KateEvans

We live near this bridge. It is a popular bridge for people to walk or cycle over to enjoy the view. Being very high up over the water of Vancouver harbour, it is also a popular place for people to go to end their lives.

A few weeks ago we had what the authorities call a “distressed woman” on one of our local bridges and, so the police could talk to her properly, they shut down the bridge for five hours. On a national holiday, in the middle of the day. Thousands of drivers were left stranded on hellishly hot highways with no means of escape - including those too old, young or sick to be there. In the end, the police successfully talked the woman out of jumping and I have thought many times about what a selfish woman she must be. She didn’t really want to do it - she just wanted to get some attention, and boy did she get it, at everyone else’s expense. If she’d really wanted to do it, she would have just done it and everyone else could have got on with their lives.

So yesterday, when we were driving over the Lions Gate Bridge, a police car went racing past us and stopped at the crest of the bridge. As we drove alongside, the officer jumped out of his car and raced to the side of the bridge where there were a few people standing, looking helpless. The officer looked desperately over the side of the bridge, then more slowly, returned to his car.

He was too late. A person had already jumped off the bridge seconds before he got there. No traffic was stopped, no people delayed. A person who wanted to commit suicide just went ahead and did it, without faffing about and inconveniencing everyone else.

So I guess I should feel really pleased about that, then.

What I always thought of as my wit has largely disappeared - due, I think, to the fact that I don’t get out much anymore or have a lot of variation in what I do and the people I see. I’m okay with that. I don’t need a lot of wit for the kids. Children don’t really appreciate witty, only funny, and luckily for me they are happy to hear the same thing repeated over and over again. Or, at least, I hope they are. Because poor E and L keep having to hear my same lame jokes over and over again, recycled endlessly. I even have a joke about using my jokes over and over again, and I use it over and over again.

The stew joke comes from when they start eating food, at about six months. I make L some beef stew, or perhaps pork and apple stew, and then I puree it and feed it to him and while I’m feeding it to him, I tell him, “Have some stew. It’s yummy baby stew. Made with fresh babies! Ha ha ha!” and then, babies being babies, he will invariably do what comes naturally and start to cry, which is really what I deserve.

Lunchtime for E is equally tricky, for one of her favourite foods is ham, and because it must amuse me on some level I have taken to calling ham by the cutesy name “hamster”, which of course has necessitated some hasty clarifications at the pet store, and frankly I’m still not sure whether my daughter thinks we eat rodents for lunch or not.

And then later, when we’re playing on the carpet, I always try to get them to build a tower of blocks. (The book says they are supposed to learn how to build a tower of blocks. It doesn’t say why.) How this works is that I sit there and build a tower of blocks, and they watch me blankly, then they knock it over. Sometimes they vary the routine a bit and knock it over while I’m building it, but they always always always knock it over. So whenever I sit down and build a tower of blocks, I always loudly announce that I am “building a tower of strength and endurance, to stand the test of time”, because apparently I think this makes it much funnier when they then knock the tower over. I have said the words “a tower of strength and endurance, to stand the test of time” so many times now that I’m unable not to say it in any block-related situation. I say it now even when I am suggesting that we play with the blocks: “Sweetie, do you want to help Mummy build a tower of strength and endurance, to stand the test of time?”

After making any one of these jokes for the four thousandth time that day, I will invariably tell my children that “Some day, when we can afford it, Mummy hopes to get some new jokes”. Sadly, for now we have to make do with these old ones.

Children like consistency in their lives, don’t they?

[EDIT: This was originally just a private diary entry for today, but I thought that sharing it with the world might shame me into getting some new jokes, or at least stop me from repeating the old ones ever again.]

The other day, a woman in our playgroup passed me a flyer advertising her new website, which she is using as a marketing tool for a parenting book she hopes to get published. The book is one of those tiresome “All those things no one told you about parenting” books, in which the author details all those things which have already been exhaustively detailed in all those other “All those things no one told you about parenting” books. You’ll be really tired! You won’t feel like having sex! Breastfeeding can be hard! Parenting can be dull! And so on, ad nauseam.

Look, everyone knows all this stuff. The thing is that no one really believes it, or believes that having children will come as that much of a shock to the system. So if you’re pregnant with your first child, my advice is just to believe what all your books and all the people you know tell you, and then no one will need to publish this latest unoriginal book and kill millions of trees in the process. Okay? Thanks.

