My bilingual toddler's first words

The monkey turns 16 months old today. He is a chair-climbing, cupboard-inhabiting, sweaty little party animal. I keep not getting around to writing about all of his milestones, cuteness moments and drive-me-completely-batty antics.

Right now, though, he is quickly learning how to talk, and I want to record his growing Spanish-English bilingual vocabulary. It's pretty exciting to watch his language acquisition in action, and the monster gets ever-so-proud-of-himself when he teaches his brother a new word ('kaka' is a favourite).

(Unlike learning to sit up, crawl, walk and other motor skills, when he would focus solely on perfecting his latest new trick, talking seems to happen right along with everything else. He doesn't wake up in the middle of the night to try out his words, or sit patiently in a corner practicing, like he did with sitting up. He doesn't ignore his toys or his brother while he practices, like he did when he was demanding our fingers to help him toddle around. In practice, this means that he is becoming a little talker while he remains his curious, mischievous little rascal self. No rest for mama!)

At this age, his older brother was just saying his first words, all on the same day: mama, papa, blueberry. He was slow to start, but was soon a really verbal little kid. More on his bilingualism in a separate post.

But the monkey's language exposure has been very different from his older brother's. No longer in Canada, he now hears only Spanish from everyone around him, including me when I talk to anyone other than him and his brother.  

I am his only source of English, other than his books and his Skype-time with his grandparents. When he says agua, I say 'do you want some water?' I always speak English to him, unless I am speaking more for the benefit of others, like my inlaws, his admirers in the grocery store, or little play friends we meet at the beach.

I anticipate that his Spanish will quickly outshine his English, and that we will have to dedicate quite a bit of effort to ensuring he will be fluent in English. For now though, I suppose because he spends so much time alone with me, his English seems to be keeping pace.

Winning, in fact. Spanish 11, English 12.

More or less in order of appearance:

First words in Spanish

• hola (hi)
• sí (yes)
• caca*
• este (this)
• allá (there)
• agua (water)
• mama (mama, papa, brother)*
• más (more)
• 'má (tomá, here/take this)
• ya está (all done)
• nana (banana)*
  

First words in English

• bye
• bvuh (booby)
• kaka*
• coco (cracker-cookie)
• gogo (yogurt)
  
• mbk (book)
• mama (mama, papa, brother)*
  
• ball
• mouth
• cheese
• shoes
• nana (banana)*

Unknown additional language

• aach (with a guturral, back of the throat, Chanukah-style 'ch': help me / open this)

*Banana, kaka (caca) and mama get listed twice because they work in both languages. For now, he calls everyone in this house "mama", and he uses "kaka" to refer to: kaka, bum, penis, pee, diaper, toilet, potty, bathroom. Gotta love the multi-purpose utility of it all!

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EDITED TO ADD: I forgot two of my favourites - upa (pick me up) and goal/gol (exclaimed loudly and happily, with arms in the air). I guess that means English and Spanish are tied, for now.

Such yumminess

I am deeply in love with my partner - Macondo Papa. Enamorada. (Some things sound better in Spanish.)

We met 11 years ago today, on a long-distance, overnight bus in southern Mexico. We have since been to 8 countries together, lived in 4 cities and 7 houses. We have officially immigrated to each other's countries. We have been travelers, students, unemployed, under-employed, self-employed, over-employed, co-employed. We have two little boys. We are family.

We fall in and out of magic - or rather, we fall into magic and slip out of it, and, thankfully, deliciously, fall into it yet again. But my deep, true love for him never wavers. There isn't a drop in me that doesn't love him totally. There are so few things that I know with such certainty.

He is smart, beautiful, real, funny and loving. He is passionate and brave. He sings. He whistles. He has gorgeous eyes (and eyebrows!), a killer smile, and perfect hands. He is the most open-minded, open-hearted partner, lover, papa, thinker and political being.

He is not crunchy, or mushy, like me. He is yummy. He is sharp and cynical and critical and delightfully anti-social. He is full of edges. He challenges me. I fall short of him in so many ways.

I am so lucky.

F: Te amo.

Argentina's first same-sex marriage

Photo: First same-sex marriage in Latin America. DyN.

