The nature of impermanence: parenting edition*.
a. Amount for eligible dependant - check.
b. "You're the bestest Mommy ever!"
c. Age 4.**
d. Chores Chart.
e. Fresh batch of cookies.
f. "Everyone empty their bladders before we leave."
g. Wow, no one is sick right now.
h. "This is my favourite food!"
i. "My Legos are all picked up!"
j. The house is clea... aww.
k. The laundry is d.... aww.
l. This will be a fun craft.
* Decreasing exponential scale.
** Perceived time may be significantly greater than actually experienced.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Parent Hacks
Parenting hack: do stuff with your kids.
Actually, that's not really the hack. Here's the hack: you don't need to be crazy about it or anything - stuff you were already going to do in the first place works just fine. It'll take way longer and you'll need a glass of wine to cope with it the first couple dozen times, but eventually your efforts will pay off.
Oh, I guess that's my second hack for you today: wine. Lots of it.
I find cooking and baking are some things that are good to do. (You needed brownies, right?) My hope and expectation has always been that, eventually, the kids would gain some basic safety, common-sense and, heck, maybe even cooking skills. Maybe they could get themselves breakfast one day... pack a lunch without help... cook a meal for the family once in a while... not die of malnourishment in college. Y'know, the basics. I had a long game to meditate on when they were splashing pancake batter all over the damn place as toddlers.
Interestingly, I've noticed over the years that there are a ton of knock-on educational benefits associated with cooking that I had never even considered in my long game:
There's literacy: because "cookies" is an excellent motivator for sounding out that tricky word in the recipe, as is learning the deceptively big difference between cinnamon and cayenne.
Chemistry: proteins denature, carbon dioxide bubbles form, what the heck is Teflon anyway?
Math: fractions, measurements, conversions, ratios
Physics: phase changes, conduction, convection, surface tension, gelling
Biology: bacteria/safe food handling, nutrition, yeast, PMS
Yup, even PMS: the fact that we had chocolate-chip pancakes for supper once a month growing up was how my brother learned about the menstrual cycle. Kudos to him for noticing there was a pancake cycle; I filled him in on the back story. I'm certain he will make some lucky gal a fine husband one day - he learned early on to be very supportive of any female initiatives involving chocolate.
Final hack for the day: HERE is the easiest, kid-helper-friendliest, PMS-iest recipe I have on file.
Just think of how educated your child will be after helping you make these once a month for their entire childhood. You are an excellent parent. Go ahead, have some wine.
Actually, that's not really the hack. Here's the hack: you don't need to be crazy about it or anything - stuff you were already going to do in the first place works just fine. It'll take way longer and you'll need a glass of wine to cope with it the first couple dozen times, but eventually your efforts will pay off.
Oh, I guess that's my second hack for you today: wine. Lots of it.
I find cooking and baking are some things that are good to do. (You needed brownies, right?) My hope and expectation has always been that, eventually, the kids would gain some basic safety, common-sense and, heck, maybe even cooking skills. Maybe they could get themselves breakfast one day... pack a lunch without help... cook a meal for the family once in a while... not die of malnourishment in college. Y'know, the basics. I had a long game to meditate on when they were splashing pancake batter all over the damn place as toddlers.
Interestingly, I've noticed over the years that there are a ton of knock-on educational benefits associated with cooking that I had never even considered in my long game:
There's literacy: because "cookies" is an excellent motivator for sounding out that tricky word in the recipe, as is learning the deceptively big difference between cinnamon and cayenne.
Chemistry: proteins denature, carbon dioxide bubbles form, what the heck is Teflon anyway?
Math: fractions, measurements, conversions, ratios
Physics: phase changes, conduction, convection, surface tension, gelling
Biology: bacteria/safe food handling, nutrition, yeast, PMS
Yup, even PMS: the fact that we had chocolate-chip pancakes for supper once a month growing up was how my brother learned about the menstrual cycle. Kudos to him for noticing there was a pancake cycle; I filled him in on the back story. I'm certain he will make some lucky gal a fine husband one day - he learned early on to be very supportive of any female initiatives involving chocolate.
Final hack for the day: HERE is the easiest, kid-helper-friendliest, PMS-iest recipe I have on file.
Just think of how educated your child will be after helping you make these once a month for their entire childhood. You are an excellent parent. Go ahead, have some wine.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Aim High! ... Er, Not Quite That High
Small Fry emerged from the womb with a sort of natural athleticism that is completely foreign to me. If you show him something physical once, he immediately masters it and will forevermore be the world's best monkey bar swinger, two-wheeler rider, snow shoveler, whatever. (I'm not kidding - he has excellent shoveling form. He's like a textbook snow shoveler.)
