Every Day is Tacky Day!

Ever since Neener and Roo were old enough to shriek ‘you’re not the boss of me’ about three years old, I have been too guilty and exhausted to fight with them about letting them pick out their own outfits. Apparently, this is good for them because it gives them a false sense of control over their lives, and helps curtail my obsessive nagging develop their decision making abilities. This was a very difficult thing for me to do because, as I believe I’ve mentioned before, I am a control freak a little particular about some things. When they were little, I relished my job as the boss of them Mom the Chief Wardrobe Consultant. Their clothes were not particularly fancy or expensive, but under my watch, they were at least well co-ordinated. Both individually, and as a pair. I will admit that on occasion, I couldn’t resist dressing Neener and Roo the same. What else can you do when people are suckers for the cloned baby look keep giving you gifts of identical outfits? Or when you need to make it blatantly obvious that you’re the mother of twins so that people might feel sorry for you cut you some slack, and not give you as many dirty looks when you your kids start screaming in the eye gougingly slow line up in Zellers. But most of the time, I tried to demonstrate that I was coherent enough to get them both decently dressed their individual personalities in the clothes I picked out for them. But once they started putting together their own great big fashion don’ts outfits, it became apparent that my selections had overlooked a huge part of their individual personalities : the insane circus clown creative part.

At first, it was just Neener who dressed like a big nut job embraced the chance to take creative liberties with her clothing. Long sleeved blue and yellow striped shirt? Check. Layered with red ‘Kids Belong in a Zoo’ t-shirt? Check. Pink and purple floral print pants? Check. Two pairs of underwear? One underneath and one over top of pink and and purple floral print pants? Oh hell yes! Meanwhile, Roo, who struggled with some sensory issues, making choices, and the gross motor control needed to get herself dressed, would still let me help her just go for whatever was easy. A plain t-shirt and plain leggings. A no-frills dress. Or a tutu from the costume box, over the pajamas she wore to bed on days when I didn’t have the ambition to attempt leaving the house. But now that she’s finally fed up with my vaguely tasteful influence able to do the whole dressing thing more independently, Roo is also happily letting her own freak flag fly sense of style emerge. With a red and black plaid skirt, rainbow striped tights, a hot pink t-shirt, and of course, a tiara. And these days, along with ensuring that they look anything but identical, it’s all about the accessories for both girls. Plastic crowns, copious beads, bracelets, butterfly wings, multiple pony tails, barettes, rubber boots and DIY crayola marker tattoos for Roo. Multiple headbands worn in multiple directions, capes, purses, a red fleece Elmer Fudd hat, and odd shoes on the wrong feet for Neener. Leave it to my kids to take the typical, and now apparently trendy clash fashion of the five year old set to a whole new level of weirdness.

So, I’ve bit my tongue so hard it bled, and cuffed my own hands behind my back learned to back off. Yes, my kids look downright silly sometimes. But here’s a newsflash: My kids are downright silly. They’re kids. They’re supposed to be. I put my serious reservations about mixing plaids and pokadots with Elmer Fudd hats pride aside, and let my kids dress however they feel happy and comfortable, even if it triggers seizures in anyone with a modicum of fashion sense who is sensitive to seeing 5 different patterns and 16 colours sharing the space on one butt waggling child. But since I’ve elected to let my kids get as creative as their little wacky little hearts desire, I now can’t help but notice parents who are clearly much bigger control freaks than me who just can’t quit being their child’s Chief Wardrobe Consultant. And honestly, I’m not sure how or why they continue do it once their kids are old enough to do it on their own. Maybe they give their kids a few tasteful outfit options rather than letting them loose in the closet. Maybe they only fill that closet with classic mix and match pieces in chic colours like Boring navy blue, Green’s Snooty Cousin khaki, Little Miss Prissy Pants pastel pink, and Don’t You Dare Get Dirty white. Or maybe they spend chunks of time with their child, probably right from infancy, instilling the importance and principles of dressing like a proper little adult, instead of doing utterly unimportant and childish things like drawing on their legs with markers. Or digging in the dirt. Or trying to figure out which tutu goes best with a pair of satin pajama pants and a frog toque.

Last year at school, Neener and Roo came home with a note from their junior kindergarten teacher announcing that they’d be dressing up for tacky day. Naturally, my kids needed to know that tacky had nothing to do with getting jabbed by tacks what tacky meant before they’d agree to go along with it, and so I explained that tacky meant wearing crazy clothes that didn’t match. To which Neener replied ” Oh. Well, every day is tacky day at our house.” And so it is. And I’m starting to be almost insanely proud of rather enjoy it. I know that in ten years time, I’ll long for the days when my biggest objection to their choice of outfit was that their striped shirt and flowered pants didn’t exactly go with the four head bands. And someday, Neener and Roo might each end up a lot like me: a plain, black clothes kind of girl, with little desire to draw much attention to wardrobe. But, like me, their closets may still harbour a secret stash of crazy, creative accessories. A blinged to the brim turquoise belt. Shiny silver tango shoes. A drawer full of odd socks. So for now, I’m content to let every day be tacky day for Neener and Roo. At least Squiggles will have no choice but to humour me need me to pick out her clothes for a couple more years. That is, until Neener and Roo’s start passing on their clashin’ fashion advice to their baby sister, and the red fleece Elmer Fudd hat and the rainbow striped tights become hand-me-downs. And until Squiggles figures out how to put on her own clothes and shriek ‘you’re not the boss of me.’

