DotMoms

Good night, it's game night

by andrea

My girls don't watch TV in the evenings.

I don't say that because I feel holier than thou, it's just the way it is in our family. But sometimes, I admit, it is hard. There are times when Mark and I are tired and busy, and flipping the channel to PBS would be the easiest thing in the world to do. But we don't. We force ourselves to do something else: fold laundry, read books, play a game. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

We have a huge pile of games we like to play. I gravitate toward the classics: Chutes and Ladders, Candyland, Monopoly Jr., UNO, Trouble, Operation, Connect Four, Rebound, among others. The girls are really stuck on Mousetrap, but to tell you the truth it's not my favourite game. Emma is finally beginning to understand Battleship, which is a pretty cool game in my book.

We used to have a Tuesday night game night but somehow it dissolved and now there is no regular routine. Regardless of when we do it, the girls love game night.

Before you get all verklempt thinking about this happy family scene, let me direct you back to the first paragraph and remind you that sometimes Mark and I are not in the most POSITIVE, CHEERFUL and (most importantly) PATIENT frame of mind between 7 and 8 p.m. Mostly we're just plain tired, and that takes a toll on our general outlook. It's sad, isn't it, that we can be such downers on game night?

Last week we got out a lovely little game called Bialo. We received it as a gift some time back from our dear friends James and Melissa. It's a very sweet game, and simple too. The object is to flick your piece into the coloured rings in the middle. You move around a board depending on where your piece landed.

We haven't played it very much because (until now) the kids haven't been coordinated enough. It's recommended for ages 4+, but four is actually a little young to be able to pull it off. Flicking the piece demands a sensitive touch, and since Sarah's the youngest we didn't want her to feel at a disadvantage.

So imagine the scene: Mark and I are feeling burned out and our children are flicking little bamboo pieces all over the place. Sarah (who has never been able to keep still) is squirming and knocking the pieces off the board. Emma is being equally goofy. I'm trying to take a photo to document said "game night" for myself and the Internet, and between gritted teeth we are both reminding the girls to buckle down and get serious about the game.

I wondered how, and when, the fun got sucked out of me and I turned into such a grump. Did we actually say "buckle down" and "you're making it really hard for me to concentrate"? Ugh. How awful is that?

On the one hand I want to teach my kids that games, as well as good sportsmanship, are important. It's like teaching table manners, isn't it? We don't let our kids carry on at the table, so isn't this similar? But at the same time I don't want my kids to grow to dislike our game nights together because mummy and daddy are so anal about game play.

Perhaps we should have gone out for a walk and skipped the games.

By the way, guess who won our game of Bialo? It took us 30 squirmy minutes to get around the board, but it was Sarah who finally won. 

Andrea is a freelance writer and Web go-to gal who lives with her family in Ottawa, Canada. She prefers to play UNO.

If you build it, they will come

By Andrea

Early this summer our local playground was torn up, ripped out, and carted away in small pieces. You'd think that would elicit a few tears, but no one was bothered in the least. The playground was getting old and no one really used it. Besides, a shiny new playground was slated to replace it in a month's time. At least, this was the plan.

I knew at the outset that the original ETA was overly optimistic, and I was right. My daughters and I spent the entire summer watching the new playground take shape. It was slow going. Construction delays brought it all to a complete standstill for days on end.

We monitored the progress every day. We peered at the machinery from behind temporary fences, we watched them bring in all the new play equipment and piece it together, bit by bit. There was a lot of speculation and guesswork on our part. Is there going to be a tire swing? What's that thing over there? How many slides are there going to be? My two detectives were at it all summer.

Most of all they wondered when it was going to be done. And I was never able to give a satisfactory answer. What does "soon" mean to a five and seven year old anyway?

It was a pretty big day when the new park finally opened. We attended the ribbon-cutting ceremony. The shreds of ribbon hadn't even fallen to the ground before the park was covered in kids. Within the hour it was positively swarming. There were probably 200 kids there that day. It seems that were weren't the only ones watching and waiting.

"What is your favourite thing about the new park," I asked my daughters.

You could practically see the wheels turning in their heads.

"I don't know," was the answer. "I love it all!"

It's the kind of playground that kids dream about. There are plenty of swings and climbers. It's wheelchair accessible, nicely landscaped, and some of the sidewalks are springy and rubberized. I remain amazed at the transformation. Most interestingly, there has been another unexpected benefit. The playground has, more than ever, become a neighborhood hub and a meeting place for parents.

Whenever we're at the playground we run into someone we know. Although I'm happy that the kids finally have a great place to play, I'm really excited about the social aspect. The parents stand around and chat while the kids all race around the play structure together.

