What do Tomatoes, J Depp and my Hair have in common?

Do you need a moment?

Really, take as long as you'd like.  Because I don't think you are going to get this one.

No?

They are all featured in the series of successively odd dreams I have had this week.

Woah. Hold on there. It's not turning into that kind of blog:

("And now let me show you picturez of my prezchus bunniez!") 


Which is (sadly) not a euphemism for anything expect that Yeah, I really do have rabbits.

Since I stopped taking melatonin to help me sleep this summer, my dream life has been much quieter. For which I have been grateful. The melatonin works like a charm for inducing sleep, but the trade off is that my dreams became literal Tim Burton-esque sideshows. Ones where you wake feeling slightly concerned and mightily confused.

Since I have been off the 'tonin, the dreams this week - which had all the characteristics of the 'tonin dreams - were puzzling.

In the first, I cut my hair off. All of it. All of my beautiful, lovely, luscious hair. The hair cut I gave myself looked very much like the 16 year old Dawn - all spikey short angles. A feminine hedgehog.

When I came to, I was panicked.  I love my hair. Truly. There must be a biblical edict against the amount I love my hair.  And while I don't fuss with it much, or style it up into fancy coiffures, it gives me a Sampsonesque feeling of strength and feminine beauty.

After reassuring myself that I had not shorn myself during sleep, I was puzzled. "That was weird", I thought.

Until the following night, when I found myself in the backyard of a house that looked very much like my grandparents house, where the gardens were being turned under for the winter. With the exception of the tomatoes...which were being left exposed to the elements ( even as I was cautioning that they should be picked and allowed to ripen on the windowsills)

While that dream did not leave me quite so panicked, it did leave me quizzical. Huh? Tomatoes? Gardens? Houses? Back Yards? ( and my mother was lurking in this dream too)

Bah. I need to drink some peppermint tea before bed and stop reading philosophy.

But last night? The real piece de resistance in the Dream Trilogy?

I was on stage at a concert. I was wearing some kind of mesh/transparent face covering. And Johnny Depp was doing some kind of singing/interpretive dance. I was sitting on a couch on the stage watching this performance. An audience in front of an audience. And because this was not odd enough from my subconscious?

Someone splashed ketchup on Monsieur Depp, leading him to believe he was bleeding. He freaks out and stops the concert/performance. Leaving me on the couch.

Since I have no uncommon affection for the Depp, I was curious as to why he got chosen to star in my On-stage performance. I mean honestly, there are LOTS of other fancy boys I would go for before Depp.

( Why Yes, Jensen Ackles, I AM looking at you...even though I am vaguely sure you are shorter than me and couldn't keep up your end of the conversation with a complicated series of pulleys and levers.)

Of course, I could stop watching things like American Horror Story before bed...but where would the fun be in that, I ask? (Oh, my love for this show is new and unbounded...give me more Jessica Lange as crazed, poisoning cougar...Yes, Please, Yes!)

I need a job.

Once upon a Time

I do not know what creativity feels like to other people. I suspect, of course, but who can know really?

Just as I know what sweet tastes like, or what warmth feels like, I only know it from within my own body, using my own senses. For you it could be entirely different.

When I am considering a new rug, the idea has to present itself...nearly fully formed. Like Zeus giving birth to Athena, my ideas simply come forth. Never before they are ready and they will never be forced.

Because of this, I listen to myself when I know I am ready to create.  The window does not stay open forever.

Tonight, I sketched the base of the next rug - based on Snow White and Rose Red  - but more-so on Tender Morsels and my still reverberating reaction to the story.

Some of you have asked me about how I make the rugs, so here are the first sketches of the pieces that will become a full five foot long rug.

This is the bear. He'll be big and shaggy and many-brown toned and take up a fairly large part of the rug. He will have a forest, quite dark behind him. I am not sure yet if you will see sky at all, or if I can simply make the perspective of being very deep in a very old forest.

This is the cottage - stone wall with flowers. The tree might have a branch cutting across the roof...I haven't quite mapped it all out. I was thinking of a muted but warm yellow for the cottage. Very eastern european.

There will be two flowers, a Red and a White, and the girls will have to be incorporated too. I might hide them peeking behind trees. Or the bear might be following one.

Those things will come as the rug emerges.

I don't worry too much about knowing every single detail in advance, since I have learned to trust that they will come if I give them time.

I have decided to do a whole series of rugs based on Fairy Tales that I loved. This will be the first in the group.

And here is a bonus sketch I did tonight: An Octopus. He joins the other ideas waiting for their time and place ( if ever) to emerge and be created.

Hermeneutics of Bein' a Playa

You know your life has become some Faustian maze of sad and lonely academia when you see this as a saved pdf file on your laptop:

"Gadamer Hos.pdf"

And it makes you laugh for like ten minutes straight, because it is really Gadamer's : The Hermeneutics of Suspicion.....

But the idea that you are reading about all of Gadamer's Ho's delights you beyond subversive giddiness - (Oh Hans-Georg...I bet you say that to all the girls -*wink* ).

Oh, my head.

Speaking of Oppression...

Can Someone tell me what the in the bread and butter knives happened here?

I open the silverware drawer and it's like an angry toddler poltergeist visited in the middle of the night and threw everything in there helter skelter.

Or, my daughter was tasked with putting the clean dishes away.

In that case, it is simply a moody 13 year old girl doing a pretty typical half-assed job of her "chores".

A Moody 13 year old made more moody by the fact that she now owes me $80 since she "lost" her Geography Textbook and I am having to secure her a new one.

Well, she - vociferously -contends that it was "stolen".

However, since I have yet to see roving bands of other 7th grade students stealing Geography books because their love of Geography is so great  that one book is simply not enough to satisfy their all encompassing need for more geography information.

Not to mention there are only 16 students in the Whole English-speaking-and-textbook-using 7th grade in her school.

Ergo, despite our vast gulf in opinions on how exactly the book met it's ultimate fate of not being in her possession, the fact remains that she is working off her book debt with labour.  And since eye rolling, and indignant stomping and are not yet accepted as currency in our still capitalist society - she works.

Half assed and poorly, but still.

Can you pass that dish of Oppression?

A Classic from my Archive: 10/10/2005.  See, I was Always like this......

It is no secret that my politics are.....quite left. I AM that left wing bleeding heart liberal that gets demonized in the press. The fact that my spouse is a bit more left than I am makes for an interesting parenting experience.

