The One Where I Hate Electricity And Fun

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about young kids and online games. For the record, I don’t like them. Also for the record, my son plays them. But he does a lot of things I don’t enjoy seeing happen, like dirt-bike jumps and growing.

I hate these games in general and in specific. I hate them the way our grandparents hated Elvis and socialism and people who wore their hat to the dinner table. These games make my skin crawl and I scream into my mouth when my son asks for his iPod. We have time limits for use, and they’re reasonable (no more than 75 min/day) and while the limits aren’t tied to requirements like exercise or homework, I’m not afraid to tell him “no” if I feel those things haven’t been recognized. He will be nine years old by the time you finish reading my archives. Which you’re gonna, right?

But- BUT… the thing about these iPods?

It is very difficult to make myself tell him “time’s up!” when the timer dings. And I can’t control his use when he’s at a friend’s house. Thankfully his dad hates them as much (if not more) than I do, and time at dad’s house is “Luddite Time.”

I haven’t wavered (often) on the time limits I’ve imposed, but maybe this is the part that scares me most, because as the enforcer I don’t always have the best “moderation” techniques myself. (See also: Jeni’s baked potato habit.) The fact that I’m writing this on an iPhone isn’t lost on me. But I’ve earned the right to be tied to a screen because I grew up watching shows like “Charles in Charge” to get this far. (“Far” just auto-corrected to “fat” which works also.)

I never used the TV as a crutch in my parenting and I insist that my children are actively present and engaged in social settings. I’m the “crazy mom” (their term) because I insist they play outside without devices when they attend events. And we don’t do screens at dinner inside or outside the home. I hate seeing little ones with screens on and zombie eyes in restaurants.

“Crazy Mom” is a role I am happy to play; I’ve been practicing for 40 years and this is my moment. Where’s my spotlight, goddammit?

I’ve done all the responsible things like disabling in-app purchases so he can’t spend our savings (hahaha I don’t have any savings!) or our grocery money on “jewels” or bricks of butter gold or whatever the hell you need in some of these games. I’ve talked to him about limits in playing and how his brain will actually melt and slide out one of his ears if he plays too long. I even mentioned that poor kid in Indiana who lost his eyesight and the use of his thumbs after he played all night under the covers when his mother wasn’t looking. (Feel free to use this boy I completely made up- maybe we can get a page on Snopes and scare an entire generation at the same time.)

Did our parents hate anything as much?I don’t remember Pacman and Super Mario being all that popular beyond a phase with my friends. Am I missing something? We did things – not always good or legal – but the bulk of our activity happened outside so at least meeting creepy strangers took place in a fresh-air beer store parking lot and not over an Internet connection in a soggy basement.

Recently my son asked for a game called “Clash of the Clans.” I checked it out and it’s non-violent and seems to promote team building as you create clans with your friends online. I temporarily forgot that not only do your friends have access to the Internet, but so do several thousand creepy predators in hot sauce-stained undershirts. Today when my son asked me how to spell “amazing” and “three months” I came to understand he was having a virtual chat with people on the iPod in this game. I can read his history (and did) and everything seems above board, but I am disabling the feature except for parent approved usernames (his friends). He already knows – and I reinforce before every session – that he is to never disclose his name, age, location, blood type, favourite colour, or shoe size over the Internet.

I wanna smash his iPod and move to 1983. I’ve still got my acid wash pants and Pom-Pom ankle socks and I will make this sacrifice for the children.

Do your kids play these games? How old are they and what games do they like? Am I worried over nothing? Do you feel bad about it? Please tell me I am worried about nothing.

* Post-script: After I wrote this, I went inside and found my son playing with his Lego. He sat there, in his pajamas, building and dismantling a spaceship. He was at it for hours, and he didn’t ask for his iPod all day. So guess what, guys? Apparently all you need to do for something to happen is to write it here on my blog, so I am now opening this space up for wishes. Just keep it clean, folks.

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Find me over at MamaPop.com every day as well. Here are a few of my latest posts on Pop Culture and Parenting related topics:

Mom Forces Daughter To Wear Thrift Store Clothing To Cure Her Of Bullying

The Venn Diagram Of Divorce Guilt [Personal Essay]

Rich NYC Moms Renting Handicapped Poors To Cut Lines AT Disney World

 

Choking on her dust

My daughter starts high school next September. Her grade eight teacher tells me she should be placed in the Advanced Program at high school – that my daughter is a hard worker, a fast learner, and that she retains information.

I hope they offer “Emptying the Dishwasher 101,” and “General Laundry Folding Techniques” next semester.