Jog Jog Jiggy Jog

Ten years ago, there were three things I never could have pictured myself doing: Having kids (I convinced myself that I was ‘too selfish’ to be a mother); quitting smoking (oh how I loved my cigarettes); and running (unless I was being chased. Which happened more than I care to remember.) Clearly, the last decade has brought sweeping, previously unimaginable changes. I quit smoking almost seven years ago, have mothered my formerly selfish self to smithereens for the past five years, and just the other day I went for my very first run.

Well, technically not my very first. At the ripe old age of four I was an avid pretend runner. I wore hot pink terry cloth shorts and sang my little heart out as I trotted around our yard. Jog jog jiggy jog/ jog jog jiggy jog /jog jog jiggy jog/ all day long. Turned out I liked singing the song far more than I liked the actual jog jog jiggy jogging. And then there was high school gym class. But that was not so much running as it was my feet being dragged along by my teenage-hormone addled brain, attempting to propel me closer to guys with cute asses (oh how I loved cute asses.) As I’ve mentioned before, I’m not exactly the athletic type. Or the co-ordinated type. Or even the remotely physically competent type.

And technically, what I’m doing is not quite running. Yet. It’s more like short bursts of my signature short-legged, run-like trot interspersed with longer bursts of my signature short-legged, walk-like butt waggle. With awkward clenched-fisted arm flops, and a grimace of thinly veiled discomfort thrown in for effect. What I’m actually doing is called the Couch To 5 K program. It’s designed to ease non-runners into the wonderful world of running, allowing for the gradual improvement of stamina, speed and form. And that’s what I’m after here: a better form. My foray into running was inspired by the trauma of seeing some recent photographs of myself. The kind that make you pause as your scroll through the pictures on your camera, and think ‘Whoah, who’s thunder thighs are thosoohmigod, THAT’S ME! DELETE! DELETE! DELETE!’ Unless of course, the pictures are on someone else’s camera, in which case all you can do is cry. Or kick that person in the shins and take their camera before they go and splash your fat ass all over facebook. And just as those photos revealed too clearly that my healthy eating habits were not doing the trick in getting my pre-Squiggles body back, I received the extra inspiration I needed to start exercising again. It arrived in my email inbox in the form of my weekly Bliss Note, which just happened to be about the joys of running. It came just in the nick of time, before I did something really stupid. Like try to take up extreme BMX trick mountain biking.

My first run around the neighbourhood went something like this:

5 minute brisk walk- No problem.

1 minute jog - Not much problem.

2 minute brisk walk - No problem except that my pants keep falling down. (Mental note: Get new running pants.)

1 minute jog - No problem except that I need a drink of water but forgot my bottle at home.

3 minute brisk walk back home to get water bottle. Neener and Roo are thoroughly impressed by my profuse sweating and water glugging abilities.

1 minute jog - I notice several crows circling overhead and become very concerned that they know something I don’t. Like they can smell the sweet stench of soon-to-be carrion in my novice jogger perspiration.

2 minute brisk walk - No problem except I am now very paranoid about the crows who seem to be following me. So, like a good paranoid lunatic, I caw at them until they leave me alone.

1 minute jog - Getting….a little…tired. Wonder if maybe the crows were trying to offer me a lift back home, and kick myself for rejecting the offer.

2 minute walk - Small svelte woman, obviously a real runner, zips past me. Jealousy of her cute ass propels me forward. (Oh, how I’d love a cute ass.)

1 minute jog - I worry that it looks like I’m chasing the small, svelte woman running in front of me, and that people passing by may start yelling to her “Look out, there’s a big girl chasing you! And she looks hungry!”

5 minute brisk walk - I am hungry. And tired. And still alive no thanks to my loose pants or the crows. Better quit while I’m ahead.

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. Made me feel pretty damn proud of myself, actually. But the best part came when I arrived home to see Neener doing laps on the lawn. When she saw me, she shouted a little breathlessly “Mommy! Look! I’m out running just like you!” And sure enough she was. Falling down pants, awkwardly flopping arms, face screwed up in a funny grimace and all. Suddenly I got a bit of a second wind. So Neener and I ran around on the lawn and sang our favourite jog jog jiggy jogging song together. And now I can’t wait to do it again.