So, without further adieu, what you really haven’t been told about parenting is this:

1. It will destroy your blogging. Okay, maybe it won’t. I can think of a very few stay-at-home parents whose blogs have not only survived but flourished post-birth, without becoming a desolate wasteland. But not many. Most parents of young children, when we get the time to blog, sit in front of the computer and think: eeeeuuuuh. Sometimes we gurn too. But we rarely manage to come up with anything we think anyone wants to read.

2. You will at one point be out at one of the more stylish bar/restaurants in town, sans children, having cocktails with girlfriends, and you will notice that there is a group of suits at the next table, and they appear to be eyeing up you and your friends, and you will very briefly imagine that, even post-baby, you’ve still got it; but then you will realise they are staring merely because you have all been talking too loudly about the contents of your children’s nappies. Oh yes, I’m afraid so. 

3. Your baby boy might look like Hitler. Okay, no one told me this. I guess you’re all having a big laugh at my expense now.

Following the rather sad death of one monkey and theft of another at the Greater Vancouver Zoo last night, it’s only natural that the news media would be on hand to film the crime scene, interview the staff of the zoo and get a few quotes from zoo visitors - including yours truly - on their reactions to the crime.

Only thing is, there isn’t much to say about something like this, except of course for the obvious, and the news media have a lot of time to fill. So, if you were asked on camera what you thought about someone breaking into a monkey cage, killing one monkey and stealing another, what would you say?

Cameraman: Can you tell us what you think of this crime?

KE: It’s terrible. It’s just terrible.

Cameraman (nodding): Yes…?

KE: …just terrible. Shocking. Who could have done such a thing.

Cameraman: Uh huh…?

KE: Er…it’s very sad for the staff. And the visitors. And…er…the monkeys.

Cameraman: …Yes? And?

KE: …er…I suppose it’s good that they didn’t manage to steal any other animals as well.

Other animals?? What other animals was I worried they might try to steal? The hippos? Maybe one of the giraffes? A moose or two?

However, I may yet be spared public humiliation. Baby L was strapped to my chest in his baby carrier at the time, and I’m pretty sure he spent the interview slowly barfing out his half-digested breakfast down my front, so they might not be able to use it. (The interview, I mean.)

Other mother at toddler group: Did I mention that my son was pretending to be your daughter last week? He kept saying “I’m E! I’m E!” Ha ha!

KE: Ha ha! Cute.

Other mother: I said to him, “Oh, you’re E, are you? So what does E do, then?” and he thought for a minute, and he said, “E just is“. Ha ha! She just is!

KE: Ha ha! Yes, that’s E. She’s like The Dude. She just abides.

Other mother: [polite silence]

Other mother: [polite silence]

Other mother: [continuing polite silence, now with slightly nervous smile]

Other mother: …um - yes. So, anyway…

Yarb (blathering animatedly and lengthily at 7.30am): …blah blah blah and so Welsh shepherds used a vigesimal counting system! Isn’t that weird?

KE: Huwuh?

Yarb: You know, vigesimal. Based on twenty rather than ten.

KE: Counting. Ten. Uh?

Yarb: Come on. You’ve heard of binary, right?

KE: (silence)

Yarb: Kate, you’re acting as though you don’t find this very interesting!

The other night I had a very long dream in which all that happened was that I was walking down a street, and I farted, and then I spent the rest of the dream worrying that the person walking behind me had heard it.

I am not one of those people who tells mother-in-law jokes. I get on well with my mother-in-law. We have a few interests in common, we enjoy each other’s company, and she does not interfere with, criticise or otherwise comment on my parenting. As far as I am concerned I have won the Mother-in-Law Lottery, as these things go. She is visiting us right now and I am happy to have her here, and I’m pretty sure she feels the same about me.

Until this morning, that is. I can’t recount all the details of this conversation for privacy reasons, but it went something like this:

MIL: And what is Person X getting up to these days?

KE: Oh, you know Person X. He’s being very foolish because (recounts long story about what Person X is doing, which happens to be very similar to something MIL did in the past). Isn’t that a stupid thing to do?

MIL: Hmm.

KE: And also, he does stupid things like (lists more things that Person X does which are nearly identical to things MIL does). Which of course is just stupid.

MIL: Umm.

KE: (only now realising what she has just said)…er, and of course, there’s also (quickly tells convoluted and mostly fabricated story intended to demonstrate why Person X’s situation is entirely different from MIL’s), so that’s why he is uniquely stupid and why anyone else in the same situation doing the same things would be much smarter….erm….say, what’s Baby L doing now? Isn’t he cute? Smile for Nana, Baby L!