It's really made me think. What did we do before the new park came along? And why can't every neighborhood have a great park like this one? 

Andrea is a freelance writer and web go-to gal, and most importantly, mum to Emma (7) and Sarah (5). They all live in Ottawa, Canada.

My children are literally climbing the walls

By Andrea

We parents learn early on that in order to survive we need to adapt certain coping mechanisms. One of which is picking our battles.

Some are no-brainers. We take immediate action when there's an incident of violence (hitting or pushing), crossing the street without looking, teasing, or when they try to flush a whole roll of toilet paper down the john.

There are other things, smaller things, I started to grouse about but then changed my mind.

When our older daughter Emma first started climbing up the doorway we immediately gave her the order to cease & desist. You could hurt yourself! And you'll make it grimy! I found myself repeating those two things incessantly, because Emma was drawn to it like a magnet.

And now, guess what, Emma has passed it down to her little sister. Sarah needs a starter boost (I have thus far refused to be the one giving her the starter boost), but give her a few minutes and she'll make it up to the top.

I stopped saying no a long time ago. What's the point? What's the harm?

I need to know: would you let your kids climb the door frame? Why or why not?

Which battles have you given up on, and why?

Andrea is a freelance writer slash web go-to-gal and is mum to Emma (7) and Sarah (5). They live in Ottawa, Canada.

Surviving winter

By andrea

Sometimes winter makes me want to scream and run to the nearest airport and hop on the first outbound plane destined for a sunny locale. But because I am sane (OK, MOSTLY sane) and have Responsibilities-with-a-capital-R I hold off on the temptation no matter how strong it is or how cold it gets.

Being cooped up indoors is brutal. Being cooped up indoors with children is worse. The childless among you might want to try to imagine yourselves locked in a bathroom with a flock of chickens. That's what it's like.

We live in Ottawa, the chilly capital of Canada. Winter lasts for half the year, give or take a month or two. It is completely unpredictable. It can snow in April and it can snow in November. And I'm not talking about a little sprinkling of the pretty white powder, I'm talking about large dumpings of heavy white stuff which causes some people die of heart attacks while shoveling their driveways.

I've lived here since 1991, and although it's taken me a while to figure this out, I now know that if you don't get out and enjoy winter you will go crazy while watching it from the comfort of your living room.

It hasn't been easy for me. I like being warm. I don't like being cold. My children, on the other hand, were born with their own little furnaces and don't seem to be affected by bad weather. There could be a blizzard raging outside and my youngest would still be taking her mitts off because her hands were too hot.

This year I have spent more time outdoors than ever before: tobogganing, skating, walking, building forts and snowmen … you name it. Doing things outdoors makes the season go by a little quicker. It also burns off some of that pent-up energy. Besides, it's a great excuse to make hot chocolate for the little chickens.

So, here's how I've been spending my winter.

When the Christmas tree was moved outdoors we redecorated it for the neighborhood squirrels and birds.

Emma and Sarah pose with an ice sculpture during Winterlude, Ottawa's big winter festival.

Building a mosaic out of ice at Winterlude.

A view of the Rideau Canal. It was busy that day!

Sarah eats a beaver tail.

The girls go tobogganing.

Emma feeding the birds.

andrea is a freelance writer and web designer based in Ottawa, Canada and is mum to Sarah (age four-and-three-quarters) and Emma (age six-and-three-quarters).

Shopping in our living room

by andrea

Emma has been learning about money at school. So for the past couple of weeks I have been saving empty cereal boxes and other containers to set up our own little store. When I finally had enough, I priced them. And what a store it was. Cereal for 25 cents! Shampoo for a nickel! These kids didn’t know how good they had it.

They’ve played store before, but we’ve never actually put prices on things, nor have we had real money to work with. I dug a couple handfuls of coins out of the change jar and we got busy.

I discovered this was a wonderful way to help them learn how to read a price tag, and to find the proper combination of coins to equal the posted price (e.g. 25 cents = one quarter = five nickels = two dimes and one nickel = twenty-five pennies, which we did not actually have, but you get the picture).

At first I played the role of the shopkeeper. They each had their own coins and a shopping bag.

Then, we switched places. Emma was the shopkeeper and Sarah, for some reason, played the part of a girl who was really tired and wanted to sleep in the middle of the store.

At first I was a normal customer, and filled my bag with groceries. Later I came back with a banana in my hand (a.k.a. my cellphone), arguing loudly with the person on the other end about cereal. I bought soy cereal but wasn’t sure if it was the right brand. The cereal was later returned by the person who had been on the other end of the banana. I explained that I’d eaten a huge bowl of the cereal but didn’t like it. Can I return it? She was a little mystified about this part of the process.