As promised, I have been diligently reading and collecting links about the unfolding struggle to legalize same-sex marriage in Argentina. I was started to feel a bit daunted by the task of translating all the ups and downs and back-and-forths of the legal wrangling that has been going on.

So imagine my delight at not only having some good news to report, but also a few English-language links that do some of the work for me.


The good news: A same-sex couple was successfully married on December 28th in Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. It is the first gay marriage in all of Latin America and the Caribbean; a very important milestone for the region, both legally and symbolically.

This is wonderful news for the couple - Alex Freyre and José María Di Bello - and indeed for the movement to legalize same-sex marriage. But it does not mean that same-sex marriage is now legal in Argentina. Any others trying to follow in their footsteps will - for now - be turned away and denied the right to matrimony (and to adopt, to inherit, to get a shared loan, etc.).

The bill to legalize same-sex marriage, which was on the verge of being voted on and probably passed in Congress just a month ago, was shuffled aside at the last minute.

Unrelated to the political wrangling at the national level, there was a surprise ruling in a Buenos Aires appeals court, authorizing Freyre and Di Bello to get married in Buenos Aires. They scheduled the big day for December 1st, World AIDS Day (they are both AIDS activists), but at the last minute, a federal court overturned the ruling.

Then, the governor of Argentina's southern-most province issued a decree ordering the Civil Registry to recognize the earlier ruling that had authorized the marriage. And so this historic wedding took place in Ushuaia. It sets an important precedent for the legal and political move to extend the right to marry to all same-sex couples.

As it stands, the ruling in question and the governor's decree apply only to this case. There are several other cases, other couples, in different courts in Argentina, including the Supreme Court - demanding that denying them their right to marry is discriminatory and unconstitutional. For now, the legal struggle is being played out on a case-by-case basis.

If Congress passes the bill that was shuffled aside, couples will not be required to ask permission, to get lawyers, to await rulings. They will not be at the mercy of sympathetic or unsympathetic judges and timely or lengthy legal proceedings. They will not necessarily be subjected to the gaze of the media.

It seems likely that this will come to pass in the new year. Unsurprisingly, the Church is not amused (Spanish).

Watch out folks, this gay marriage thing is contagious - coming soon to a country near you!



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And, for a little piece of Mama in Macondo trivia:

Guess who else got married in Ushuaia? Yup, that was another, colder Macondo I used to live in, but that was a whole decade ago!

Creating New Year's traditions and resolutions

With the new year just two sleeps away, I feel like I should be reflecting and resolving.

I would like to create a tradition for my family - something special - but I feel so drained, and it would require some energy and freshness and upbeatness on my part to put it all together.

As a new blogger, I feel the pull to write something new years-y. Marking moments seems to be important for blogging, and since I started writing, I have already let so many pass by.

This has been a huge year for me. I have become a stay-at-home mom of two kids, living in the jungle in Argentina, blogging and cooking and dancing the hokey-pokey. It is simply shocking. And the coming year looms large and unknown.

But it's just not happening for me right now. I would want my reflections and my resolutions to be real and sincere, to reflect the joy, pride, beauty, ambivalence, isolation, fear, uncertainty and exhaustion in my life.

To appreciate the boldness and the audacity of leaving our life in Canada behind and moving to Macondo, to acknowledge its challenges, without casting it as 'adventurousness' or some other such thing that does not do justice to our intercultural and transcontinental dilemmas.

To consult with myself, deep down - How am I doing? What am I doing? What do I need? What do my kids need? What does my partner need? What can I do?  What can we do? How can I help my family, and myself, to thrive? (And my community? And the world?)

I wish I had the time and energy to do this thinking and writing. It would be good for me.

Here is a resolution: I'll get to it. I'll do it for real - some honest introspection and resolve. I can't do it today, or tomorrow, or probably this week or maybe even the next. But over the next few weeks I resolve to find the time and crowd out the distractions so that my little head and I can do some thinking and planning and resolving, and acting on it all.

In the meantime, I'll teach the monster and the monkey a lovely New Year's ritual I learned just three days before I met Macondo Papa (yes, that means that our anniversary is only three days away, and no, I haven't had a chance to think of anything special to do for him. As usual. Good thing I know he's in the same boat.).