Baby L: Don’t drag me into this.

MIL: (silence)

On the plus side, I guess this takes the pressure off my cooking.

Any parenting course worth its salt should include an intensive study of Toddler Logic.

Little girl E: Pretzels. Pretzels!

Mummy and Daddy: Darling, are you hungry? Would you like some pretzels? 

Little girl E: No.

Mummy and Daddy: Oh. All right.

Little girl E: Pretzels!! Preeeeeeetzels!

Mummy and Daddy: Sweetie, we’ll just get you some pretzels.

Little girl E: No! No!

Mummy and Daddy: Oh. Okay.

Little girl E: PRETZELS!!! (sobs piteously) PREEEEETZELS!!!!

Mummy and Daddy: Here are some pretzels for you, E.

Little girl E: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

repeat x 10,000

***

For Christmas, my brother gave me an iPod Touch. It’s difficult to explain my feelings on opening it. It’s one of the niftiest bits of kit I’ve ever seen - touch screen, holds more music than has ever been written, photos, movies, internet etc - but I thought at first that perhaps this was far too cool and hip a device for me; that my days of keeping both up with technological advances, and down with the kids, were well and truly over. However, I managed to talk myself out of such negative thinking. I’m no Luddite, and I’m not really as old as I like to pretend. There was no reason whatsoever I couldn’t show the kids a thing or two about mastering modern technology!

After three days of playing with it, I finally gave in and called my brother to ask how to turn on the sound. 

***

The UN has declared 2008 the International Year of the Potato. Why? To “raise awareness of the importance of the potato…in addressing issues of global concern, including hunger, poverty and threats to the environment”.

Yes, that’s YEAR. Not week, or month, but a whole 365 days devoted to honouring the humble tuber.

So when someone says “Do you want fries with that?”, ask yourself: what would Ban Ki-moon do?

1. Finalist, Strangest Telephone Call I Received On 3rd December

“Hi KE, this is your obstetrician’s office here. Just calling to remind you of your caesarian section tomorrow. Okay?”

2. Finalist, Things Doctors Probably Shouldn’t Say As They Pull The Baby Out Of Your Tummy

“Oh my god!!”

3. Winner, Largest Baby I Ever Gave Birth To

Baby Boy L, born 9.10am, 4th December, 10lbs 9oz

Oof.

Curious George is making me regret motherhood.

Everyone knows George. He’s that cute little monkey who was snatched away from a blissful life in Africa. He’s always curious and gets into all sorts of trouble, but manages to get himself back out through a combination of innocence and helpfulness. Parents and children have loved him and his adventures for decades. My daughter adores him and no day is complete without at least a couple of Curious George stories. I hate him.

It’s not just the hatred you feel after being forced to read the same story for the 497th time. It’s the continual lack of supervision that allows George to get into so much trouble in the first place (”I’m just going to go out for the afternoon and leave you alone in this delicate glass figurine factory, George,” said the man with the yellow hat. “Now be a good monkey and try not to get into any trouble.”)

It’s also the convoluted plots. In Curious George Gets A Medal, George manages to flood a house, steal a piece of industrial equipment, ride a cow, destroy a museum exhibit and fly halfway to the moon. In other stories, George nearly poisons an entire zoo, contaminates a chocolate factory and almost starts a riot in various venues (”I’m just going to go out for the afternoon and leave you with all these hand grenades and tear gas, George,” said the man with the yellow hat. “Now be a good monkey and try not to get into any trouble”).

I’ve gotten to the pathetic point where I’ve started hiding the Curious George books from my daughter so I don’t have to read them to her. But I note that new stories are being written about Curious George in the style of the original authors, so in the same spirit of helpfulness that inspires everyone’s favourite little monkey, may I suggest the following for future episodes:

Curious George and the Very Deep Quarry
Curious George Visits Huntingdon Life Sciences and its sequel, Curious George Gets Ebola
Curious George Can Kiss My Arse

Just as I have a difficult time looking away from a car crash, I find it very hard to stop myself from reading Mumsnet.

For the uninitiated, Mumsnet is a UK-based website for parents, covering topics from conception to delivery to upbringing to coping with all sorts of special needs and familial situations. It’s meant to be a valuable resource and many thousands of mums receive helpful advice and information through its forums, articles and such.

Or, at least, I suppose they do, because so many people use it, as you can see if you look at their forums. I have never signed up to Mumsnet - which you need to do if you want to comment on any of the forums. The reason I have not signed up for it is because I imagine the forum moderators would ban any commenter who said things like “You are having this parenting problem because you are a stupid idiot”.