My last character was a little old lady: feeble, hunched over, and visually impaired. I gave Emma my grocery list and asked her to read it for me, pick out the products and take the proper amount of money out of my hand. She liked this one the best. And she even walked me back home after I finished shopping, holding my arm the whole way. What service!

andrea is a WAHM to Emma (6.5) and Sarah (4.5) and lives in Ottawa, Canada. Her kids don't have nearly as much fun at the real grocery store.

One of the best things we taught our kids

by andrea

I’m not even sure when it started. For sure, Emma was a wee toddler. We’d lie on the bed or on the carpet and pretend to be asleep. She’d play our game, shaking us awake.

For some reason I decided early on that I didn’t like being shaken when I was sleeping, so I pretended that the only way she could wake me was with a kiss. I’d pretend to sleep, she’d shake my arm or poke my stomach or touch my face, and I wouldn’t budge. She quickly discovered her methods didn’t work. But a kiss? That was the one thing that would make me lift my head and greet her with a big smile. It was harder to do when I was really sleeping, but I stuck to my guns.

When she was old enough to climb out of bed in the morning and pad into our bedroom in the wee hours of the morning, the idea that was borne out of our little game seemed to stick. She’s six and a half now, and she still kisses me awake. The younger one does it too.

It is a lovely way to wake up in the morning.

What are some of the things you’ve taught your kids? What things do you wish you hadn’t taught them?

andrea is a wahm to Sarah (4.5) and Emma (6.5). She treasures her sleep.

Kindergarten girl

by andrea

Sarah has been having trouble in kindergarten. It's not serious trouble -- it’s not like she’s running with thugs, swiping crayons or intentionally spilling glue on the teacher’s chair -- she’s just been weepy about going to kindergarten.

In fact, she announced to my husband that she hates kindergarten. Hates kindergarten? How is that possible! It’s also quite a departure for the girl that is pictured here, and was so happy to be going in the first place.

Her eyes fill with tears when it’s time to drop her off. I’m not quite sure what to say, no, scratch that, I’ve run out of things to say. I stick around until it’s time for her to go in. It breaks my heart to see her so sad. For some reason it’s hard for her to leave me. This is surprising since she’s a preschool veteran. She’s been a hard-core nine-to-fiver for most of her young life. But I think her preschool experiences spoiled her. Little Sarah was a big favourite. She got lots of kisses and cuddles and love from everyone: teachers, administrators and fellow students. She was the resident darling, and she loved the attention she got. Who wouldn’t?

And now she’s facing the cold, hard reality of junior kindergarten. The teachers at our school have a no touch rule. Physical affection -– I think even a pat on the head -- is not allowed. I know where this comes from, I know why it must be like this, but it’s sad nonetheless ... don’t you think?

Sarah, for one, could use a little bit of extra attention to make the transition into the “big school” a little easier. I know she's only been going for a couple of weeks. But I wish it would hurry up and get better. If not for her sake than for mine!

andrea is a wahm to Sarah (4.5) and Emma (6.5) and is not ashamed to admit that she's glad it's September.

Guess what?

by andrea

One of the best, and worst, things about being pregnant is springing your news on the people around you.

It's been a while for me, 4 ½ and 6 ½ years since I was pregnant, but I've been noticing a sudden influx of pregnant women around me and it's something I've found myself fondly remembering.

I found it awkward to tell people at my office. It's not run-of-the mill water cooler conversation. I didn't quite know how to approach the subject with people I worked with but wasn't exactly close to.

There was one case in which my co-worker actually appeared to read my mind. Perhaps it was the expression on my face.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I'm fine," she replied. "How are you?"

"Great!"

"Great?"

"Yes. GREAT!"

"OH MY GOD CONGRATULATIONS!"

My husband and I had the most fun telling his parents.

The first time around it happened to be my mother-in-law's birthday. We gathered in their living room to watch her unwrap the gift we brought for her. From a gift bag she removed tissue paper and slowly revealed light purple coloured yarn.

She laughed. "Did you guys want me to knit you a sweater?"

I could tell she was wondering why the hell we bought her yarn for her birthday. The next thing she pulled out of the bag was a pattern for a baby sweater. I watched her looking at it and could practically see her mind working. It took her a few seconds to make the connection, but soon enough she was jumping up and hugging us: "OH MY GOD CONGRATULATIONS!"