I am not like that. Medium Fry is not like that, either - although it doesn't really seem as if it should be a heritable trait, this is clearly something she gets from me. We were both embarrassingly old when we finally learned how to ride a bicycle. We can't skip rocks, or catch frisbees, or ever really "get" team sports. If there are "fine motor skills people" and "gross motor skills people" in the world, I fully acknowledge that I am waaay over on this end of the spectrum doing some crocheting.
Which brings me to Zumba. I mean, not in any logical way - in retrospect I'm very poorly suited to it. It's just that it kindof looked like it might be fun, and the promotional materials would have one believe that it's "for everybody and every body" so I decided to try it out at the community centre one night.
I didn't have crazy high hopes for myself or anything - I picked a spot in the class near some senior citizens just in case. And good thing, too, because I was even worse at it than I had expected. One of the senior ladies stopped me after class and gently said, "Have you tried crocheting, dearie?"
Haha, just kidding, that was only what she was thinking - but she did pat me on the shoulder and tell me it took her a few classes to catch on, too. Her friends nodded sympathetically. "Oh yes, us too, just keep trying!" Point being that the seniors were not only clearly out-Zumbaing me, but also that my performance was so pathetic that it engendered grandmotherly instincts in a gaggle of complete strangers.
But whatev. This many years in, I'm more or less accustomed to being really terrible at most things involving more than a modicum of coordination. I'll just keep attending class, and I'll improve with time. That's how these things go, right?
Week 2: Right??
Week 3: Isn't it how they go?
Week 4: Okay, seriously. Tell me this is going to get better one day.
Week 5: What?! Did they just change the songs again?!
Week 6: Wouldn't you know, right in the middle of La Zumbera: illumination. I have been conditioned, through a lifetime of inspirational messaging implicit in everything from office posters to family movies, to believe in the underdog - the overcoming - the breaking through. Perseverance, right? Motivation! The ragtag team gets their shit together and wins the championship! The fat kid finally catches the ball! The middle-aged lady's limbs miraculously begin working in graceful, rhythmic tandem for the first time ever!
I had been waiting for my Disney moment. Unconsciously, of course - my rational brain certainly knows better, it was just being circumvented by... well, by false advertising, really. Ah - so I can't be quite anything I want to be? I'm actually probably going to plateau somewhere right around "good enough", or maybe even "middling" or "half-assed" at some things? Several things?
Man, that takes the pressure off! Thank goodness. Now I can finally relax and enjoy my Zumba classes.
Week 7+: Happily doing fukken terrible Zumba.
I am not like that. Medium Fry is not like that, either - although it doesn't really seem as if it should be a heritable trait, this is clearly something she gets from me. We were both embarrassingly old when we finally learned how to ride a bicycle. We can't skip rocks, or catch frisbees, or ever really "get" team sports. If there are "fine motor skills people" and "gross motor skills people" in the world, I fully acknowledge that I am waaay over on this end of the spectrum doing some crocheting.
Which brings me to Zumba. I mean, not in any logical way - in retrospect I'm very poorly suited to it. It's just that it kindof looked like it might be fun, and the promotional materials would have one believe that it's "for everybody and every body" so I decided to try it out at the community centre one night.
I didn't have crazy high hopes for myself or anything - I picked a spot in the class near some senior citizens just in case. And good thing, too, because I was even worse at it than I had expected. One of the senior ladies stopped me after class and gently said, "Have you tried crocheting, dearie?"
Haha, just kidding, that was only what she was thinking - but she did pat me on the shoulder and tell me it took her a few classes to catch on, too. Her friends nodded sympathetically. "Oh yes, us too, just keep trying!" Point being that the seniors were not only clearly out-Zumbaing me, but also that my performance was so pathetic that it engendered grandmotherly instincts in a gaggle of complete strangers.
But whatev. This many years in, I'm more or less accustomed to being really terrible at most things involving more than a modicum of coordination. I'll just keep attending class, and I'll improve with time. That's how these things go, right?
Week 2: Right??
Week 3: Isn't it how they go?
Week 4: Okay, seriously. Tell me this is going to get better one day.
Week 5: What?! Did they just change the songs again?!
Week 6: Wouldn't you know, right in the middle of La Zumbera: illumination. I have been conditioned, through a lifetime of inspirational messaging implicit in everything from office posters to family movies, to believe in the underdog - the overcoming - the breaking through. Perseverance, right? Motivation! The ragtag team gets their shit together and wins the championship! The fat kid finally catches the ball! The middle-aged lady's limbs miraculously begin working in graceful, rhythmic tandem for the first time ever!
