish to get the desired effect (back off, lady!). That adds a bit of wierdness to it for the monster, since I always speak to him in English. It also makes it quite obvious to all that I'm speaking to the monster - loudly and clearly enough to be overheard - as an easier and more socially acceptable way of saying what I'd really like to say (back off, mister!).

What kinds of comments do you wish your kids didn't hear? What do you do? How important do you think these unwanted outside influences really are?

froggy poop

photo taken in my front yard

 

Sometimes, people who know that I have a biology degree ask me things like, "what should I do about this festering wound my dog has?" and "how many different kinds of scorpions are there?". It's as if they think that all those years of study should be useful, or something.

Well, I guess I know a thing or two about cell division, evolutionary theory, plant hormones, and other such cool things. But I seem to have this built-in attraction to all things unemployable and otherwise inapplicable. I spent my undergrad years focusing mainly on intertidal life, especially the really cool stuff, like algae, nudibranchs and anemones. I love that stuff.

So, not only have I never ever had a real biology-related job, but my biology background really hasn't been helpful in any way, other than that learning-for-the-sake-of-learning thing.*

For example, when I started seeing poop like this on my patio every day, I assumed it was cat poop. Day after day. For months. Until one day, my also-biologist partner, Macondo Papa, realized that it was frog poop. Frog Poop! So much for our biology cred...


There are lots and lots of frogs around these parts. Big ones. The one at the top of my sidebar had just pounced on a grasshopper and swallowed it whole. See the bit of the poor guy sticking out of its mouth? The grasshopper put up a fight from the inside, but alas, was eventually turned into just another piece of poop like the one pictured here.

Anyways, I like knowing that it's frog poop littering our patio. It feels all jungly-authentic, and I somehow enjoy the morning ritual of sweeping it away a lot more now.

*Oh! And it led to one of my first bonding moments with Macondo Papa (formerly "f." on this blog - I don't know why 'Macondo Papa' didn't occur to me until just now). He was sitting next to me on an all-night bus ride in Mexico, way back when. After the obvious "where are you from"s and "how long have you been travelling"s, we discovered that we both had biology degrees that we would probably never use! He keeps finding sneaky creative ways to use his, though.

remind me, what are we doing here?

I just discovered this awesome blog, and I am eating it up. She is smart and funny, and she has eased a whole whack of my mama anxiety with her writing about ambivalence and motherhood.  All things I wish that I had read before I put together these clumsy and not-really-what-I-wanted-to-say posts. (This piece, at Bitch PhD, is also very honest and powerful.)

Then I read this post, about her son's first day at his "supportive, respectful, non-authoritarian, play-based, hippie co-op" preschool. (That just sounds so GOOD!) And now, after a few days of anxiety over unfair comparisons to my reality, I am wondering if a self-imposed quarantine from such folk might be better for my mama anxiety after all, given that I have chosen to move to Macondo and deprive my kids of all manner of good things.

I'll keep reading her blog, and I'll let my anxiety levels do what they must, but the thought of communities out there with this kind of parents and kids and schools and public spaces keeps me well-supplied with envy.

I have fantasies about my kids frolicking around with their friends, being lovingly co-parented in a diverse community full of sugar-free snacks, organic food, North American bedtimes, public alternative schools, gender analysis, gay friends, brown friends, friends who use car seats, and a general avoidance of Disney, Nestle, Barbie, toy guns and plastic.

This would have kind of been my world if I had stayed in Toronto. (Along with sub-human winters, crappy rental housing and smog, lest I forget.)

Some of this good stuff we can give to our kids at home. But it's not quite the same if they're still getting Transformer or Barbie crap in their lootbags, if they're taught to stand up straight in the 'boys' line' at school and sing songs to the bloody flag, and if all their schoolmates are eating cheesies and pretending to shoot each other.