Postcard from Autism Land #3

The other day, Mr. and I came across some video clips of Neener and Roo when they were seven months old. The same age as Squiggles now. Seeing those videos affected me very deeply, and in ways I had not anticipated. Of course there was the warm fuzzy nostalgia of seeing my firstborns back when they were relatively new, giggling and wiggling around. And naturally, it got me thinking about those early days. About how there were two babies in my inexperienced 26 year old hands. About how there were twice the diapers, twice the feedings, and half the sleep that we are now experiencing with Squiggles. It dawned on me that having twin babies must have been really hard, which is something I rarely stop to acknowledge. If I’d thought about how tough it was at the time, I could have quickly become overwhelmed and depressed. Lucky for me, I did not have the luxury of time to feel sorry for myself. I had two giggling, wiggling babies who needed me to put my hair up in a ponytail on top of my head and scurry around on my hands and knees, barking and sniffing, in a game we called Fluppy Dog. I had forgotten all about Fluppy Dog until I saw those videos.

The unexpected thing that dawned on me was that those videos were from the ‘Before Time.’ They were made about two months before we knew we were looking at a diagnosis of Cerebral Palsy for Roo, and long before we knew anything about Autism. Like most people, Autism was just an abstract concept to us. It was this thief-in-the-night type thing that went around snatching little boys, turning them into all-rock, no-talk hollow shells of children with crucial pieces missing from their puzzling lives, while their devastated parents could only hunt for a cause and a cure for this ‘disease.’ We were essentially ignorant of all things Autistic, save for the few half-truths and misguided metaphors we’d picked up from the odd bits of media coverage. Autism was not something we had to think or worry about back then. Which is probably a good thing since we already had our hands and minds full. But almost immediately, I felt a pang of envy watching that younger, more naive me playing and singing with my babies. I was gloriously unaware that raising those babies would be complicated by the many bumps and detours in Autism Land. Carefree compared to the me of today. Seeing the bliss in my own past ignorance made tears well up in my eyes.

Then, as I watched these little vignettes of Neener and Roo at seven months old, I couldn’t help but look for signs that might have hinted at the road ahead. Especially since doctors and researchers now think they can spot early indicators of autism by six months of age. Of course, there were many things that we, and the many doctors we dealt with, missed along the way. But they only seem obvious in retrospect. Roo lagged a bit in her gross and fine motor skills. And she had some quirks: A serious aversion to certain sounds, and any kind of talking toys; spells of staring off into space; selective hearing and odd eye contact; no fear of unfamiliar faces or places. And even as a baby, there was always something different about her vocalizations, her cooing, and her speech development, compared to Neener’s. Something I could never quite put my finger on, and ultimately didn’t worry about because all the professionals I spoke to and the books I consulted told me not to. From the time she was two months old, Roo was on medication for grand-mal seizures, so much of her odd behaviour was chalked up to her daily dose of phenobarbital. And she never exhibited any of those big red flags that the handy little autism awareness checklists and pamphlets in the paediatrician’s office tell you to look for. Those same handy checklists and pamphlets also happened to lead my cousin to spend a few thousand dollars in speech therapy, and many nights in worried tears over the development of her very un-autistic son. Meanwhile, my actually-autistic daughter slipped beneath the radar for years because no one knew or thought to look beyond the narrow parameters of a checklist, and the even narrower assumptions of how an autistic child looks and acts.

I also wondered if we would have done anything differently if we’d known about Roo’s autism when she was a baby. Probably. Would it have been better for her and for us? Maybe not. As much as I understand the benefit and logic of early intervention, I think for us, there could have been such a thing as too-early intervention. Knowing too much too soon could have quickly and permanently tipped my careful balance between stress and bliss too far in the wrong direction. Granted, I do wish we’d realized it was autism we were dealing with - and not just a defiant, disobedient child - a little earlier than we did. I might have been more patient and more understanding with Roo in those million little moments when it just seemed like she was being a spoiled brat, and trying to push my buttons. But then again, if we’d known any sooner, it might have influenced our decision to have another baby. I was almost two months pregnant with Squiggles when we got the first official inkling that Roo was autistic, and the actual diagnosis came a week before Squiggles was born. I can’t say for sure that we’d have done things very differently, but I tend to believe that the Universe unfolds as it does, when it does, for a reason. At least, my Universe does.

Even though it’s been a while since I’ve written a postcard from Autism Land, my regular posts - not to mention the day-to-day life of the Blister family - always have the threads of life on the autism spectrum woven throughout. Sometimes it’s stuff we can laugh at. Like the immense and loudly expressed joy Mr. and I felt when Roo was able to restrain herself from eating old stepped-on french fries from the floor of MacDonalds after only three verbal warnings. God, that was a great day! And other times, it’s anything but funny. The busyness of the last few weeks, and the sheer effort Roo makes just to hold herself together in so many contexts, has been catching up with us lately. We’ve had to extinguish multiple meltdowns, try to decipher many bouts of frustrated echolalia, and be vigilant in looking out for her safety when she has trouble doing it for herself. It is clear that even though we’ve moved half way across the country, we are still passport carrying citizens of Autism Land, just as we were back when those videos were made. Even though we didn’t know it then.