The second time around we were also at their house. We had all just woken up and were milling around the kitchen about to make breakfast. My husband Mark and I secretly rummaged in their freezer and found a bun (it was a hamburger bun actually). We turned the oven on low and put the bun by itself on the middle rack.

Pretty soon the kitchen was filled with the smell of bread.

Gary, my father-in-law, said: "Did you put something in the oven, Mary?"

Mary, my mother-in-law, said: "No."

Gary: "Well, there's something in the oven."

At this point Mary started to panic a little. Confusion reigned. What's all this about the oven? Who's using the oven? Why would someone be using the oven?

Mary said, "I am using the toaster oven to reheat a bran muffin and I don't know what you're talking about, WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S A BUN IN THE OVEN?"

Mark and I were trying our best not to laugh. By this time Gary had clued in and had started to chuckle. Mary was left still wondering why the oven was on, but within a few additional seconds she finally got the joke. Hugs all around. Indeed, there was a bun in the oven. But it was my own oven. Har har. Perhaps it was a little obscure, but our little joke has now become part of family lore.

I'd love to hear how you broke the news to your loved ones and the people around you. What's your "Hey, I'm pregnant" story?

Andrea is the mum of Emma (6) and Sarah (4) and lives in Ottawa, Canada.

Rose-coloured glasses: temporarily removed

by andrea

I was working on the computer when my husband Mark came into the room. His face was dead serious.

"I have to talk to you about something."

When someone starts a conversation that way, you know it's going to be important.

He had been playing outside with our daughters. A man peddled by on his bike, stopped, and pulled up on our lawn. He was outgoing and friendly.

The conversation quickly turned to our daughters. He asked a lot of questions: how old are they, where do they go to school?

"What was I supposed to say?" said Mark to me at this point in the story. "Get off my property?" The man was nice. Polite even.

At this point my mind was reeling with horrible thoughts of kidnapping and molestation.

"How long have you guys lived here?" he had asked.

"Eight years," said Mark.

The fellow misheard. "Oh, a year, yeah, I saw you guys move in!"

"Um, no," said Mark. "EIGHT years."

"Well, I live over on King Street," he said. "Just one street over from you guys!"

We live in a residential area that has a lot of pedestrian street traffic. I like this about our neighborhood. It's friendly. It's open. It's welcoming.

But we have rules about talking to strangers. Talking to some strangers is OK. It's preferable if we're there as well. I don't think it's wise to tell kids that it's not safe to talk to anyone. What if they get lost and need to turn to an adult? What if there was a fire and a firefighter couldn't convince them to climb out the window because he was a "stranger"? But we have drilled into them that they are not to take anything or go anywhere with a stranger without the permission of mum or dad. The scenarios we roll out to them somehow always occur on the front lawn.

"Emma," I say. "Imagine that a really nice man comes up to you and asks you to help look for his lost puppy. He looks really sad, and shows you a photo of a really cute puppy. And he tells you that when his puppy is found he'll buy you an ice-cream cone … what do you do?"

Her answer is always the same, but I'm not sure whether that's because it's rehearsed or if she really knows the answer.

"I tell him that I need to ask Mum or Dad first. And I come into the house right away."

On this particular day the fellow's conversation with my husband continued. He said his name was B***, and that he's a clown (warning bells, warning bells) and that he performs at the local beach and at inner-city schools. He told Mark how much he loved children, and how gratifying volunteer work could be. 

"The kids call me Mr.B***," he said. And then he did a magic trick.

Afterwards I shrieked to Mark, "Don't you realize that this is the perfect way for a guy to lure a kid into a car?"

As Mr.B*** was leaving he "assured" Mark that he'd never stop to chat with our children when we weren't around. I wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

But the story got worse, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach grew. Mark told me that he's seen this guy ride past our house before.

My God. I was terrified, more than that, I was rocked out of the lovely, warm, safe feeling I had as a member of this human community. Perhaps it's naïve of me to do so, but I have a tendency to think positively of people. I let my kids do things like run ahead to the park, or go down the next aisle over in the grocery store, because I think the benefits of doing so far outweigh the risks.

The thought of someone stalking my children left me feeling very cold. And it saddened me greatly to think that I couldn't let them play in the front yard without constant supervision.

What is this world coming to? Since when did evil trump good?

I e-mailed and spoke to a number of people who frequent the park he mentioned. No one had heard of Mr. B***. My husband called the neighborhood constable. He hadn't heard of this guy, either. The constable pointed out that his parting comments about not stopping to talk to our kids while we weren't there was an indication that other parents might have mentioned something to him before. Maybe he was a real children's entertainer. Maybe he wasn't. There really wasn't anything we could do.