I think that as the kids get older I will start to get a better sense of how these battles for our kids' hearts and minds will play out. How will our parenting fare when the kids are more fully subjected to other social, media and corporate influences? Can we be that family with the critical, independent, creative kids, despite the traditional schools and mainstream friends? Will they appreciate their books and bilingualism and pursue their passions, or will they just feel unfairly deprived of Coca-Cola and television?

In the meantime, I am trying to work my way through many of these issues, but it is such a mess. Because, obviously, there are good things here in Argentina, and Macondo, too. Lots of them. We came here, in fact, because we wanted to, because we thought that it would be best for our family.

Plus, it's not like organic sunscreen, attachment parenting and gender neutrality are the norm out there (just that they're available, which is still a lot, compared to nothing). And they don't always (or ever) go hand in hand with other good stuff, like non-consumerism, anti-capitalism, class consciousness, free university educations, short and mild winters, or living close to the kids' cousins (which are not necessarily the norm here, but they're available, which is still a lot, compared to nothing).

I know that most parents must face these kinds of issues, no matter where they live. But I do feel like it is especially challenging for immigrant and multicultural families, and I am totally new at all this (new at parenting, new at being an immigrant, and new at writing about it).

So I need to figure out where I stand on things and what I can do about it, and start writing about the good things too. Stay tuned.

well, i got his blog name right.

when the monkey started climbing the stairs, we eventually got around to getting a gate.

when he started climbing the kiddie chairs, we stacked them in a hidden corner and only took them out when they were in use.

when we finally got a bookshelf, he immediately started climbing it, and we just kind of held our breath and hoped for the best.

but what do i do now that his favourite thing to do is scale our hard, wooden, grown-up chairs on our hard, unforgiving, tiled floor?

and what does he do once he's up on the chair (or upside-down bowl, precarious edge of a bed, or push-toy with WHEELS)?

he stands up and he dances! stomp stomp, bounce bounce, clap clap.

if i just kind of let him, and hope for the best, is that still benign neglect, or just plain old neglect?

i've already tried the "no climbing!" approach, but he thought it over and decided not to take my advice.
the alternatives seem to be limited :

1. living in a chairless house
2. spotting him all the time, and therefore not sweeping a floor, preparing a meal or going pee again until he's over this stage

suggestions?

about toys, no toys and non-toy toys

welcome to my post about toys, in which i ramble on about the local school, recount our toy purge when we left canada, vaguely describe my kids' current toy collection, and share a link to Los Bicharracos, where you can get a 10% discount off beautiful hand-made wooden toys and learning bikes. 

(it might be a bit much to order toys from argentina if you don't live in argentina, but people have been known to do wilder things than that, so go ahead, i promise i'll think you're the coolest. it won't be expensive, given the exchange rates (plus that whole thing about cheap third world labour). you could also help him get the word out by becoming a fan of his products on facebook.)

and, in preparation for the season of obnoxious toy bombardment, i'd also like to share this excellent guide to commercial-free holidays: tips for resisting holiday hype, by campaign for a commercial-free childhood.

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we just came back from the local kindergarten, hoping to take a look around and maybe enroll the monster for next year. we're still undecided. we're not thrilled with the private school he's in right now, which is also 30 km away, so we thought maybe we would save a whole lot of money we don't have and try the local public school here.

in theory, i love the idea. in practice, i'm still undecided. and in reality, it might not matter at all because there are no spaces left and a long waiting list.

if we somehow eventually get a spot, then i will write more about the school and our decision-making process.

but for now, get this:

the rooms (one junior kindergarten and two senior kindergartens) had almost no toys. almost no toys. considerably fewer toys than his current school, and next to nothing compared to his (public) daycare in canada.

i paid closest attention to the junior kindergarten room, which is where the monster would be next year. there was a play kitchen, a doll bed and some stuffed animals, a small bowl of blocks, a small bowl of lego-type pieces and a large chalkboard with coloured pieces of chalk. there was also lots of art work hung all around, and lots of mini tables and chairs.

so, without getting into the pros and cons of this school (and most importantly, its lack of proper funding and infrastructure), i thought i'd just say that the scarcity of toys at the school doesn't bother me at all. i'm told they do lots of crafts and lots of outside play time. they have music time and story time. sounds good to me.

it's not that i'm against toys or anything. it's just that i know that kids will find ways to play with or without lots of toys, especially for just three hours a day and with lots of other kids around.

i would love to hear any thoughts any of you might have on this.
 