I had been waiting for my Disney moment. Unconsciously, of course - my rational brain certainly knows better, it was just being circumvented by... well, by false advertising, really. Ah - so I can't be quite anything I want to be? I'm actually probably going to plateau somewhere right around "good enough", or maybe even "middling" or "half-assed" at some things? Several things?
Man, that takes the pressure off! Thank goodness. Now I can finally relax and enjoy my Zumba classes.
Week 7+: Happily doing fukken terrible Zumba.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
I Also Hate the Park
So I read this article the other day that purported to confess all the ways in which the author, a mom blogger, didn't "do it all" as a parent.
I am all about confessions. Confess away. Sometimes it's nice to get things off your chest. But I took issue with the article, because this woman's "confessions" were 100% Grade A horse puckey.
She confessed to not wearing makeup every day. Gasp!
To occasionally feeling too sick to play with her kids. Uh - gasp?
To not answering the dryer immediately when it buzzed, with such regularity that she had never folded a basket of warm towels.
Okay - I can't even fake surprise anymore. Or interest. These things have nothing to do with anything - not parenting, not "doing it all", not even just being a regular ol' human of any stripe. You fold warm towels? That's fine. You don't? That's fine, too. But to pretend it was ever somehow the goal is ludicrous - this was clearly a humblebrag in the skin of a confessional, and I just won't stand for it. Most parents are doing the best with what they've got, and they deserve better.
I would like to offer up some of my own parental musings to counter the false perfectionism that some folks seem to want to stuff down other people's throats:
Go in peace.
I am all about confessions. Confess away. Sometimes it's nice to get things off your chest. But I took issue with the article, because this woman's "confessions" were 100% Grade A horse puckey.
She confessed to not wearing makeup every day. Gasp!
To occasionally feeling too sick to play with her kids. Uh - gasp?
To not answering the dryer immediately when it buzzed, with such regularity that she had never folded a basket of warm towels.
Okay - I can't even fake surprise anymore. Or interest. These things have nothing to do with anything - not parenting, not "doing it all", not even just being a regular ol' human of any stripe. You fold warm towels? That's fine. You don't? That's fine, too. But to pretend it was ever somehow the goal is ludicrous - this was clearly a humblebrag in the skin of a confessional, and I just won't stand for it. Most parents are doing the best with what they've got, and they deserve better.
I would like to offer up some of my own parental musings to counter the false perfectionism that some folks seem to want to stuff down other people's throats:
- Subsequent Child Ambivalence. Ohmygawd I can't believe I'm starting this all over again.
- Incremental Returns of Freedom. Buckling their own seatbelts. Zipping their own jackets. Packing their own lunches. Tiny wins, but by golly they're like a gulp of fresh air when you've been immersed for so long in the daily grind of little humans.
- Outsourcing. Homemade has never felt as good as sane.
- Difficult Truths. Sometimes, your kids will be real a-holes. It's okay to notice this.
- Adulthood Fatigue. When is it my turn to throw a tantrum?
- Gentle Tyranny I. They stay up later than you, every night of the week. You will never have a moment alone again.
- Gentle Tyranny II. Or sex - you will never have that again either. Nothing kills the mood like knowing your teenager is quietly doing math homework in the kitchen, directly beneath your bedroom.
- Reducing Entropy. I fantasize - actually, truly fantasize - about the day the kids move out and I can live in a clean house. That stays clean. In fact, some days I think DH can just go ahead and move out too - then NO ONE will walk on my clean floors ever, ever again, and I will be able to die happy.
- The Sound of Silence. I misses it so.
Go in peace.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
The Laundry Cycle
The Laundry Cycle is the biopseudophysical cycle by which clothing is exchanged between the Humansphere, Hampersphere, Kenmoresphere and Closetsphere of the Earth. The natural processes that comprise a balanced cycle are depicted in Figure 1.
Some amount of seasonal variation is known to occur in the Laundry Cycle, with direct Human-Kenmore transmission ("Slopperation") increasing with precipitation events (particularly in toddler and school-age forms of laundry) (Small Fry 2008-2015); direct Kenmore-Human Transmogrification increasing in chilly months (DH et al. 2015); and Clotheslinerization increasing in pleasant weather (Mulhern-Davidson et al. 2009+).