Now, aside from the lack of godliness in the home ( which I am sure indicates a lack of "values" or whatever the hell else won the republicans the last election)- there is a decided "anti-establishment" theme to many of the books in our home. Look, there is the Marx/Engels reader, See there Alfie Kohn's books on the failings of the American educational system, Behold "Lies my Teacher Told Me" on my bedside.

Our child had no regular alphabet posters in her room - she was looking at the "Alternative Alphabet" - featuring "P is for Peace and Y is for Yoga". You get the point.

So when our daughter comes home from public school with a cut and color Columbus day ship and asks us if we are going to have a Columbus day feast to honor Columbus - you get two dumbfounded adults scrambling for a response.

Terrance's response: "Daddy isn't into Columbus. I don't do Columbus day."

Oh, very helpful. Thanks ever so much. That was quite illuminating.

I bring out the children's book "Encounter" by Jane Yolen- which we read, and re-read at this time of year.

Being an early childhood person, I tend not to answer my daughter's questions with the same cut and dry responses my husband uses. I want to engage her thought process and get her to think critically. Terrance thinks that this is a bullshit approach.

So we talk about what the experience of the Native People's must have been like. That discovery isn't the same when you discover something that belongs to someone else. It would be like me walking into her room and "discovering" her Playmobil house and claiming it as my own. Not very heroic.

"That's stealing.", she says.

"Yes it is, honey. That's why daddy and I are uncomfortable with Columbus Day. He may have been very adventurous to sail over the ocean to find and see new things- but he was very unkind and unfair to the people he found living there already."

And Emily - as always - absorbs this information to the best of her ability. And says:

"Can I stay up late and eat popcorn?"

Fight the power, honey, fight the power.

Boys will be Boys

Upon beginning my career in education,I took the banning of all violent imagery from my classroom very
seriously.

I screened all books for what I perceived to be gratuitous or disturbing imagery. I carefully explained my “no toys from home” policy to incoming families, using my well-reasoned arguments against guns, media, socio-economic leverage and other injustices. If that didn’t work, I would use the veiled threat that I was sure that the toy would get broken and I couldn’t be responsible.

During the initial reign of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the Power Rangers directly in back of them, I stood firm. No war play, no toys from home, no pretend guns.

During my fourth year of teaching, I had a particularly rambunctious group of four year olds – mainly
boys. They had no intention of going along complacently with my rational adult way of thinking. My first inkling that my ideas were being challenged was when I watched one little boy walk awkwardly
into the classroom one morning. “Good Morning Sam!”, I greeted Sam and his father as they arrived. 

I pulled Sam’s father aside and asked him if Sam was all right – that I noticed he was walking kind of funny. Sam’s father was puzzled and called Sam over. Sam slowly revealed through his conversation ( and his awkward, waddling gait) with his father that he had smuggled several toy tigers out of the house in his underwear and was waiting until his dad left and I wasn't watching to bring them out.

While initially I found this to be simply a humorous anecdote, as I later reflected on it ,I wondered what would
drive this generally very honest child to think up a fairly elaborate ruse to get around a solid classroom “rule”. 

I began watching the boys more carefully. When I would come upon them building with any number of manipulatives, conversation would stop if I lingered to ask what it was they were building. I watched these boys’ faces struggle. They knew they were building weapons and I knew they were building weapons. They also knew that my rule was “no weapons”. Therefore, they had to lie to me to comply with my rule. I had unwittingly created a situation that forced children to lie to me in order to sustain their play. 

This was not the teacher I wanted to be. This was not the classroom I wanted to have.

The children in this classroom weren’t engaging in sustained play, simply because I kept interrupting them
to insure they were following my “no war play or weapons” rule. I never stopped to ask them the context or the “rules” of their play, I simply assured myself that they were following my agenda and reminded them I was monitoring them.

So I began to ask – Why not? To what do I object in this play? What am I afraid that will happen? What
message are the children getting when they play with weapons? Have I asked them why they like this play?

My eventual stance on war and weapon play softened. I backed off my exclusionary stance. I began asking more questions about the play – non-judgmental questions – Could they explain how this game is played? What were the rules? Truthfully, it took the children some time to trust my interest as sincere. Slowly, they began explaining the context of their games, and I began to understand the complexity behind the war/weapon  play happening in front of me.

Once I understood the child dictated rules of the games, I could assert my needs and negotiate with the players. Sticks could be weapons, but should never be pointed at a real person. Likewise, manipulatives could be weapons, but again, not pointed at any living people. When they were playing a game, I would stay close to assist with rule clarification if I was needed. 

Someone could not be designated as the “bad guy” or “monster” without that persons explicit consent. They needed to agree to play and were free to walk away from the role when it was no longer fun for them.

One of my most memorable game experiences was one in which a group of five year olds boys decided
to have a snowball fight after a lovely blizzard. We suited up and hiked outside. I gathered the group to clarify the rules of the snowball fight. Each child had the opportunity to add a rule, or clarify the terms of the game. 

They were pretty standard – no ice balls, if you threw a snowball, you were agreeing to play the game
and that meant you could get hit by a snowball…. when Devin came up with a new and unexpected request. 

“Let’s do whitewashes”, he said. 

The group considered this. 

“Does everyone understand what Devin means by this? Devin can you explain a whitewash so we all
understand?”

Devin explains to his peers that whitewash means you can rub someone’s face in the snow, or rub snow in someone’s face. The boys readily agreed.

I clarified “So, I hear that we are agreeing that it is Ok to rub snow in people’s face as part of the game”. 

Again, the boys all eagerly agreed.

The game lasted about 4.5 minutes with everyone in tears at the end. We re-grouped and agreed that whitewash was not a part of the game anymore. The game, now revised sans whitewash, went on until it got too dark to be outside.

Had I warned them or forbidden whitewash as part of the game would the issue have ended so suddenly and completely? I seriously doubt it. 

Part of the value of play is to negotiate socially acceptable limits agreed to by all the players. Had I forbidden whitewashes, I would have spent all afternoon trying to squelch the urge to whitewash by 15 boys who were dying to rub someone else's face in snow. Letting them experience the consequences of a non-fatal decision allowed the players to discard something that didn't work and quickly move on to a much happier game that wore them ( and me) thoroughly out by the time it got too dark to be outside.

We cannot hide human nature from children. They already know more than we imagine. We can, however,
provide avenues for safe exploration of feelings of power and powerlessness. I never want a child to have to lie to me to sustain their play. Rather than deciding, as an adult, that a child’s explorations of violence, power and death were too disturbing to me, I choose to look at the value of this type of play for the child. 