If you are ever having too good a day, blissfully imagining that most people have common sense, the perfect antidote for this is to read a Mumsnet forum. In them, you’ll find thousands of sensible discussion topics; but also surprisingly many along the lines of:

“My son (5) bites, hits, kicks, tortures, and attempts to decapitate other children constantly. Whenever he does this I always give him lots of extra attention and cuddles so he doesn’t feel ostracised, and usually buy him a treat on the way home, but for some reason the behaviour continues. Can anyone help?”

“I was at a fancy restaurant the other day and decided to breastfeed my daughter (13), when the maitre d’ came up and politely asked me if I would be more comfortable on the sofa in the ladies’ room. I of course called the police. Advice needed: how much do you think the restaurant should compensate me for this anti-breast fascism?”

“My two children (5 and 3) won’t eat anything but deep-fried Mars bars. At every meal I give them their deep-fried Mars bars, then ask them if they wouldn’t perhaps like to try a bit of broccoli one day, but they always refuse. My GP suggested just serving them something different, but as they’ve already said no I don’t see how she can expect me to starve my children! I am at my wits’ end and don’t know what to do.”

Every so often a sensible person will accidentally stray onto the forum and, assuming wrongly that they are dealing with other sensible people, will innocently offer some sensible advice: how about a bit of restraint, assertiveness, consideration for others, etc. They will then be pounced on and attacked as the regulars berate them, scoff at them or ignore them entirely, as though they were ranting nutters.

I know reading Mumsnet is bad for my blood pressure, but I just can’t help myself. It’s easily as gripping as reading the Daily Mail used to be.

If you find yourself seated near a pregnant woman you have never met before, I suggest you stick to the following conversational lines:

• “So when are you due?”
• “…”

Er, that’s it, really. The reason you shouldn’t attempt anything more detailed is because it can quickly degenerate, taking you into conversational realms you really, really don’t want to be entering with a heavily pregnant and highly irritable woman:

• “Ohmygod! You’re having twins, are you?” (No.)
• “Oh! I just thought you were having twins because, er…it’s just that…well, your…I just thought that…you seem to be…”

The reason I look like I am carrying twins is because I am likely having a boy. And everyone knows that males take up a great deal more space than is strictly necessary. My unborn is doing the foetal equivalent of sitting on the Tube with his legs splayed wide open, reading a broadsheet.

The good news is that Baby E now has a firm grasp of what is to come, as is illustrated by her step-by-step explanation of the birthing process this evening:

“Baby…tummy…out…hi!”

The bad news is that I went to the doctor last week and discovered that I can’t see the cup anymore. Those of you who don’t know what this means are the lucky ones.

Anyone contemplating, like me, giving birth to a baby in the near future, will be heartened to read that labour is only painful because we think it is. We are informed of this by Guardian letter-writer Rebecca Griffith from the 9 October edition (my emphasis added):

“While offering [Guardian journalist] Ms Williams many congratulations on the birth of her son, it was disheartening to read an account of childbirth infused with fear and pain. In 1913 Dr Grantly Dick-Read attended a birth where the woman refused his chloroform and afterwards explained, “It didn’t hurt doctor; was it supposed to?” He went on to propose the Fear-Tension-Pain Syndrome in childbirth. Without the fear and tension, you don’t get the pain. Unfortunately, Ms Williams has probably added to the expectations of pain in many pregnant readers. Should she decide to expand her family she might like to try HypnoBirthing for an easier, comfortable birth.
Rebecca Griffith
Hatfield, Hertfordshire”

I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that not only does labour not really hurt (it’s all in your head, ladies!), but if it does, I can blame a Guardian journalist for it. I blame them for everything else anyway.

If you were to shop at Capers, like I sometimes do because it’s our closest shop, you too might find yourself purchasing a cleaning product called Seventh Generation there. Capers is the sort of place you can buy cleaning products called names like “Seventh Generation”, and not cleaning products with names that sound like “Yell!” or “Bam!” or “Pow!”. The main difference between these two types of cleaning products is the following: whereas Seventh Generation can boast that its products both smell quite nice and contain no chlorine, petroleum-based solvents, glycol ethers, phosphates, acids, caustics, or dyes, cleaners like Yell! and Bam! and Kerpow! can boast that they actually clean things. Two days ago I cleaned my bathtub with my Seventh Generation cleaner, and because of the lack of dangerous ingredients as listed above, I can smugly proclaim myself to be well and truly green. Unfortunately, my bathtub can do the same. Using Seventh Generation products on a green-tinged bathtub is a bit like spraying Glade on a crude oil spill.