The effects of disruption of the Laundry Cycle vary depending on the phase that is disrupted; the magnitude of the disruption; and the timing of the disruption. For example, family dinner at the local Indian restaurant is known to vastly increase the rate of laundry movement directly between the Humansphere and Kenmoresphere, due to Slopperation (DH et al. 2014). A delay in movement of laundry from the Hampersphere to the Kenmoresphere may increase the rate of emergency reutilization, particularly of environmentally limiting forms of laundry such as underwear (Medium Fry 2010, 2014). Conversely, uncharacteristically efficient movement of laundry through the Kenmoresphere into the Closetsphere has been demonstrated to result in the wearing of the same t-shirt to work on Wednesday as one wore to work on Monday, often resulting in mild embarrassment on the part of the Humansphere in question (Frecklepelt, this week).
On occasion, the Hampersphere and Kenmoresphere may temporarily be observed to be entirely free of laundry. This exceedingly rare occurrence is known as "The Laundry is Done"; however, the state appears to violate some law(s) of physics, as it is unfailingly fleeting (AME* dawn of time-present).
* All Moms Everywhere
 |
| Figure 1: The Laundry Cycle |
Some amount of seasonal variation is known to occur in the Laundry Cycle, with direct Human-Kenmore transmission ("Slopperation") increasing with precipitation events (particularly in toddler and school-age forms of laundry) (Small Fry 2008-2015); direct Kenmore-Human Transmogrification increasing in chilly months (DH et al. 2015); and Clotheslinerization increasing in pleasant weather (Mulhern-Davidson et al. 2009+).
The effects of disruption of the Laundry Cycle vary depending on the phase that is disrupted; the magnitude of the disruption; and the timing of the disruption. For example, family dinner at the local Indian restaurant is known to vastly increase the rate of laundry movement directly between the Humansphere and Kenmoresphere, due to Slopperation (DH et al. 2014). A delay in movement of laundry from the Hampersphere to the Kenmoresphere may increase the rate of emergency reutilization, particularly of environmentally limiting forms of laundry such as underwear (Medium Fry 2010, 2014). Conversely, uncharacteristically efficient movement of laundry through the Kenmoresphere into the Closetsphere has been demonstrated to result in the wearing of the same t-shirt to work on Wednesday as one wore to work on Monday, often resulting in mild embarrassment on the part of the Humansphere in question (Frecklepelt, this week).
On occasion, the Hampersphere and Kenmoresphere may temporarily be observed to be entirely free of laundry. This exceedingly rare occurrence is known as "The Laundry is Done"; however, the state appears to violate some law(s) of physics, as it is unfailingly fleeting (AME* dawn of time-present).
* All Moms Everywhere
Friday, March 20, 2015
Diet Journaling is for Chumps
Well, that was humiliating. Let's see what the payoff is...
And the verdict...
What the heck?! There's no way that's right. New search term...
Hm. Not in fitness database. Weird. Um...
Huh. Nope. Er...
Still no. Alright, how about...
No. Okay, fine, 732 it is. But I'm writing a note here that I question your methods, internet.
And the verdict...
What the heck?! There's no way that's right. New search term...
Hm. Not in fitness database. Weird. Um...
Huh. Nope. Er...
Still no. Alright, how about...
No. Okay, fine, 732 it is. But I'm writing a note here that I question your methods, internet.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Happy Unbirthday, Too!
I've been considering doing a post like this for a while now. Actually, I was saving it for Teacher's Day, but just found out that the date I was working to (May 5) is for the U.S. Teacher's Day - Canada's was back in October. Well, can't I just hold it 'til then? The answer is no, I can't, my brain has a holding capacity approximately equal to that of my bladder. (Hey, they've both been through a couple of pregnancies. Give them a break.)
Fortunately, Wikipedia tells me we're currently somewhere between Teacher's Day: Lebanon and Teacher's Day: Slovakia, so this seems as (in)appropriate a time as any.
This is the story of How I Became a Biologist. The story goes like this:
I hated science class when I was a kid. I just wanted to draw and write stories - I had grand designs on being an artist or an author. People praised me for being artistic and creative (as a parent, I now recognize this was probably in veiled gratitude for my actual valued characteristic, "silent"), which served to reinforce my decision. I hated science class when I was an older kid, too: bo-ring. It was way more fun to draw pictures, write stories and read books and, importantly, to continue to be patted on the head for my artistic(-ness? -tude?) and creativity. But going in to high school, the choice was to take "Science" class - at my school this was the term given to what was known among the students to be the dumb kids class - or pick one of Biology, Chemistry or Physics and suffer through it. So, science was like, bo-ring, but damned if I was going to be in the dumb kids' class... I picked the lesser of the three remaining evils: biology.