What were they working out? What were they testing? How could I guide without imposing my adult needs and views onto play that was essential to the child?

When that door opened in my mind, I was able to live more comfortably with the gamut of violent characters.

The boys in my classrooms did not obsess so intently on specific games or images. Once they had explored a topic, they dropped it. I accepted the games as they came along, and asked to have the rules explained to me. We would negotiate anything that I considered to be out of bounds as the teacher ( hitting, or other overtly aggressive physical contact) and the boys followed my guidance. They were even allowed to wrestle in the classroom - and we had a mat where they could do that, as long as they took of their shoes.

My little wolf pack calmed down. I accepted them as boys. They, in turn, accepted me as their Alpha Wolf.

June 2007, Gimlet Eye

Exposed

It is an argument I have had with Terrance since I began blogging in 2005.

The nature of being exposed here, on the other blogs, and in general.

I don't harbour a naive belief that I am magically invisible here. Or that somehow I am immune to judgement or manipulation using my own words or images or pictures. I do not think that everyone would look at my blog(s) and love me, or them.

It isn't that I don't care, either. I worry ( plenty) about not being able to find a job or having an unknown person use the things I write and share as ammunition to belittle me, or not hire me, or do some as yet unimagined damage.

Some of this, I think, is an act of courage, to show myself as truly and honestly as I can.

Some is an act of ego - I would be lying if I pretended it wasn't. I like knowing that others find value in what I write, or share.

Some is my way of connecting with other people external to myself, since my Bartley the Scrivener  instinct runs strong ( I, too, would prefer not to) And some is a reaction from a childhood steeped in secrets, my need to testify for others.

However in all of this, all of this what ever is distilled into some essential Dawn-ness is the knowledge that I say or show nothing here that I wouldn't say to you, or most people, in conversation.  Yeah, people who have met me will tell you - I really AM    just.       like.             this.

Yet - and here is the real kernel of truth for me - I do not feel that I am all that important.  The people who may find this blog by google? Accident. Happenstance.  People who I may have known ages ago who have wondered what became of me, people who like me, people who don't like me, and the rare people who love me....all the same Dawn.

I've had very little troll behaviour since I began blogging in 2005, and for that I consider myself lucky.  No one has photoshopped my child  into tasteless photos ( partly because there are very very few pictures of her here) or otherwise pursued me with any kind of malignant intent. Not that this is an invitation.

Maybe that will change someday. Maybe when I get a job ( sigh, I wish) I will have to look at my blogs and consider if they are still serving the purpose that I want them to serve, for myself more than anything else, or if they are harming me in a way that I can't yet imagine.

I don't know. I would miss them, but not at the expense of feeding myself and my daughter.

So until that day, I will continue to believe that I am just not that important here in my utility closet of the internet, with all my bits and bobs, goofiness and photos.

Distilled into essential Dawn-ness.

My Babies, My Self

I loved working with Infants and Toddlers. Truly. 

Professionally, it may have been the happiest I was - despite the incredibly poor salary and penchant for having to go to the doctor and confess that I was pretty sure I had Croup, or Ear Infections or whatever else was marching through the classroom. 

It may amaze some that caring for the youngest children was where I found my professional calling, but it really shouldn't. People who work, successfully, with Infants and Toddlers tend to be the best all around teachers in the long run. Our crucible, you see, is one in which there can be no ego - no moment when we aren't willing to throw it all into the bin and begin again. 

There are no harsher judges of character than a room full of Infants and Toddlers. They see through adult facades. They, frankly, don't care who you think you are. They are all about the integration of Deed and Action and as such are like sniffer dogs in their ability to detect and react to Fakes.

In fact, I used to rely on specific children when I would interview assistant teachers during my time teaching. I knew that certain children would intuitively express preference for "authentic" adults. Children who would normally never approach strangers might sidle up to the people with the right attributes and offer them a book or toy. That was an excellent sign, in my book.   

You must de-center with infants. Since so much of their care depends on highly attuned observation and continual assessment, the central question cannot be “Why aren’t they following my script?” but rather “What do they need that they are showing me through their behaviors and reactions?” It is a highly reflexive style of teaching that asks the Teacher to move from “expert” to “active participant” in the classroom. 

When it isn't about Me, but all about Them, they learned learned to trust me, implicitly. People who didn't see it would scoff when I would describe how infants would ASK to be put in their cribs for nap, or when I would explain that I didn't serve breakfasts or lunches until the Infant or Toddler Told me they were hungry (Usually by crawling to the meal table and patting the top)...or how children as young as six months could start using the "all done" sign to indicate they were ready to wash up and get down after a meal. 

Partly it was my sense that I wasn't going to ask them to do something - like eat or nap - if they weren't ready to do it.  I was never trying to get "rid" of them by putting them down to nap.

(Obviously VERY young infants are a different story and rely on adults to help them. I am not talking about infants under 5 months or so, when they become very different people as the synapses get myelinated and things start to really kick off. Up to that Point, consistent anticipatory care is the cornerstone of the trust relationship between adult and child.)

Partly is was Me.  I get the desire to have what people say and do match up. Infants and Toddlers rewarded me for my honesty and transparency. Adults don't always feel the same way, I'm afraid. 

I get the need to have Time to figure it out, even if it takes me a bit longer, or if I need to do it six more times than the other kid.  I understand the desire to make mistakes and be comforted by a warm hug and someone to brush me off, asking if I am all right, but not negating my feelings of sadness or disappointment.  

I understand the desire to have a giant tantrum, rolling around and kicking and screaming, because it is all too fucking MUCH - and when I am done, to be snuggled and accepted for being human. 

I miss working with Infants and Toddlers - more than I can bear, at times.  My dream would be to be in a place where I could work in a centre in direct care for part time, and teach/research the other part time - but it doesn't really work like that, I fear. 

Maybe one day. I can dream.

Arts and Crap

From the title of this post, I suspect some of you can already sense where I am heading, right?

Yep. You guessed it. Art as Process and Art as Product: and Why "Art Projects Bug the Ever-loving Shit out of Me".

Some of you may recall my "Holiday's aren't Curriculum" Post whereby I broke down why I banned Holiday's in the child care center when I was director. Yes, partly because I am mean and have a tiny, shrivelled heart, but also for sound basic curriculum and anti-bias curriculum reasons. Not to mention socio-economic realities for families.