I was in a beach town in southern Mexico, celebrating New Year's with a group of other backpackers. A Danish girl shared her ritual and we all did it together:

We climbed up onto chairs and logs and whatever else was about. And at midnight we all jumped off, with both feet into the new year.

Happy new year!

Raising kids on Argentina time

The monster had his end-of-the-year show at preschool a few weeks ago. It started at 8pm.*

Most of his classmates' birthday parties have been from 6-9:30pm, without dinner. (The kids go home for dinner afterwards, if they haven't already inhaled too many cheesies).

This is not bad planning, it does not reflect decisions made by people that don't have young kids and aren't used to thinking around their schedules and needs. These are the parents and teachers of three-year-olds.

This is Argentina.

It has different rhythms than the ones I grew up with. And these rhythms mark our days and our seasons, our activities and our energy levels, our invisible expectations of life, in ways that I had never realized.

*He was very, very cute, by the way. So proud of his performance, he announced that he wants to be a dancer when he grows up. Fun! We dance all the time now, with no lack of music, as our little town is filling up with obnoxious music-blaring vacationers for the season. I'm going to try to sign him up for some dance lessons, which will probably start at, like, 8pm or something. Really.

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I remember the year I spent on exchange in Australia, marveling over and over again at the idea of spending New Year's Eve at the beach. Outside. For me, the very essence of New Year's Eve had been tied up in having a good plan about where to be at midnight - which house party or bar or cottage to go to - because once there, that was it. Venture outside at your own risk, only if -15°C and frostbite is your idea of a good time.

This went beyond strategic planning. It was bundled up in the meaning of New Year's Eve itself. It was part of how we celebrated. Being free to meet up in a park or a beach or someone's backyard (all free!), and then maybe play things by ear and see how the night developed, was simply not compatible with New Year's Eve. It wasn't compatible with the meaning, the identity, of New Year's Eve. Not in Toronto.

(Southern hemispherists are used to this disconnect between their steamy climatic reality and the dominant media images of the North: a white Christmas, holiday cooking with the oven, cozy sweaters and fireplaces... For not-very-well-traveled little me, it blew my mind.)

Similarly, September for me is a month of beginnings. First days of school, and kids crowding the subways once again. The end of August, like Sundays, carries a sad weight of a looming return to the daily grind, to the coming of winter and snow and slush and darkness at 4pm.

I can't describe how weird it is to me that my Argentinian partner gets this same Sunday feeling in late February, and that he associates a nice, fresh fruit salad with eating dinner in his backyard on Christmas Eve.

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These yearly rhythms give smells and flavours and temperatures to our activities, and how could our daily rhythms be any different?

Can you imagine your kids at the park at midnight, running around with all the other neighbourhood kids?

Is 11pm too late to call to wish your 6-year-old nephew a happy birthday?

Did that vague "call me in the afternoon" mean 3pm or 6pm?

It's 6pm - Are you hungry for a few crackers and cheese, or a heaping plate of pasta and a salad? 

In Canada, the school day is roughly from 9am to 4pm. Then there is an after-school snack and free time until dinner, at about 6pm. After a 7:30 or 8 or 9pm bedtime, there is Grown-Up Time.


Don't ask me what grown-ups do with this time, I don't want to know. I know what I would do with it: any one of the kazillion things I feel like I have no time for.

Anyways, here in Argentina, the daily rhythm is entirely different.

The school day is roughly from 8am to 1pm or from 1 to 6pm. Kids either go in the morning or in the afternoon, all the way through high school. That's a lot of daytime hours that kids are NOT in school. Which I really like the idea of. But I would like to know how it is compatible with the parents having jobs, or just, say, things to do. The answer seems to be: either grandmas or nannies.

Let's move on. (There are gender implications to this that deserve more than these parentheses, and that may shape my work life for years to come. But that's for later).

Here in Macondo (but not in Buenos Aires), most everything is closed from 1 to 5pm for lunch and siesta. That means many families have lunch all together, and also play and sleep. Then it's back to work for many folks until 8 or 9 or 9:30 or so.

Snack-time is about 6pm. Dinner is at 9 or 9:30 or 10pm on weeknights (weekends could be later).