I still don’t have the luxury of time to dwell on the difficulties of our circumstances, or to sit around feeling sorry for myself or for Roo. She’s the same smiling, laughing, loving child she was in those videos, just older and a little more complicated. I’m older and perhaps more complicated too. But I’m also wiser. Wise enough to be glad that I didn’t know then what I know now. Wise enough to trust that my Universe has unfolded as it should. And wise enough to know when it’s time to stop analyzing old home movies, put Autism Land to the back of my mind, and go play a little game called Fluppy Dog with my three beautiful giggling, wiggling little girls.

A Day At The Beach. Literally.

Today we spent a few hours on the beach. Not just any beach. The ocean. Crisp, clear, salt water waves crashing onto miles and miles of hot, golden sand.

Neener and Roo and I splashed in the water, and beheld the awe inspiring power of the waves, the tide, and the vastness of the Atlantic. Mr. played football, and Squiggles napped on the shore. I could become a surfer girl beach bum in a heartbeat. You never know, I just might. At least for this summer.

We dug holes in the sand. We wrote on rocks with hunks of charcoal from bygone bonfires. We played with piles of seaweed. We ignored the dusting of sand on our snacks and ate ‘em anyway. I took pictures of my babies on the very same beach where Mr. and I had our wedding pictures done almost 7 years ago. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day that could only happen here and now. The kind of day that finally made me feel at home in this place.

So I’ll forget about the fact that we need to drive most everywhere to get anywhere. We can also drive to the beach. I’ll forget about not having that job I thought I needed. It’s much easier to be a surfer girl beach bum when you are working as a freelance writer. And I’ll forget about the fact that I have no friends here. I have my family. And I have the ocean. What more could I ask for?

Home is Where My Hummus Is

It would be a significant understatement to say that I am not a great traveler. And I don’t just mean big long vacations to far away places. Any kind of travel. Week long descents into hell trips, overnight excursions, even traveling to someone else’s house for food that I did not prepare and is therefore subject to suspicion supper is tough for me. I hate driving and I hate flying. I hate hotels and I hate pull-out couches. I hate suitcases and I hate not having access to everything I own at any given moment. I am, in fact, a terrible traveler because I am, in fact, a giant control freak.

In the past week, the Blister family has hit the road on three consecutive afternoons to travel to three red meat o ramas barbeques. Then we drove four hours to spend a night at the Mr.’s mom’s house, followed by another night at the Mr.’s mom’s family’s lovely lakeside cottage, then another five hours on the road to get home. We’ve been surrounded by family, friends, food and lots and lots of booze fun for days, and although I had a fine time everywhere we went, and feel spiritually recharged, physically, I feel like there’s an angry, spoon wielding troll trying to dig his way out of my innards crap. I can appreciate the good parts of traveling - the people, the places, the new experiences that become cherished memories - but I can’t ignore the parts that make me detest being away from home for any length of time. My spastic colon and sciatic hip body just won’t let me. Too many days without my crazy hippie health freak usual diet of boneless skinless chicken breast, whole grains, chick peas, veggies and berries, and too many nights sleeping without my obsessively constructed cozily arranged nest of pillows makes for one bitchy Blister some considerable discomfort.

No doubt, some of my traveling discomfort is also born of stress. The kind of stress that most of you lucky bastards people who don’t have Squiggles the Dictator, Professor Neener, and Roo the Rock Eating Volcano Girl three children under the age of six can not even fathom. It takes an inordinate amount of time and space to pack up all the things we need for even the most basic day trip. The Blister Sisters have a rider explicitly stating that they require a fully loaded ipod with 50% Little People songs and 50% alternative rock, a dvd player with at least 3 Baby Einsteins to pick from, a dozen books including 4 from the Captain Underpants collection, two magnadoodles, a bag of assorted plush, musical and teething toys, and snacks (including but not limited to bottled water, cherry juice, peeled oranges, organic blueberries, marbled cheese strings, and smarties with all the brown ones removed) are easily entertained when we’re on the road, but the military precision with which we execute our travel plans inevitably takes its toll. Usually on my digestive system in the form of constipation, and on my nerves in the form of a relentlessly twitching eyeball. I’m Domestic Blister, and not the Well-Heeled Traveler for a reason, you see.

What it all boils down to is that my body is used to my bed, my food, and my bathroom. Even if my mind is enamored with the thought of running far far away to some exotic locale, possibly alone picturesque scenery, breaking away from routines, and family adventures, the fact remains that any extended deviation from the comforts of home causes my body to rebel. And travel is just one big pain in the ass deviation. So, I’ll be spending the next few weeks firmly planted at home, where I can hide from the life-on-the-road buffet of red meat and white bread, safe within the pureed garbonzo bean goodness of hummus and carrot sticks. Where each night my pillow nest waits for me and my sciatica to climb in at the crack of 9 pm a reasonable hour. Where my eyeball only twitches for half hour intervals, and if I’m going to be constipated, at least it’s on my own time and my own toilet. For the next few weeks, if anybody wants to pry this old barnacle from her rock, they’d better make me us a pretty sweet offer. Like the position of head chef, a king sized memory foam bed, and a private en suite bathroom stocked with laxatives and eye-twitch stopping pills. In the meantime, I’ll be making myself at home in the only place I truly can: My newly beloved Blisterdome. And you’re all welcome to visit. I’ve got a big tub o’ hummus waiting in the fridge.