So here is why I detest Art Projects:

1. They are nearly never done by the child.


What you end up seeing is 15 seconds of "work" by the child and 20 hours of copying, cutting and arranging by the Adult.  I don't need to see an Egg that opens into a Chick. I don't need to see a Turkey Hand Print. I sure as hell don't need to see one of those terrifying Paper Plate Leprechaun masks.

I know. I know what some of you are thinking: "But Dawn, the Parents LOVE these projects".

"Ok Then", I say, "But be honest with them and give it to them from You, the Adult, to THEM, the adult - cause their kid had as little as possible to do with making the damn thing."

We do ourselves no service when we perpetuate these types of "projects" onto children and families. It lies to the adults and is of no benefit to the child.  Stop doing this, I beg you.

2. There is NO developmental skill being utilized


When a child takes a marker and randomly scribbles something on a paper, it isn't Art. Telling them it IS art is a dereliction of teaching duty, in my opinion.  Same with gluing something on a paper so they can get back to what ever they really want them to do. And Please, don't get me started on those useless color and cut worksheet pages. If you are relying on a workbook to assess how children are using scissors,coloring and drawing, then there is something seriously wrong with your teaching.

Yeah, I said it.

Children WANT to create. They WANT to use scissors and glue and markers and crayons. The materials aren't the problem. It's the presentation.

3. You are teaching Nothing about Aesthetics


When children are asked to do one of those aforementioned worksheets, we are stripping something essential from the Art experience. Beauty. Texture. Sensory Input.

You don't need to have an atelier to inspire children, but the space does need to be well organized and well stocked. NOT overstocked, which is a common misconception, but well ordered and well stocked.  If blows are being come to over who gets the One red marker than you need more red markers.

If no one can find one piece of drawing paper, or the paints are all mixed in together, or the brushes are all chewed up, then No. No one is going to attempt to make anything.

One of the best teachers I ever saw work made her art space a thing of beauty. Glass containers for brushes, lovely baskets for crayons, with small trays set out for personalized space. Her space invited children to sit down and think about what they were creating. The space was always incredibly well organized and neat - In fact when I would cover her during nap time, I would often sit and re-sharpen the colored pencils, or sort out the broken crayon pieces, or test markers to make sure they weren't dried up.  Sometimes she would cut paper into different sizes or shapes to present different options to work with, and there was always a basket with collage pieces cut from the larger pieces of paper , salvaged when bigger Art was being designed.

When the materials are presented respectfully, the children will respect the space. Our job as adults is to design and stock the space; to give ample time and opportunity to explore a material.

We should be watching children to make sure their fine motor is coming along and they are learning to work scissors ( even Toddlers), hold pencils, and markers, and paint brushes.

We want to see the glory of glue being tested - Will it hold? Will it Dry? What will it do to tissue paper? What does it taste like since it looks a lot like milk?

We want paint to be applied, to know watercolors and fingerpaint and the variety of textures and colors we can produce. We want to paint with q-tips, and pine branches and cones, and wildflowers and sticks.  Put a bowl of bananas in the middle of the table ( for inspiration and snack) and a variety of yellow paint shades.  See what you get. You might get an intensely interesting conversation on shades and shadows and yellow-ness of yellow. You might get kids who eat bananas while they glue things together.

I've seen children paint to Mambo Music, choosing colors that reflect the sounds they are hearing, I've seen children paint to cuban lullabies, moving their hands to the long notes being sung. I've seen easels with partner brushes that can be held by two children at once, so they must negotiate with their partner as to what to do, what colors to choose and where they want to place the brush strokes.

I've seen children study small posters of van Gogh, or Renoir, or Kandinsky or Klee and try to not replicate, but utilize what those pieces of art are saying to them.

The mind is integrated and firing on all cylinders. It is intensely beautiful to witness.

All of these goals can and should be accomplished with the end result being Art to cherish, made by active and engaged children who are alive within their sensory-rich environment, being guided by sensitive adults who are sharing the beauty the world has to offer.

Which is not located in the construction paper pumpkin produced by every kid in the class.



*Yes, I know some children love using coloring book pictures. No problem, if they CHOOSE it as a self selected activity and not because everyone needs to color the pumpkin because now it is Art Project Time.

*Yes, this takes time to model. You can't expect anyone to use materials properly when the teacher has them locked in the cupboard constantly, only to be whisked back into fort knox once the project is finished.  Deprivation does not teach discipline.

* I have some beef with the Toddler Art Market. All this Oversized stuff is ridiculous. I've seen Toddlers pick up the smallest piece of garbage possible, nearly indiscernible to the human eye. They can handle a regular pencil.

Quiescent

I am a supernova, quiescent.

Belief in my own powers to dazzle is what keeps me resilient. Reminders that I am everything I have said, and promised and know to be true about myself and where I am meant to be purl in gilded loops around my conciousness.

I fill out forms. I enter data into online systems. I coordinate and send packets of electronic words, words and more words to people I will never speak to or meet.  Not that I want to meet them, really.

I curse the time I should have spent writing stupid things just to get my name in journals, instead of living in the beauty of my head, seeing the small things around me. So much time to be made up, so much to recover from.

How do you word that?

How do you say "Listen to the words amid the silences"

"My potential is not yet realized, but it will be. And when I burst forth, I will be incandescent."

Yet, all I can do is endure.

Wait for the ruby under my dusty countenance to shimmer and catch someone's eye.

And trust that it will all work out the way it should.

Haphazard

Yesterday, I got out the lint roller and spruced up all my vintage hats. Reshaping them, giving them a good de-fuzzing, preparing for hat season.

Later, I reflected on the fact that I spend TIME reshaping and de-linting wool hats from the 40's 50's and 60's so I can sport them about in jaunty combinations with scarves and vintage cashmere coats I have rescued from the local thrift stores.

This all, of course, made me giggle. Softly, but nonetheless.

We went to Burlington on Saturday, lured by bookstores and promises of things I can't find here in Montreal. 

As we drove, the blue of the sky behind me illuminated the side mirror. 

These small things give me such pleasure now. Simply the noticing. 

As of late, Coco has assumed a Guard Rabbit position next to my bed. Jackson, while much larger, is also much less formidable. He'd hand me over to any beastie in order to save his skin.

But not Coco.  She wants you to know that she will Mess You Up. Or at the very least make you fall and break your ankle.

My protection, it seems, is fail-safe.