She does indeed have excellent study habits, and refuses to miss school  for almost any reason. I say this not to brag, but in the same way that I would tell you my son once buried our compost bin in 3 feet of mud and that I am 39 years old and need compression stockings and blood pressure medication– because it’s true.

Last night her future high school hosted an orientation for grade eight students and their parents. Bubbly high school seniors in black polo shirts with popped collars gave the kids warm cookies and a tour of the school while telling them what to expect in terms of uniforms, dances and clubs, and delicious hot cafeteria lunches. They told them all about study abroad possibilities and travel opportunities and how they could earn credits by building schools in the Dominion Republic!

At the same time, parents were corralled into the freezing audigymnateria where school officials in suits and ties told us how much we had to pay for uniforms, how much we had to pay for dances and clubs and lunches, and also how to begin the organ donation process so that we could afford to have our kids build schools in the Dominion Republic.

When the parent presentation was over, the parents of these intelligent, quick-learning studious children in the Advancement Placement program were invited to another room for further discussion.

I was almost late getting there, to that Advanced Placement meeting.

My finger was stuck in my purse zipper.

And our bacon ain’t half bad, either…

“Hey, Frank? Look, I know we’ve already put our chin-strap frying pan hats on, and we’re ready to battle, but… well, it seems I’ve got my entire hand stuck in this here rifle. Since my other hand was blown off in the “incident” last week, I think I may just forgo this one, okay Frank?

Besides, you seem really, really happy to be firing solo at an invisible enemy with your double pistol line shooters.

So we’re good then?

And maybe after we get my remaining hand outta this rifle we could play some hockey, or smoke some of what is pictured on our flag? So, whadda ya say?

Thanks, Frank. We’re saving the world, ya know.”

Tip Thursday: Effective Internet Communication

The internet is a real paradox. It brings out both the best and worst of people, and while I love that so many of us get passionate online about political ideology, current events, and worthy causes, sometimes internet commenting can get to be just a bit much. (Have you read anything on “YouTube” lately?)

Online discussion can provide a wonderful forum for people who want to get involved in their communities, and sharing opinions and opening dialogue often acts as springboard for debate.

But.

I have a few requests. Today’s Tip Thursday is devoted to ensuring the best in high calibre discussion, so pay close attention. This list is culled after reading hundreds – if not thousands of internet comments, and from that number, I’ve taken notice of the most common problems.

1. Physicality.  In any argument, make sure you make reference to physical traits, sexual preference, age, hair colour, or religious affiliation. We all know that someone is what they look like, so don’t let anyone forget it. For instance, I have a questionable hair cut, so naturally one can conclude that I am an idiot and a bitch. Oh wait; I think I’m a bitch because I don’t wear dresses? I can’t remember. I must be blonde.
2. Language. Please, swear as much as possible. The internet isn’t censored, so why are you not taking advantage? If you can’t think of a synonym for “ignorant,” try “asshole.” Can’t remember how to spell “misogynistic?” Use “dickhead.”  (Bonus points for using curse words as adjectives, nouns, and verbs. Super bonus points if you do all three in one sentence.)
3. Facts. Simply put, who needs ‘em? In their absence, suggest research is “lefty propaganda,” or perhaps voice your opinion with the caveat “but whatever; that’s just me.”  
4. Spelling and grammar. These are the cornerstones of effective written debate, and therefore, have no place in internet discussion.  Got it, shithedd? That was to see if you’re still with me. Add three points if you caught it. (PS. “Points” actually mean nothing here, but studies show people love points.)
5. Punctuation. If youre mad and in a hurry when you type don’t be concerned This will actually serve to also further confuse the reader proving how stupid they are anyways right.
6. Conjecture. Throw in some random conspiracy theories. People who don’t believe in conspiracy theories are probably just breathing in too many jet chemtrails… (See also: reference to pinko commie/lefty propaganda.)
7. Rationality. Should someone try to enter into the conversation using such things as clarity, facts, or intelligence, you must immediately shut that shit down. Gather the troops, link up, and share away. This type of intelligence discourse must be avoided at all costs. Knowledge is power and that’s not good for anyone.

Now, go forth and argue effectively!

If you’re having trouble finding something to get fired up about, I’ve got quite the dossier on Ann Coulter, and  there’s always Fox News.

Spilled

My son is home this morning. He’s not quite so sick that he shouldn’t be at school; rather he just needs a few extra hours of sleep to catch up on what he’s missed from some late nights recently. He’s in a split grade 2/3 class this year, where he is only one of six grade three children. His school – like the one I attended my elementary years – is quite small.

Grade three was a school year I remember well. Our teacher was very artistic, had a ferocious temper, and was easily frustrated. And our teacher was a man. A MAN! I had never seen a male teacher. He sat at his desk and read the paper every morning and he always had ink on his fingers. He left big black fingerprints on our worksheets which would transfer to our faces when we pulled at a ponytail or picked at our noses, but this was only one of the ways he left an indelible mark on our 1980 school year.