Her Squiggleness and Pavlov’s Puppy

Looking at baby Squiggles as she sleeps, it is very difficult to get past her innocent little half-smile, and the angelic flutter of her eyelashes as she drifts off to her little dreamland. In these moments, it is almost impossible to see her for what she really is: a teeny tiny tyrant. Yes, my sweet baby is in fact a diaper-clad dictator, albeit a mostly benevolent one. As long as everyone does her bidding, peace and goodwill shall reign in the Blisterdome and She will bestow upon her kingdom much smiling and giggling and cooing and clapping of hands. But if the rabble dares to rise above its position of servitude, or fails to please Her Squiggleness, there is hell to pay. And hell comes in the form of long, angry, red-faced tirades of “GA GA GA GA GA!”, the hair-pull ear-yank eye-gouge assault combo, and poop. Lots and lots of poop designed to defy the confines of even the toughest, most securely fastened diaper. And speaking of diapers, did I mention that Squiggles has just learned how to get her diaper off. Her loyal subjects are quaking in their sensible shoes at the thought of how that could be used against them.

Baby Squiggles has a strategy for getting exactly what she wants. It’s called the “You Can’t Say No to a Cute Little Baby Who Does Cute Little Baby Things” strategy. It’s a variation of the ” You Can’t Say No If I Ask You in a Funny Voice” strategy that Neener and Roo employ, but it also incorporates many elements of my own tried and true ” You Can’t Say No If I Don’t Give You a Choice” strategy. In the game of ‘Throw Toys from the Highchair and Make Someone Get Them’, Squiggles has Neener all figured out. The second a toy hits the floor, Squiggles knows to look sad and let out a few little whimpers to make big sister come running. But Squiggles also knows that the key to sealing the deal - that is, the deal in which Neener will forever be her Chief Toy Picker Upper- is how she reacts after she gets the toys back. Neener is a sucker for an adoring crowd. All Squiggles has to do is turn on her sycophantic charm and appeal to her big sister’s love of the limelight: She laughs, claps and squeals in delight at the sight of Neener rushing to her aid. Neener puts on the toy picking-up performance of her life. Squiggles applauds and coos, momentarily paying more attention to Neener than to the freshly retrieved toy. Neener, basking in heroic glory, takes a bow. Squiggles waggles her fingers menacingly and grins as she sends another toy to the floor.

Squiggles even has me under her fat little slobber covered thumb. Yes, me, the too-smart-to-fall-for-that-eyelash-batting-bullshit mother that I am. I bear the brunt of Squiggle’s demands. It really began in utero, when she forced me to throw up every day in the first trimester and gain fifty pounds in the last, and would only permit me to sleep on my left side if I wanted to sleep at all. But now, here on the outside, I am still this baby’s bitch. And never is that more apparent than when Squiggles wakes in the middle of the night and decides she wants me. Or, to be more precise, wants my boobs. Squiggles does not cry. Nor does she whine, whimper, or even babble at me anymore when she wants to wake me. Instead, she pulls the cord of her musical crib toy. A little plush puppy that barks, giggles and plays songs. That is how the tiny tyrant beckons me. And without fail, I respond because if I’m not giving her what she wants by the puppy’s third serenade…well, let’s just say my safety can no longer be guaranteed. So, when the puppy sounds, I jump to do Her Squiggleness’s bidding. And I just consider myself lucky that the sound of a barking dog does not automatically start me lactating.

I’m not proud to admit that my life, and therefore the life of the whole Blister family, is being run by a bald headed, big-eared seven month old and her musical puppy crib toy. But I am pretty proud that the bald headed big-eared seven month old has trained her mother to respond reflexively to the sound of the musical puppy crib toy. Having Pavlov’s classical conditioning figured out before one’s first birthday is pretty impressive. The phrase evil genius comes to mind. But neither  evil nor genius is apparent when she’s sleeping here in my arms. No matter how many times she manipulates Neener into picking up her toys, or grabs a fistful of unsuspecting Roo’s hair, or surprises her daddy with a giant stealth poop, or uses her little Pavlovian puppy to make Mommy and her milk come running, when Squiggles is nestled next to me, wrapped in the comfort of her baby dreams, she is the picture of innocence. Nevermind that in her bald little seven month old head, she is probably dreaming up a grand scheme for global domination under the glorious tyranny of Her Royal Squiggleness and the musical plush puppy crib toy.