Also, I wore my glasses into the Shower today. Just thought I'd share.

quitter

Parental Guilt, revisited

When I made the announcement at Mother Daughter book Club last night, the last thing I expected was to be awake at 4 a.m., later that night, in full panic attack mode, envisioning my daughter as a destitute crack whore living in the crevices of St Catherine.

Now in my defense, I have been off my meds since last week when I ran out.  Since I couldn't see my doctor until this coming Monday, I have been Med free for nearly two weeks..... for the first time in more than 10 years.

 (And don't get me started on how the pharmacist wouldn't refill and the doctor couldn't be gotten to fax a script in to refill and me, off meds and getting increasingly angry with myself for not being more on top of things and thinking vaguely that I DESERVED withdrawal, but I increasingly digress as the symphony in my head gets louder and adds in more critical voices. Sigh. )

It was the utter silence, I think, that unnerved me.

In choosing books for the upcoming months, and trying to work schedules etc, there was a sudden uptick mother voices talking about the high school entrance exams and how they aren't sure if they are going to be able to make the October meeting because everyone has eight billion entrance exams scheduled. Now, this isn't just for private schools in Montreal. Oh, No. They do this shit for the "better" public schools too.

Me being Me, cheerfully announced that I opted Emily out of ALL of that - that our stance was it was all Bullshit, and we weren't going to put Em through it.  "No reason", I said. "The tests are meaningless. She has two parents with PhD's in education, she is going to be just fine."

I might as well have announced that I had conceived Emily through Alien anal probing. (although god knows, Terrance does try every now and then)

Silence.

One of the Moms who knows me a bit better smiled at me. I am the quirky parent after all. Who KNOWS what Dawn is going to say.  Sweet Dorothy even said "Well, that is really refreshing!" I know she was sincere. I am sure it WAS refreshing. I may have been the first parent in the history of English Montreal who made that statement in a public room with other parents present. I may as well have said "I hope for Emily to be a stripper in one of Montreals various skin clubs. Maybe a stripper with Herpes. And a Meth addiction."

In that moment of silence, the panic saw it's opportunity and nestled itself in my reptilian brain.

In the light of the day, I can look at that panic. I know it well. It was the same panic that came to stay when her brain injury was first diagnosed and I envisioned her, 32, living in my basement and walking to her minimum wage job. No college. No marriage and children. Nothing.

And it was my fault. Me. Her mother. I didn't do something right. I was depressed. I drank coffee during my pregnancy. I put her down too hard in her crib one night. I didn't love her enough and I ruined her life before she could even escape me. It is part of that panic that whispers to me to have another baby, you know. Have another baby and prove you can do it better. Be absolved.  Which is ridiculous. And uber Crazy.

In the space of hopelessness it feels like something. Something I can do. Prep her for a test. Make sure she gets into the best high school, make sure I am doing everything right so if it goes wrong, I can be held blameless.

It is our collective parental nightmare. Our moments of indecision, of selfishness, or disinterest or sheer exhaustion in parenting are going to revisit us. They are going to sit in our kitchen and stare at us with dead eyes and accusing words.

When Terrance found me flighty and sleepless this morning, I garbled all of this out to him.

"We are doing the right thing, right? It will be all right, right? This is the best thing for her and she will end up in a good school? She will be happy? Should we start looking to see if she should take these tests?"

He soothes me. This episode was small compared to the panic after her  tiny brain injury diagnosis when I curled in bed and sobbed for my daughters imagined future. Professional Dawn has taken a powder break and left the Uncertain, Anxious parent in her place.

He holds me. "Dawn, if there was ever two parents who can exert sheer force of will, it is you and I. She will be fine. This will all be fine. We will find the right place where she will be happy and succeed, we always have..."

I hold the panic at bay.

A year later, and I am sure I did the right thing. Emily is in the place she is meant to be...thriving even. 
But the panic never stops. The second guessing never stops. In the end, I suppose we can really just do the best we can and hope for the best.

Who suspected Life Sciences was so exciting!?

While this is *only* a book on Sharks, it reigns supreme as possibly the most tremendous book title ever.

My thought upon seeing this?

"I am hanging out in the wrong Libraries!"

Clueless

The other day I was standing in the aisle o' razors at the store that I hate more than I hate lima beans.

In some twisted logic which can only be born of minimum wage, passive aggression and paternalistic logic, all of the Blades for the non-disposable razors had been taken away from the aisle. All that was left were disposable razors.

I stood. Befuddled and increasingly riled.

Finally, in my exasperation, I blurted out:

"Where the fuck are all the razor blades?  Is this some conspiracy to deny the non-disposable razor users? Fuck me!"

Emily, who is (sadly) accustomed to these types of outbursts merely smiled to herself and resumed looking at things on shelves.

A not-unattractive gentleman of approximately my age began to laugh. I looked over at him, unaccustomed to others finding my lack of social graces to be amusing.

He smiles at me.  I now have an audience.

I smile back, and begin to gesture to the shelves -now barren of real blades.

"Where have they gone? This makes no sense!", I finally end.

He makes some small talk and explains that he has seen them towards the front of the store, near the registers. Ok. I acknowledge. That is an incredibly asinine place to locate razor blades, but I will go look there.

Emily trails behind me.

"That dude was totally crushing on you, Mom."

I stop short. "what!?"

I am shocked, people. SHOCKED.

"It was a conversation about razor blades....", I say.

"Oh no, he liked you.", explains my daughter.

"Emily", I say. "I look ridiculous.  Comic book tshirt - jean shorts three sizes too big, toenails that really need a new pedicure and my hair looks like birds are nesting in it. Yelling Fuck Me! in the razor aisle. I think you are insane."

We get to the razor display. Fuck me! again!

How am I supposed to know what type of razor I own among this ocean of razor options?  It is a razor. I put a blade on it and use it until my legs scream for mercy whereby I clue in that I am shaving with the equivalent of a butter knife.

As I stand shaking my head in exasperation at the ludicrous display, the man from before walks over.  He makes more small talk. I respond. I make a choice and walk away.

Emily smiles at me.

"See", she says, "he likes you - even though it is totally creepy to see someone crushing on my mother."

Transmogrify

I woke shivering. The tip of my nose, where it peeked out of my summer duvet was icy. I could hear the rain from my wide open windows, accompanied by the absurd sound of the street cleaner going past our house.

My toes already planning their protest of the shoes I was going to have to wear. Closed toes, confining.