Kids generally go to sleep when the parents do, or earlier, but certainly not before 11pm, often not until 1 am or even later. Even the ones who don't have naps.

Every time I talk about these two very different systems, I get reactions like:

From the Canadians:
- but how do the kids get enough sleep?
- when do you have any down time or grown-up time?
- it can't be healthy to have dinner so late.
- don't the kids get cranky?
- what do they do for the half day they're not in school?

From the Argentinians:
- if you have dinner at 6, don't you get hungry later?
- when do you get to spend time with the kids?
- poor kids in school all day! when do they play?
- why do they have to go to bed so early? what if they're not tired? why so rigid?
- don't you end up always fighting over bedtime?
- don't they wake up way too early in the morning?
- how do you get dinner ready so early? (good question!)

There are and there aren't answers to these questions. I ask myself many of them, frequently. But I often come back to this: the whole country does it this way - it must work.

I find that reactions on both sides, stemming from genuine disbelief, often turn judgmental.

It's important for kids to get enough sleep. 

I don't prioritize grown-up time over spending time with my kids. It's tiring, but these years are so special and don't last long.

I tend to get a bit defensive, first of one way of doing things, and then of the other. Because in their own cultural contexts, these systems work, and they make sense. And they are frequently implemented even by loving and conscientious parents. And they both have advantages and disadvantages.

My struggle comes from living in the middle. It isn't easy to hand-pick the things you like from two different worlds (especially when you are physically living in only one of those worlds). They clash, and you end up making sense to no one at all.

Dinner at 9 does not make it easy to have the kids in bed by 10. But bedtime at 11 for a 3-year-old, or no bedtime at all, stretches my Canadian sensibilities too far.

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So I admit I am conflicted.

I like that school is only a part of their day, and that the rest of their day is only as structured as we choose it to be, with dance classes, naptime or play dates. But I also like the thought of working without having to make complicated child-care arrangements.

I like the idea of early bedtimes and well-slept kids and grown-up time on a regular basis. (Really really!) But I also love the inclusion of kids in life here, that they are part of society and are welcome to exist and play and interact even at dinner parties, weddings, and night-time walks to the park. They are not put to bed and left with baby-stitters - not always, not often.

I like family time for more than a hurried two hours or so every day.

And then, there's the push, the societal insistence, that you respect the daily rhythms of the place where you live.

If we were to try to follow a more North American schedule, how could we have playdates, if they start here at 6pm? How could we ever go out for dinner, if the restaurants are just opening at 8:30? Should the monster miss all of his classmates' late birthday parties? Wouldn't he be too cranky (or meltdown-y) to enjoy his end-of-the-year show, if it were just an exception that he was out at 8pm? Wouldn't it be a shame if he never got to kick the ball around with the other kids at the park on a hot summer night, under the stars?

As it is, we have implemented a strange blend of both systems. We try to eat no later than 9pm. If we can do it earlier, even better. We try to have the kids in bed no later than 10pm, though the monster takes FOREVER to fall asleep (AND IT IS DRIVING US CRAZY). We are as flexible as we can be, we try to tweak nap-times and meal-times to match the day's plans. And we have partially converted our good friends over to a semi-similar regime, so at least we can have dinner together from time to time.

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I realize, as New Year's Eve approaches, that the monster and the monkey will never understand the great delight my brothers and I experienced the very few times we were allowed to stay up late, past midnight, until it was "already Tomorrow." They won't get it because for them it's no big deal. When the grown-ups are having lots of fun and the kids still want to play too, they do.

My occasional angst and indecision about all this, all my hand-wringing and back-and-forth with Macondo Papa about these seeming trivialities of parenthood, show me how deeply some of our cultural differences run.

Pre-parenting, all this was no big deal. I just had to remember not to totally pig out on the 6pm pastries, because dinner was still to come.

Now, with my monster doing his ugly duckling dance in his little, yellow bird costume at 8:30pm, followed by a dinner outside with friends in December, I can see that his rhythms are being formed, his "normal"s are being created and lived, right now. The meanings he and his brother will attribute to their days and seasons are being shaped by these moments, right here, in this place that they live.

This is as it should be, right?

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.

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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)

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