The Dames of Hazard

Neener and Roo have inherited some remarkable characteristics from me. They have my perfectly bowed upper lip, which makes for both an adorable little pout and a magically mischievous grin. The have my passionate obsession with words. And they have my stunning bicycling abilities. I say stunning because, when you see us riding a bike, prepare to be stunned by how remarkably terrible we are at it.

I have not been on a bicycle in at least twelve years, and some would say that is for the best. They are probably right. My only memories of bike riding are spectacularly crashtastic. There was the near-collision with a free range chicken that sent me flying over the handle bars of a BMX, resulting in the near-squashing of several more free range chickens upon my landing. There was the time I drove my Blue Angel bike down a hill and directly into the woods. Like, right into a thick patch of spruce trees without even touching my brakes. Then there was the time I drove my mountain bike down a much bigger hill, at a much higher speed, and proceeded to drive across a road and over a bank, at which point both my bicycle and I became airborne. Until gravity kicked in and sent me face first into the swampy ditch, and my bicycle, tire-first into the back of my head. Again, I didn’t even slow down, much less try to steer my way out of danger. Most people like to get off of a bike by swinging their leg over the side when the bike is not moving. I seem to prefer a more creative dismount. Over the handlebars at high speed. Yeeeehaw!

Somewhere along the way, I became afraid of falling from a bike. Afraid of busting my perfectly bowed upper lip. So I stopped riding altogether. But in the last few weeks, I’ve been watching Neener and Roo just learning to ride on the little paved path behind our house. I’ve watched Roo pedal her heart out with not a shred of attention paid to actually steering. I’ve watched Neener coast down tiny slopes with her feet stuck straight out to the sides, it never once occurring to her to touch the brakes. I’ve watched, and I’ve felt compelled to get out there with them. And now I can. Look out all you chickens and trees and ditches, I’ve got a bike! My stylin’ new set of wheels came to me courtesy of my brother, and it looks like something I stole from a thirteen year old boy. It’s a black BMX trick bike covered in skateboarder stickers. Heavy as lead, big thick super grip tires, and a seat that would be enough to give me hemorrhoids if having three babies had not already beaten it to the punch. I can’t decide if I look all hardcore and tough riding this bike, or if I look totally ridiculous. Not that it really matters. I’ll consider myself lucky if I manage to spend most of my time actually riding the thing as opposed to picking me and it out of bushes. (Note to self: Get a good sturdy helmet! Preferably a bad-ass black one with skateborader stickers on it.)

Last year, Mr. Blister got a really nice mountain bike, and he’s been using it to show Neener and Roo how to really ride. They are ultra impressed with the way he whizzes around without so much as a wobble. From him, they will learn how to ride a bike. But now that I have one too, I can get in on the educational action. He might be able to teach them how to ride, but seeing my own braking-and-steering-challenged tendencies in their young eyes, I know they are also going to need someone to teach them how to fall. (Tuck and roll, baby, tuck and roll.) That will be up to me and my little black BMX. And more importantly, I can teach them what to do after they fall. I’ll teach them to get up, pick the chicken feathers or spruce needles or muddy swampy ditch bits out of their teeth and hair, and get back on the bike. Even if it’s been twelve years.

The War at Home

There is a battle of the sexes regularly erupting in the Blisterdome. Or maybe it’s a battle over the sexes. What ever it is, it’s Neener versus Roo, and it typically manifests in a conversation that goes a little something like this:

Roo: I like princesses and pink is my favourite colour and I have long hair and I wear dresses and I am a girl.

Neener: I like dinosaurs and soccer. My favourite colour is red. I wear my red dino soccer shorts when I play dino soccer. I’m a girl too.

Roo: No! You’re a boy! I’m a girl and you’re a boy!

Neener: No, I’m a girl!

Roo: No! Boy!

Neener: Girl!

Roo: Boy! Boy! Boooooooooooy!

Neener: No! I’m a girrrrrrrrrl!

Roo: BOY! BOY! BOY! YOU ARE A BOY! BOOOOOOOOOOY!

Neener: WAAAAAHHHHH! SHE CALLED ME A BOY AND I AM NOT I AM A GIRL!

Roo: THE GIRL IN THE DRESS IS GONNA HIT THE BOY WITH THE RED DINO SOCCER SHORTS!

Neener: WAAAAAHHHH! SHE HIT ME.

Clearly, there are a few issues here. An obvious one being that Neener does not even own a pair of red dino soccer shorts. Nor has she ever played enough dino soccer to know that she loves it. Then there is the fact that Roo sees red dino soccer shorts where there are none. On her sister, the boy.