I'd slept poorly, my mind whirring.

"Nuzzle" was the word that burst to the forefront as soon as my eyes opened. "Remember Nuzzle", my brain was shouting. "Look for Nuzzle".

This is how it is for me when I am writing and the information competes with the other things in the jet stream of my awareness. The journal article pushes all else out of the way, shouting "Nuzzle" like a crazed prophet, as soon as my eyes open.

Knowing my tendency to lose these thoughts, I think "must make a list" as I roll back over to find a warm space in which to try to reenter sleep.

I must go to McGill today, but I don't mind. In a compromise with my toes, I have selected one of the beloved pairs of rainboots to wear.

I have dutifully written a list and emailed it to myself, not trusting it to survive the mess of my bag. Remember to copy this, email this to them, find this book, walk to this building and pick up this form....all the things that must be done but which I know that I will forget if I find something more intriguing or interesting.

It isn't that I have become more inattentive, simply that I find myself able to be captivated by other things.  I will be walking from the main library to the education library and suddenly stop.  Staring at the rock wall. Looking at the patterns of the rain on the stone.  Wondering where the large stones have gone, and pondering the strange beauty of a forgotten spiders web. 

Or the beginnings of a slender smile when I consider what would happen if we started tucking notes of prayer & reverence or supplication into this wall.

Undergraduates part as I stand still, moving around me like water, diverging and then reconnecting on the other side of me, chanting their own rogations. 

I move on, up the hill. I place my books into the car and look up.

I wave off the hopeful driver who thinks I am about to abandon a coveted parking space.  No. Not leaving yet. Another Library to visit, more stacks of books to adore. 

I stand in the gutter, looking up the hill to where the library waits for me.  I let the water wash over my boots, an unexpected sluice in it's path. 

Then I walk on.

Portrait of an afternoon

Irises and Apples

For the first part of my life I lived with my maternal grandparents. My mother was young, just 19, and although she was married my father had enlisted in the Marines and was gone. The Vietnam War was fully engaged in 1970 and my father didn't need to be drafted ... he went willingly.

So there I was, in 1970, a newborn. My mother was in Nursing School despite being both recently married and so recently pregnant. I suspect the nuns were less than thrilled.

Irene Riester - age 13

While my mother was at class, my grandmother cared for me. I think my youngest Uncle was 10 or so and my grandmother had miscarried a pregnancy in October of the previous Year. In fact, both grandmothers, maternal and paternal, had miscarried about the same time. There had been a distinct possibility that I may have had an Aunt and/or Uncle who would have been my age peer, but I was the lone survivor.

My grandparents - With my great-grandparents,  Marie and Nelson Rickus

I loved my grandmother, Irene Ann Riester Rickus. My memories of her are of her being incredibly patient with me and my incessant exploration of  her jewelry box and closets and all the places that I had no compunction about opening and emptying.  It was her sewing machine that I fiddled with, constantly, despite being warned off - sternly- about breaking the needles (and still breaking them pretty frequently).

My Grandmother, Mother, Aunt and Uncle with her Father - And Garden

I loved my grandfather - George Baird Rickus-  too, but differently. Him of the scratchy face in the morning and the ever present smell of his aftershave. He was the jokester, my grandfather, the trickster. It was with him that I recall being in trouble with if I fooled around too much in church. Yet it was also he who would recruit me into carrying the wine down to the alter during mass, and I would feel incredibly important as I solemnly walked up the aisle beside my giant of a grandfather.

Their House  -  Purchased July 1956

They were both children of the Great Depression, of immigrants.  Germany, Ireland, Belgium, Austria, Czechoslovakia; I am the eventual progeny of the mass movement of people in the late 1800's.

My Mother, her brother and sister  (and cousins) - 1961

My grandmother was one of three sisters - the middle girl. It was her mother, Emily (Emilie) Dvorak,  who was one of the dual name sources for my Emily. My grandmother used to tell me that I looked like her mother, but I don't know.

My grandmother was the Reader and had a vast amount of knowledge from books. The rooms of her house were stacked high ( literally) with books.  More books on shelves and in the basement.

My grandfather was one of 11 ( I think) siblings. In the pictures of him as a younger man, he seems very silly and rather handsome. He was a minor league baseball player too - tall and lanky, and could play musical instruments like no one I have ever known - mostly by ear and without any kind of training.  I can see why my grandmother was smitten.

My grandmother was the gardener, and my grandfather loved his trees.

I can remember walking with my grandmother when she would do her rounds of her flowers, plucking off the dead ends, looking at the vegetables to make sure no errant animal had made it's way into the beds. Irises and Lilies always make me think of her, and bath tubs full of tomatoes or cucumbers that she was getting ready to can. There was a hedge of spearmint too, and I loved crashing through it - the smell following me as I burst through from one side to the other.

Their backyard, February 2009

There were all kinds of fruit trees; apples, pears, peaches, cherry and walnut. My requests for pies were rarely  turned down, particularly if I had helped pick the fruit. I also loved the tart and tangy taste of the green apples and got in trouble with my grandfather more than once after getting into his trees before the fruit was ready. I would often ride the pony from one grandparents house - over the ridge - to these grandparents house, and then get in doubly in trouble for letting the Pony eat the green apples. A miscreant from the beginning, was I.

In their back yard I perfected climbing trees ( if my grandfather wasn't watching me) and catching fireflies until it was darker than dark.  A backyard orchard is a divine place to catch fireflies in the summer.  I would keep the glass jar, filled with grass and leaves and sparkling with the green yellow glow of fireflies, near my bed.  It was in that back yard that I was allowed to play in the rain ( as long as there was no thunder), no matter how hard the rain came down.

My grandmother kept canaries and would let them fly around the house sometimes. Her favorite was a little yellow one she named GB, in honor of her husband.  She also loved the cardinals and other birds the gardens and orchards invariably attracted.

At my grandmother's funeral in 2009, the priest exhorted us to remember her not in death, but in life. In that moment, a memory came and kicked down my adult facade of concern and grief.

I was maybe 4 or 5, and had been outdoors, exploring on my own. When I returned indoors - most likely to find something to eat - my grandmother sensed ( or smelled) that something was awry.  Eventually I had to confess that I had decided to relieve myself in the neighbors yard. And I don't mean liquid.

The funny thing is that I can recall the internal dialogue I had with myself about that decision. It was just so Far back to the house to walk and Animals just went outside all the time. I knew I shouldn't - but.....