I got to thinking about my blog. I've been asked if I'm worried about writing or posting photos of my children. I've spoken to people who say they would never post photos of their kids. I wondered if these people were being unnecessarily paranoid. But I was beginning to rethink my stance on the issue.

Although I don't post my family's surname on the site, the URL (along with our last name and family photos) has been published several times in the local media. It wouldn't be hard for someone to track down our address.

I despaired. I was ready to walk up and down and street and knock on every door looking for information about Mr. B***. My husband, concerned as he was, thought I was overblowing it. He assured me it was probably nothing. But I couldn't take that chance.

A couple of nights later, my daughter and I were walking a friend's dog and I decided to take a turn down his street. A few houses in I saw an elderly lady watering her lawn.

I approached her and explained the situation. I asked her if she knew of a fellow who sometimes worked as a clown, lived along this street and calls himself Mr. B***. She said she didn't know. I was about to turn and walk away and I remembered the connection with the beach. I mentioned it and suddenly a light went off in her head.

"Ah yes, she said. B***! He lives across the street!" She pointed out his home.

So he's legit. He's also apparently a very nice fellow. She was able to confirm that he entertains children at inner-city schools, and also down at the beach.

I feel better about it the situation now. I have his address. I am still debating whether or not to give it to the police (the constable said if we had an actual address he could run a check), but I will tell you... I am HUGELY relieved that at least this part of the story is true.

I'm aware that some people might think I was being overcautious, but I believe I did the same that any parent would. I am still saddened by it all. I just want my children to be safe. And I don't want live in a culture of fear.

What would you have done?

Andrea is mum of Emma (6) and Sarah (4) and lives in Ottawa, Canada. She tries not to be such a nervous nellie.

Farewell to four wheels

By andrea

This was a momentous day in our personal family history. Our girls (6 and 4 years old) learned to ride their two wheelers. It didn't happen overnight. We started the process awhile back because we knew that Emma, the older one, would approach the idea the same way she approached her first bike: with great trepidation.

Back in May, we bought Emma a shiny new two-wheeler for her birthday. Oh, what a beauty! It is deep purple with retro-stylings and red flames painted on the sides. I knew it was a child's dream come true. (OK, I admit, it was MY childhood dream come true. If it was a bit larger I would be riding it myself!)

This two-wheeler was too big for training wheels. Emma knew that if she wanted to take it for a spin she'd have to lose the training wheels and learn to ride her old bike first.

Eventually, she warmed to the idea. It helped that her younger sister insisted that we remove her training wheels as well. I could tell by the look on her face that Emma didn't want her sister riding on a two-wheeler before she did. There was no way she was ever going to let this happen.

My husband and I spent several backbreaking hours with them as they learned to maneuver around without those two little wheels holding them up. It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. For them, it meant they had to master balance, steering, breaking, and stay focused all at the same time. They had to pay special attention for potential dangers (potholes, sewers, pedestrians, cars) yet at the same time they were told not to focus on other things like cute puppy dogs, kids playing, birds chirping, etc.

NEVERMIND THE [KITTY CAT/TENNIS PLAYERS/PLASTIC DINOSAUR], I'd holler breathlessly. KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD.

How many times did I find myself repeating that?

And because their eyes are supposed to be on the road ahead of them, the scene around them had to be absorbed by their peripheral vision.  Do children even have peripheral vision? I am still fairly certain it kicks in only if I'm trying to sneak a cookie.

If you think it was hard for the kids, consider us, the ones who struggled to keep them upright. If you've done this already you know what I mean. Imagine running alongside a small bike, hunched over, one hand on the handle bar the other on the back of the bike. My thighs/back/everything were killing me the minutes I started. I felt almost as bad as the time I tried that "low impact" aerobic class.

The girls didn't pick the best days to practice either. Imagine doing the hunch-run-holler while weather people issue smog advisories and most normal folk shelter themselves in an air-conditioned environment. I shudder to think how much liquid I lost on those days.

But it's over. The girls finally got the hang of it. We helped them bike up the street to the park -- and whee -- we let them go on a grassy surface flattened by years of ice-rinks and soccer practices. And they got it. We hooted and hollered. They smiled and laughed. They fell and cried. It was great.

I'm so pleased this day has come. As a parent I've taught them lots of things: how to stick up for themselves, how to plant a seed, how to dunk a cookie in milk… countless others (and all very important things) but to me this just seems a little more concrete. Riding a bike is special. Once you learn how, you never forget.

Andrea is mum of Emma (6) and Sarah (4) and lives in Ottawa, Canada. She finds it all works best if she just takes it one day at a time.