No doubt some of this ‘I’m a girl, you’re a boy’ stuff is part of their twinship. Neener and Roo have always used opposites to define and differentiate themselves. Roo says black, Neener says white. Neener says up, Roo says down. Neener says I love you, Roo responds with I hate you. So by that logic, if one is a girl, then the other must be a boy. And for a while they went along with each other on that. Until Neener realized that she was actually not a boy. Even though it was a fact I had reiterated many many times, it was only when the boys at school told her so that it really sunk in. Initially, she was relieved. She no longer had to pretend she liked Spiderman or Transformers, or try to pee standing up on the boys’ ‘ Pee Tree’ at the park. But then confusion set in. Did this mean that she couldn’t like dinosaurs anymore? Would she have to wear dresses and bows in her never-to-be-cut-again hair? Was pink to be the new red, and would dreams of a ballerina princess wedding replace her soccer playing paleontologist aspirations? At the same time that Neener discovered she was not a boy, Roo had latched on to the strict definition of girl provided by her classmates: girls like pink, sparkles, and frills, and only play with dolls and other girls. All of these ideas have been weaponized in the war at home.

I, ever the family peacenik, tried to set the record straight:

“You are both girls. And it’s ok for girls to like dinosaurs and sports and have short hair and wear pants, and do or be anything that boys can. And boys can play with dolls, or have long hair or even wear dresses. Everybody is different, and what they like has nothing to do with being a boy or girl.”

There. ‘Nuf said. Except, not quite. I had to keep shooting off my stupid peacenik Free To Be You and Me mouth.

“In fact, the only thing that makes a girl a girl is having a vagina, and the only thing that makes a boy a boy is a penis.”

Which is technically true. What I did not consider was that this explanation would lead them to go around asking people about their penis/vagina status. Or that I’d given Roo new ammo to hurl at Neener: YOU ARE A BOY! YOU HAVE A PENIS! Yeah, I’ve clearly carved a switch for my own arse with this one.

I’m not the only parent who has struggled with this (Check out this from one of my other writer crushes, Girl’s Gone Child.) Yeah…how the hell do you explain to a kid how to tell who’s a boy and who’s a girl? I don’t want to give Neener and Roo the usual sexist sounding stereotypes either. They get enough of that from the rest of the world, and they’ve also experienced enough diversity in their lives to see that those stereotypes can be false. My kids know guys with long hair, guys who like pink sparkling things, guys who wear dresses and eyeliner, and guys who are married to other guys. And they know women with short hair, women who play sports, women who would not be caught dead in a dress, women who ride motorcycles, and women with wives. But their less worldly peers have given them these narrow definitions of male and female, which makes them even more confused. Then I go and tell them the whole penis/vagina thing, but also tell them not to ask people about the whole penis/vagina thing. When all they really want to know is how to tell the boys from the girls so they can use the right pronouns! No wonder they are screwed up, and fighting about it.

Again, stupid idealistic hippy peacenik liar me tries to tell them that it doesn’t matter. That people are people, and that whether someone is a boy or a girl is not important. That penises and vaginae have nothing to do with what you can do with your life, and what you can be in this world. But I think they already know that’s not true. Which is probably why they are so concerned with identifying themselves and everyone else as either boy or girl, and with defining boys and girls as polar opposites. So, for lack of a better explanation, I figured I’d better just stick to the penis/vagina monologue . They understand it, and I’ll just have to practice my sheepish grin for the times when they ask other people about the contents of their underpants in order to figure out if they’re a he or a she. Hey, it’s not perfect, but Neener and Roo get this pretty much foolproof definition of male and female. Or so I think. Until one day Roo chirps, “What kind of penis do I have? A boy penis or a girl penis?”

To which I respond the best way I know how: ” Go ask Daddy.”

Please, Hold Your Clappy Clappy Hannies. Not.

Yesterday, as what had been, by all accounts, a rather ordinary day drew to a close, our world suddenly changed. An unstoppable chain of events was set in motion with a single word. That word was cat. More importantly, the speaker of that word was none other than baby Squiggles. Then, when she said it a second, third and fourth time - with the cat actually in the room at one point - Mr. Blister and I both knew that life would never be the same.

Squiggles is just approaching seven months old, and she’s already a bit of a chatterbox. Or babblebox, as the case may be. She very recently added dada to her current repertoire of mama, bub bub, gaga, ahgoo and raspberries. (The sound, that is, not the actual word raspberries. You know, that sound that goes ppffttthhh. Those raspberries.) She’s been working on cat for a while. Everytime she saw a cat, you could see her concentrating, practicing cuh cuh cuh. And finally, last night, out it came. And the best part was, she clearly meant to do it. Her first word was not a stumbled upon accident. She knew what she was trying to say, she said it, repeated it, and she gave herself a huge round of clappy clappy hannies. Yes, she also learned to clap four days ago. I think she was waiting until she had the whole clapping thing down before she attempted a word. How anti-climactic would it be to say your first word and not be able to give yourself a round of applause? That would never do because, trust me, this kid digs fanfare. The rest of the family gets treated to a serious dose of greasy looks and agitated hollers if we don’t sufficiently marvel at Baby Squiggle’s accomplishments. Like her mad skills at biffing toys across the room. Or the panache with which she smears mushed peas over her eyebrows. Or her exceptional ability to make poop go out the back of her diaper all the way up to her neck. Yay Squiggles!