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kids will find a way to play with just about anything. often the least likely objects become favourite toys.

my monkey is obsessed with shoes. and jars with lids. give him a jar big enough to put a shoe in, and a lid he can put on and off, repeatedly, and you can almost write a whole blog post while he experiments with the endless fun.

and then there's the monster, who picked up this IUD applicator my partner had temporarily dumped onto the kitchen table when he came back from giving a sex ed talk at the local high school. it quickly became a favourite toy, until i managed to sneak it into the garbage a week or so later.

(my bilingual boys is hosting a giveaway for a $25 gift card at amazon. there are several ways to enter, including writing about what toys your kids actually play with and linking to one of her posts about toys. while i doubt that i will win the giveaway, i hope that i might win the 'Most Unusual Answer' title.)

what non-toy toys do your kids like?

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a year ago today - the day before we said goodbye to canada and got on a plane for a very long flight to our new home - i had some of my favourite mama friends over for a toy grab while f. and i madly finished packing, cleaning, throwing stuff out and carting things off to the local goodwill (thrift store).

i had already packed up lots of our books, and a few essential and easily packable toys: some cars and trucks, a wooden train set, a (too large) fire truck, some music toys, a doll, and some puppets and stuffed animals. i say that these were essential only because they were the monster's most favourite toys, and we thought that bringing them with us would help make the dramatic transition of moving to argentina as easy on him as possible.

at that time, the monster was two and a half years old. that means that we had two and a half years worth of birthday presents, garage sale finds, thrift store acquisitions and grandparent indulgences. even though we tried to avoid toy clutter and the accumulation of 'stuff', we had a pretty good-sized stash. that day a year ago, my friends took away riding toys, sand toys, bath toys, a rocking moose, a fridge, a parking garage, cars and trucks, and lots more.

it was a major purging. (we also got rid of almost everything we owned, but i'll stick to toys for this post.)

the monster dealt with this significant loss of his things pretty well. we explained over and over again that we were sending our things on a boat, and so we couldn't send things that were too big. then we'd play the too-big game:

is this dumptruck too big to send? Nooo. are your clothes too big to send? Nooo. is the bed too big to send? Yes! is the parking garage too big to send? Yes!

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in the year that we've been here, we have been successful in rebuilding a less cluttered collection of toys. our efforts to limit family members' excessive gifting of cheap and forgettable trinkets have met with limited success, but since we live far away, it hasn't become too much of an issue.

we have followed our kids' lead and tried to get them the kinds of things that they show a lot of interest in. in this family, that means:

• balls, hockey sticks, bats, paddles, nets, and anything else sports-related
• cars, trucks, trains, and did i mention trucks?
• shovels

we also try to get things that we like to have available for them:

• lots of books, in english and spanish
• craft supplies (neither seem very interested in crafts, but i keep trying. the monster loves cutting with scissors. and these 'soccer players' made out of pipe-cleaner see lots of action on a green piece of construction paper with a tape ball.)
• puppets (buenos aires markets have the best puppets, EVER - see above)
• dress-up stuff
• wooden blocks
• letters and numbers

and, we are very lucky to have a super-talented brother-in-law who has made my little guys their most special toys:

the coolest bike ever

a great way to transport shoes around

you can check out some of his stuff here. the website is just getting set up and is still only in spanish, but if you're interested in anything, you can write to him in english.

if you mention that macondo mama sent you, he'll give you a 10% discount. (isn't that great?)

aside from all this Stuff, and when the weather and bugs cooperate, the best toys of all for my kids are:

• the river
• the beach
• the dirt pile in our backyard (a happy outcome of an unfortunate sewage problem that required a lot of digging)

do you have any non-commercial toy or play suggestions? please share!