My grandmother got her shovel and asked me to lead her to my "deposit". She scooped it up with shovel and carried it over to the statue of Mary that overlooked the back yard.  She excavated a small hole, and tipped the contents of the shovel into the hole.

I stood and watched next to her.

"Mary won't mind.", she said. "but don't poop in the yard anymore."  And then she took me in for a bath.

This memory made me begin to giggle in church, making my uncle glance over at me quizzically. Had my grandfather, who died the following year, been able to hear me ( he was very nearly deaf by that point) , I suspect I would have gotten in trouble. 

They loved me, and I them. I wish I'd known them better when I became an adult, but that can't be helped now. These things I wish for as my origins move further away.

Instead, I honor them by creating something beautiful to distill all my memories into a lasting tribute that my (maybe) grandchildren will run across, someday.

And so it begins

Emily: Can I have the next skirts for school shortened?

(Me laughing hysterically)

Me: Um, No. They are at your knee, as specified by the handbook.  You are not having your skirts shortened.

Emily: (exasperated): But everyone else has their skirts shorter!

Me: I could care less if they have their skirts up to their belly buttons - YOU are not having your skirts shortened.

Emily: I look like a nun.

(exit the stomping 13 year old)

Hold me, internet. 

Animus

"You need to have a plan", she said.

A plan.

I've spent my whole life making plans. Plans about plans. Plans about plans if the other plans fall through, or don't go exactly as planned. My mind  instinctively maps out plans, sub-plans and the alternate route flow charts should all else fail. Because I know it will. And so I plan.

In this almost-done-space, I feel the restlessness of an overdue pregnancy. I am Heavy. I am Bloated and Cumbersome. I am willing to put up with any amount of finite pain to just be past this.

The PhD is coming to a close and while I should feel gratitude or relief or even joy, I feel none of those things.

So I trudge on, throwing everything into a panier to place on my back and search again for a new home, a new nest to grow a new Dawn.

"A plan", she said. "Make a plan."

SuperPower

Truly, my only other super power would be my amazing ability to tell you the barometric pressure is dropping, due to my dysfunctional sinus set up in which evolution left a tiny (but extremely effective) barometer in my nasal cavity. Seeing as this won't get me recruited into the X-Men - except, as I have posited, as some hype-man for Storm - the power to offend remains my only hope.

Have I mentioned my super power? The one in which I can offend nearly anyone new - somewhat unintentionally - within ten minutes of being introduced to that person? If I am drinking, that time can be cut down to maybe three minutes.

Being a rather hermit-like girl, I forget sometimes about this particular power. I avoid new people like the LITERAL plague. Every Leap Year, something awakens in my reptilian brain and I make a new friend...to be kept - FO-EVER! Like Sartre, there is no exit from being friends with me once I have decided we are friends. I also Imprint on people in service industries....as evidenced by my recent proclamation to "Glen" that he is my new Hair Stylist. When my old stylist went on Maternity leave and never came back, I waited 2 years until I couldn't stand it and found Glen. But let's leave that little creepy tidbit aside for the moment.

This morning after I dropped Em at school I swung by Second Cup to grab my perfectly brewed coffee. Yes, these kind souls will BREW me single cups of the coffee I like. In return, I will never buy coffee anywhere else in the city. Yep, they are stuck with me. For whatever reason they seem to like me. I fit in with the humor and tone of the joint. Therefore I forget that others may be unfamiliar with my essential "Dawn-ness"

Hence, today's vignette:

I walk in and wait in line. Chris, the owner, is chatting with a middle aged woman in her early 60's. She is talking to him about "day care" for his three year old son. After several repeats of the word "Day care", I can no longer stand it and butt in to say in what I thought was a semi-friendly/joking tone:

"As an Early Childhood Professional, I would just like to say that we prefer the term "Child Care" as we have never cared for a "Day"..."

I trail off and smile.

Chris, the owner laughs. This woman does not. She stares at me.

"Are you correcting me as I get my coffee", she asks.

"Well, Yes. Yes I am. As someone getting a PhD in Early Childhood, I feel strongly that terminology defines the importance of the work we do..." I trail off again.

"It's my field too", she counters, handing Chris her Card with the Moniker of a Large well known provider of Child care in many countries.

She turns back to him - "You should get your son on the list for preschool, like Yesterday..."

Not in the least deterred I pipe up, "I put Emily on the list at the Child Care I directed when I was two weeks pregnant!"

This was said to convey empathy for the plight of searching for the right child care and camps and programs and how you simply don't KNOW about this little kitchen nook of Hell until you try to navigate it.

Here is where she thinks she is going to Get me, I later realize. She is preparing to deliver her parting Blow.

"I stayed at home with my kids when they were little until they went to school and I just loved it."

And because I didn't hear the slam until later, I responded "If I had stayed home with my daughter, it would have been a crime scene. A terrible, bloody homicide scene. Me, Her, my husband and the Cat would have all been killed. No, I speak for the Moms who would be a TERRIBLE stay at home Moms..."

Chris, the owner, is now in full guffaw. I am still smiling oblivious of the attempt on my dedication/ability/expertise as a Mom.

She shoots me a terrible parting look that clues me in that I was Supposed to be insulted instead of cheerfully detailing the ways in which I would have disassembled my family.

I stand, waiting for my coffee. I am now in internal dialog with myself and am coming to realize that this all went very, very poorly. Chris continues to laugh. I look up and say:

"And you just witnessed my superpower in action. The ability to increasingly offend any stranger in ten minutes or less..."

He smiles at me. "That was spectacular", he says.

Sunday Afternoon in September

Today I was required to buy a tube of Super Glue.  Then I had to figure out how to get the package open...followed by how to get the tube open.  By the time I worked it all out, I rested and pondered how dangerous this product had to be, given the time and effort placed into sealing it into consecutive layers of plastic security.

The reason for all of this was the pencil sharpener. Emily had broken it nearly immediately after we bought it, twisting the back off and somehow detaching it.  I carefully applied the Glue of Doom and gingerly placed it on the Porch step.  Because I did not want to be seen attempting to fruitlessly pry the plastic pencil shaving container from the metal stairs, I placed it on its side to dry.  Besides, these stairs and I have history and there was no way I was re-fighting those battles.

Of course, all of this necessitated Loki coming out to investigate.  Plus, since he has the most Fur-to-body ratio, any contact with the Glue of Doom would be just disastrous. And we all know who would be placed in charge of shaving the cat, right? yep. Me.  So There I sat.  Watching the Cat. Watching the Glue Dry.