I can’t recall precisely when Neener and Roo said their first words. Or what those words might have been. Ball and book seem vaguely familiar. I really should have written it down in their lovely little baby books, but since I spent the first year of their lives just trying to keep everyone fed, semi-clothed, semi-clean and more than semi-alive, baby books just didn’t make it on to the priority list. Go figure. All I know for sure is that once they realized that they could say a word, more words quickly followed. And they haven’t shut up since. And now Squiggles is adding her voice to the Blister family’s cacophony symphony of sound, hollering that magically melodic first word - CAT - over and over and over again, volume rising to climb above the din of her wildly applauding family. At least we better be applauding wildly. Otherwise her next words will very likely be “Clappy clappy hannies for me dammit!” Indeed, life will never be the same.

The Cupcake Economy

I want to teach my children that friends can not be bought. That people should like you for who you are, not for what you have or what you give them. I also want to be able to crack open pearl filled oysters with my glute muscles and bounce gold coins off my abs, and ride a flying unicorn to my multi-million dollar a year job as a professional wine and gourmet pizza taster. Some things just ain’t gonna happen.

It is no secret that Neener and Roo both struggle with their social skills. So far, neither has been able to establish that critical first friendship, although Neener had a little taste of camaraderie back in September. Patricia, a senior kindergartener with an abundance of street smarts and a shortage of reading skills became Neener’s best friend after she helped tape the head of a dandelion back on, following its violent beheading by The Kindergarten Ninja Posse. Unfortunately, the friendship was short lived. Patricia was moved to another class, where, for the rest of the year, her new classmates would reap the benefits of her extensive knowledge of human reproduction and swear words. Sadly, Neener would not. And she has not had a best friend ever since. Roo, on the other hand, has a new best friend everyday. Problem is, her best friends are very frequently inanimate objects: flowers, sticks, hair clips, pieces of paper. Even when Roo does manage to declare a best friend that is a real live human, she misses an important next step: actually speaking to her new best friend, or even giving them any indication whatsoever that they’ve been befriended. Social dynamos, they ain’t.

It’s not that other kids don’t like them, or try to play with and befriend them. Other children very frequently approach Neener and Roo and try to start a game or a conversation. And this is where they get tripped up. Witness this little scene from the other day when we encountered a little boy about their age riding his big wheel trike on the path that runs along the backyards of our new neighbourhood.

Little boy: Hi!

Neener: Hi!

Neener: My name is Neener. That’s N-E-E-N-E-R. What’s your name?

Little boy: Thomas. That starts with a T. Then an H. An O -

At this point, I’m on cloud nine. She not only responded to him saying hello, but she introduced herself and seems to be sustaining conversation! Go Neener, go! And then…

Neener (suddenly breaking into a full body bounce on the balls of her feet, arms flailing wildly, purple framed glasses tilted at an angle that can only be described as insane) shouting: Basketball! Basketball! Basketball! B-A-S-K-E-T-B-A-L-L!

Little boy: ‘Huh?’

But Neener does not hear him. She’s still spazzing out, and is now making weird noises to boot. And remember, she’s not even the Autistic one. No, the Autistic one is on someone’s lawn eating clover. Dear God, I hope it’s just clover she’s eating.

Me (translating): Uhh, I think she likes your shirt. It says Basketball on it.

Little boy: Oh. Yeah. I’m going to my girlfriend’s house. See ya!

Neener: Thomas loves basketball! Thomas loves basketball! Bye Thomas! Thomas loves basketball, Mommy! It said basketball on his shirt!

Me: Yeah, I saw that.

Roo (remnants of clover on her breath): Thomas is my best friend!

We’ve done role playing, we’ve tried to practice being less…uh…random when trying to strike up a conversation with other kids. Some of it has obviously sunk in, but socializing is just not something that comes easy to my kids. So, I think I’m going to have to have a surefire friend-making currency on hand. Something that will let my kids bond with other kids, without relying too much on their ability to engage in social discourse that is not weird. I’m thinking cupcakes. At this age, kids are more than happy to define their friends as the people who give them stuff, rather than the people who think up fun games, or the ones who are sparkling conversationalists, or the ones who don’t eat clover or wear their glasses at the insane angle while flapping and flopping and shouting about what’s on your t-shirt. And who can think about small talk when your mouth is full of cupcake! To the average five year old, friends are the ones who offer you cupcakes. Good cupcakes. Chocolate cupcakes. Best friends bring cupcakes with sprinkles. And icing. Lots of icing.

So naturally, I’ll keep plugging away, trying to help Neener and Roo develop their social communication skills. I’ve also fully accepted that they are both marvelously odd children, and many other kids just won’t get them no matter what they or I say and do. But I still want them to experience the pleasures of friendship, even that superficial five-year old type of friendship that revolves around the exchange of goodies. So, the next time we head out to a place where I know we’ll run into potential playmates, I’ll be well prepared to grease the wheels of social interaction for Neener and Roo. With lots and lots of chocolate icing.