It was in Bio 10 that I encountered the best teacher I ever had. He was smart, funny, engaging, knowledgeable, passionate about his subject, and passionate about teaching. And I l-o-v-e-d biology. I loved it so much that I signed up for chemistry the next semester, in addition to more biology. Wouldn't you know, it turned out that I l-o-v-e-d chemistry, too! I loved biology and chemistry so much that I signed up for the dreaded physics the next semester, in addition to more biology and chemistry - this move actually necessitated the dropping of my longtime beau, Art, from my schedule entirely.
My art teacher was flabbergasted, and I still couldn't bring myself to like physics. But this isn't the story of how I became a physicist so that's really beside the point.
Eventually, I ended up in University, where I continued to lap up all the biology, ecology, chemistry, etc. courses I could wrangle into my schedule - and I l-o-v-e-d them all so much that I even tried a physics class again. (Er, not sure what I was thinking there.)
In the interest of achieving a "well-rounded education", and in an ironic reversal of my high school trajectory, I was forced by my degree's credit system to stand down on my devouring of science courses and pad my schedule with some fluffy liberal arts courses. Remind me one day to tell you about what a lousy African drummer I am.
Despite my lack of drumming and physics abilities, I found my first professional job (as a biological field technician) one summer between school years - and I was hooked. And every year since then, with every field season and cool plant find and every mile I get paid to hike, I've been hooked anew.
The story of How I Became a Biologist wouldn't have happened without the teachers in my life. So on this very special non-Teacher's Day, I would like to send out a big thank you to my high school biology teacher: Mr. Emerson, without your influence in my life, I might have been an art major. *shudder* I don't even like Starbucks.
And since it is non-Teacher's Day, I'd also like to thank all my informal biology teachers over the years as well: my colleagues, field partners, mentors and friends who have continued to help me learn and grow, both as a professional and as a person, and who make being a biologist the most damn fun job on earth.
Smooches to all y'all.
Fortunately, Wikipedia tells me we're currently somewhere between Teacher's Day: Lebanon and Teacher's Day: Slovakia, so this seems as (in)appropriate a time as any.
This is the story of How I Became a Biologist. The story goes like this:
I hated science class when I was a kid. I just wanted to draw and write stories - I had grand designs on being an artist or an author. People praised me for being artistic and creative (as a parent, I now recognize this was probably in veiled gratitude for my actual valued characteristic, "silent"), which served to reinforce my decision. I hated science class when I was an older kid, too: bo-ring. It was way more fun to draw pictures, write stories and read books and, importantly, to continue to be patted on the head for my artistic(-ness? -tude?) and creativity. But going in to high school, the choice was to take "Science" class - at my school this was the term given to what was known among the students to be the dumb kids class - or pick one of Biology, Chemistry or Physics and suffer through it. So, science was like, bo-ring, but damned if I was going to be in the dumb kids' class... I picked the lesser of the three remaining evils: biology.
It was in Bio 10 that I encountered the best teacher I ever had. He was smart, funny, engaging, knowledgeable, passionate about his subject, and passionate about teaching. And I l-o-v-e-d biology. I loved it so much that I signed up for chemistry the next semester, in addition to more biology. Wouldn't you know, it turned out that I l-o-v-e-d chemistry, too! I loved biology and chemistry so much that I signed up for the dreaded physics the next semester, in addition to more biology and chemistry - this move actually necessitated the dropping of my longtime beau, Art, from my schedule entirely.
My art teacher was flabbergasted, and I still couldn't bring myself to like physics. But this isn't the story of how I became a physicist so that's really beside the point.
Eventually, I ended up in University, where I continued to lap up all the biology, ecology, chemistry, etc. courses I could wrangle into my schedule - and I l-o-v-e-d them all so much that I even tried a physics class again. (Er, not sure what I was thinking there.)
In the interest of achieving a "well-rounded education", and in an ironic reversal of my high school trajectory, I was forced by my degree's credit system to stand down on my devouring of science courses and pad my schedule with some fluffy liberal arts courses. Remind me one day to tell you about what a lousy African drummer I am.
Despite my lack of drumming and physics abilities, I found my first professional job (as a biological field technician) one summer between school years - and I was hooked. And every year since then, with every field season and cool plant find and every mile I get paid to hike, I've been hooked anew.
The story of How I Became a Biologist wouldn't have happened without the teachers in my life. So on this very special non-Teacher's Day, I would like to send out a big thank you to my high school biology teacher: Mr. Emerson, without your influence in my life, I might have been an art major. *shudder* I don't even like Starbucks.
And since it is non-Teacher's Day, I'd also like to thank all my informal biology teachers over the years as well: my colleagues, field partners, mentors and friends who have continued to help me learn and grow, both as a professional and as a person, and who make being a biologist the most damn fun job on earth.
Smooches to all y'all.
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