Following a lengthy bath and claw sharpening session on the side of my leg, Loki settled in to pretend he likes me. (I'm not kidding - you can see my torn up leg there in the corner of the picture) I am his least preferred Adult.  I am the least preferred Adult of all the animals.  You'd think they would know on which side their bread was buttered. geesh.

And then, because there was no one there to tell me not to, I lay down in the grass and listened to the crickets sing to me of the borderline between seasons.

Spare the Parents of Teens/Tweens a Thought

I rarely poke around the blog world anymore. As the Mom of a 13 year old, I just don't easily relate to those parents who are dealing with bottles and diapers and first steps or words.

Don't get me wrong. I don't dislike parents with young children. I know how hard that stage is - I have BEEN there. I know how cute and sweet, funny and frustrating the Kindergarten age and younger child can be.

Its just that when I look at most blogs aimed at parents, I see a plethora of Baby, Toddler and Preschool blogs or articles. Parents of kids older than 6 seem to have been tossed aside by both Media outlets and Magazine or online communities. We, as my friend Marsha noted, are the marketing Cast offs

Now if you are a parent of a Tween - which is loosely defined as the 9 through 12 age group - the irony is that you need the shoulder and advice of other parents More than ever. Issues with teachers and school, the eternal quagmire of Friendship, Body changes, the onset of Puberty and the general transition from adorable young child to still cute but at-times-hard-to-love tween.

The road that you must walk in these years is one that most of us have either truly forgotten...or forcibly pushed from our minds. No one rushes up to coo over your tween...at least no one that you don't suspect should be in custody. No one offers you advice on the street, no one stands with you in the school yard and swaps tales of "signs of puberty" with you the way you poured over the details of your ( and others) babies transition to solids, or toilet learning, or sleeping in a big girl bed.

Sure, you may get a sympathetic look when your 11 year old rolls her eyes at your suggestion that she perhaps Put the hat on her head rather than carry it on the Zero degree Celsius weather, or endure the knowing looks when your daughter loudly yells "Leave me Alone and Go to Work!" as she runs towards her friends. However, the sense of belonging is gone. You are mother islands unto yourselves. Like we are all in our own personal Parenting Fight Clubs, where the first rule is....Don't talk about how much harder this part of parenting is shaping up to be.

Or how much more frakking costly.

One would think that the media and purchasing people would be all over the parents of tweens and teens. Clothing and entertaining this age group is expensive. And if you thought your Baby outgrew things quickly? HAHAHAHAH. Try outgrowing 70 dollar sneakers every 5 weeks because her foot has decided to expand at inhuman rates. Or snowsuits that have gone from 30 or 40 dollars Total to Hundreds of dollars in order to get one that will last both the growth spurts AND Hard wear that an 12 year old will inflict upon it over the course of a winter. This summer Emily went from a size 7.5 shoe - to a 9. In under 2 months.

Do I need to mention the gift lists? These have changed too. Emily may be an only child, but she is not alone in having a cell phone and ipod of her own. Last Christmas saw her gifts include a Wii and her own laptop. Which she needed for her homework. Seriously.

Oh, and the homework. You thought the tantrums your kid threw as a Toddler were bad? The homework battles are worse. I would take ten flopping and rolling " You can't have popcorn" tantrums over one of my "I can't understand this math and I am so stupid and why does this teacher hate me and my life is terrible" tantrums. They get louder as they get older. And more articulate.

Did I mention the personal hygiene battles? You can't scoop them up and shuttle them into the tub anymore...so you coax and remind and say things like "You don't want to be known as Sewer Breath Emily, do you? So BRUSH YOUR TEETH! and for the love of all that is holy, Put lotion on your ashy skin. I also know that you did not brush your hair, I can clearly see this, even though you are now crying and telling me you Did brush your hair, the half matted thing on your head indicates No brushing...."

So, Blog World, Spare a thought for the Parents of Tweens and Teens ...and perhaps even light a parenting candle for the parents of Teens. I know Babies and Toddlers are everything that makes our ovaries throb, bringing a tear of nostalgia to our eyes and a wistful reflection on the transformation the new people these creatures are becoming as well as the fierce love and tumult they have ushered into our lives.

Tweens and Teens are the people these creatures become - and they aren't as cute and loveable - and they kind of smell. The parents of these tweens and teens still exist and deserve the same types of places to gather for the support and comfort of parents who are riding this particular life rollarcoaster. They spend as much money - if not more - in stores and marketplaces.

The arguments I have heard - "But I don't talk about my Tween/teen because of their privacy" - strike me as false. You can not tell me that the privacy of your 5 year old counts less than that of your 13 year old. They may be more aware that you are talking about them on the interwebz is what you are saying. Yet that doesn't automatically equate to more or less Privacy per se.

Maybe you are more embarrassed about talking about unearthing the deep loam of what it means to be human...maybe your kid isn't talking to you the way he/she used to...maybe Sexuality and body changes and hormones freak you the fuck out. Fine. I get that. But "Privacy"? Puh-lease. If you published a story about their poop when they were 3, then save me the dramatic exhortations of suddenly seeing the light regarding privacy now.

My suspicion - and I could be totally full of shit - is that We (parents) get super uncomfortable when our Teen/Tween starts becoming "us" - as in more adult, more knowledgeable in the ways of the body and society. We distance ourselves from THEM because we either i) want to preserve some sense of them as babies/small cute people or ii) the idea that they are growing up and are about to launch into the adult realm of sexuality and attractions and love and exploration outside of the Family is terrifying...so we pretend it isn't happening. And we sure the hell don't talk about it.

When I asked Emily if it bothered her that I still write about her, she was her typical non-flappable self; "No", she said, "I can't stop you from writing. Besides you tell stories, it's what you Do."

Sometimes she even requests that I read my posts to her and she Laughs, heartily, at my story telling.

Emily will, of course, have her own stories to tell, someday. And I will not seek to control her stories any more than she seeks to control my stories. I do not expect to be represented in any way except how she sees me, and I grant that may not always be kindly.

But this continues to beg the question - Why no parents of teens on parenting Blog-empires-advice-consortium sites? Why no marketing attention? ( not that I want any , ugh - I do not like marketing pitches...)

Carve out a place for us. Its lonely out here, and a nice cup of coffee and some words of kindness could really go a long way.






Originally Published on CanadaMomBlogs - December 2009