***

I was going to explain the above similie to you to make sure you understood it, but then I realised I’ve been in Canada too long.

***

The difficult thing about being pregnant (yes, there’s only just the one) is that you still encounter deeply irritating people, but when you get angry about it they insinuate that you’re only angry because you’re “hormonal”. Let’s be clear: just because I’m hormonal doesn’t mean that you aren’t acting like a twat.

Overheard today, in Urban Fare’s ready-meal aisle:

Young slim woman #1: Oh look! How about some butter chicken?

Young slim woman #2: Oh no, I had butter chicken last night.

Young slim woman #1: Really? Wow!

Young slim woman #2: Oh, it’s okay, I made it myself. With skim milk and no butter.

Discussion points: 

• Is it still ‘butter chicken’ if you make it without butter?
• Would I too look young and slim if I followed her recipe?
• What exactly did she mean by “it’s okay”? 

“STOP PUTTING COTTAGE CHEESE ON THE LLAMA!!”

First Pregnancy

“Have I mentioned to you that I’m expecting? Yes!!! I’m 13 weeks along. Well, 13 and a half actually. Thirteen weeks, four days and six hours if you want to be a pedant, ha ha. Yes, I’m feeling just fine. Great, actually! Glowing, you say? Why, thank you! To tell you the truth, I’ve never felt better in my entire life, even when I was throwing up for six weeks straight. No, it wasn’t so bad. Neither is the back pain, really. And I’ve been reading this excellent book that says positive thinking throughout pregnancy will mean you have a painless labour. No, really! It’s silly how many women complain about labour when all you need is a little self-hypnosis, some scented candles and a supply of Enya CDs. I know it’ll all go exactly as I’ve planned it. I don’t know why other women don’t just organise themselves a little. Now, let me show you my list of nam-…wait….do you see that woman over there? No, that one, thirty feet away across the street? Is that a peanut she’s eating? Ohmygod! A PEANUT! Are people really so ignorant that they would just casually eat peanuts out in PUBLIC where PREGNANT WOMEN might be stricken by their NOXIOUS PEANUT FUMES and expose their unborn babies to potential NUT ALLERGIES?? Honestly there should be a law! It’s probably not even an organic peanut! Now, have a look at my ultrasound photo and see how cute…hey, where are you going?”

Second Pregnancy 

“Sorry?

Am I expecting what?

Oh…that’s right, yes, I am. Um, I dunno - twelve weeks? Maybe fifteen. Say, can you suggest a good wine to go with my sushi? And have you got a light?”

My better other half is in Washington State right now. Which means he is across the border, in America. So during our nightly telephone conversations, I naturally ask him about the customs and cultural norms of the place he is visiting. The conversations this week go a lot like this:

KE: So, how many fat people have you seen so far?

Menace: Um, a few more than home, I guess. Not too many.

KE: And how many guns?

Menace: Guns?

KE: Guns! You’re in America! Has anyone fired on you yet?

Menace: Er - no, no one’s shot at me.

KE: Were they fat??

As every good Canadian knows, all Americans are fat and own guns, and they shoot them regularly at everything, including other people. And then, when they get shot, they can’t visit the hospital, because none of them have medical insurance. Sure, you can call these stereotypes, but those of us who live near the border know that these things are actually totally true, even if we’ve never in fact checked them out personally and have no intention of ever doing so in case the facts contradict our deeply-held beliefs.

KE: So, has anyone there sued you yet? Were they fat?

Scene: KE and Baby E get on a bus. A friendly-looking man gives up his seat so we can sit down, then sits down near us and exchanges looks with Baby E.

Friendly-looking man to KE: There is a great deal of humour in your daughter. She has a great sense of humour. I can see it in her.

KE (smiling): Yes, I think she does.

Friendly-looking man: Humour, and intelligence too. She’s very observant. I think her grandparents must have a good sense of humour as well?

KE: Um, I guess they do, sure.

Friendly-looking man: I do readings, you see. So I can tell. I’m trying to keep my mind open and full of light and humour right now, to read her. She is very special.

KE: Really! Well, thank you.

The five percent of KE’s brain that is still capable of rational thought: This man is a nutter. Get off the bus NOW.

The other ninety-five percent of KE’s brain that is devoted to mothering: This man is a FECKING VISIONARY GENIUS.