I loved him and I hated him and I’m sure he felt the same about me. I wasn’t special, but I was very smart and I asked a lot of questions – questions he sometimes couldn’t answer. He divided our class into groups according to ability and I was in the “advanced” group. Of course no one called it “the advanced group” but you didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that the “panthers” were quicker studies than the “earthworms.”

One day a boy in my group sang a version of “O, Canada” which combined biting wit, astute political awareness and perhaps a smidgen of treason. This boy’s version of our national anthem was smart and inappropriate and very, very funny. It was then – in grade three – when I realized that the funniest things usually come from a place of absolute truth and intelligence, but this teacher did not appreciate this sentiment. He was not impressed  and he took shit from nobody.

The teacher gave this boy a choice for his punishment: Sing the proper version – solo, at the front of the class – or miss every single recess all week. This was akin to imprisonment in a Turkish prison and so of course the boy chose the solo and the teacher told him that he respected his decision. This was the first time I ever heard any grown-up person say they respected a child, and I have heard it pitifully little since.

This man let us do fun arts and crafts projects with exotic materials like something called “India Ink.” In all fairness, this was a mistake from the get-go. Giving a room full of wiggly eight year-old children high on Wagon Wheels unlimited access to an industrial size bottle of permanent liquid stain was not a good idea. “Do NOT spill it,” our teacher said. Then he added, “I trust you.”

When a girl spilled it all over the wool reading-circle carpet the teacher had brought special from home, we all sat, scared silent, and waited for the hammer to fall. The teacher was calm. Finally he said – in the measured tone of an adult who has made the decision to change career paths – “Never, in my entire teaching career has anyone ever spilled the ink. My carpet is ruined.”

The half empty jug of ink disappeared from the art shelves and so did the ruined carpet and I think maybe the girl did, too.

The spilled ink was thick and it smelled heavy like blood. It seemed as much a living force as anything inside of us. It was potential and it was creation and it was relief from primary school baby crafts and safety scissors. It was trust and belief and freedom. I haven’t smelled anything remotely like it since.

Shortly before the Christmas break that year our teacher came to school and he looked upset. After the morning announcements and “O, Canada” (sung properly) he switched off the classroom intercom and faced the class. He told us that he was very sad because his favourite musician had died the day before. This musician was a young man, a talented man, a man with a family and a long life ahead of him and that he had been killed, his blood spilled needlessly by someone with misplaced fascination. We were horrified and sad, but our sadness was for our teacher and not he man we did not know and could not love or hate.

Our class often listened to The Beatles on a turntable during reading time. But there was no “Yellow Submarine” that day. Instead our teacher sat quietly at his desk and did not read the paper. It lay folded on his desk. There would be no ink on his hands this day.

Sometimes I wonder if my son will remember things that happen during his third grade year. On the surface he appears unaffected by the things that happen around him, but I don’t know what feelings run in his veins. What would he think of spilled ink on a wool carpet? I’m not sure.

He’s a quiet boy.

Some Things

I swear this was yesterday

But THIS was yesterday…

I’ve been thinking about how quickly time goes. I found out this week that my daughter will likely need braces, and while I wonder how I’m going to cover that, I also thought about how lucky she is that she will get them. I needed them also, but it didn’t happen for me.

My teeth aren’t horrible; I can smile without being self-concious, but I could use them and my dentist has recommended it on a few occasions. But do I want braces at 39? Is there enough time left to make it worth it? When does the time come that you just say “Screw it. I’m not paying for anything with an expiry date that could possibly exceed the time I have left.”

But then I take my Gramma shopping and she buys yogourt, so maybe this never happens?

Today is November 11, which is Remembrance Day in Canada. Last year I wrote about my Grandpa who was a tailgunner in WWII. When I call my Gramma today we will talk about him and we both might cry a little a bit. (We totally will.)

I miss him more the older I get. It makes me sad for my children, who don’t have a relationship with their own grandfather. But, so it goes.

Some other things that made me think this week:

• On Friday I wrote about how my week hadn’t been a particularly good week. But no sooner than I hit “publish” I got some good news, and things turned around, at least halfway. They turned around enough that I could breathe again. So hey, if anyone needs a wish granted, let me know and I will take it to the WordPress gods. MAI BLOG IS A MAGICAL 8-BALL.
• School is in full swing for the kids and I have to say, we’re lucky here in regards to homework. My daughter in grade eight has a manageable amount, and less than an hour or two a few times a week. It’s appropriately challenging, so far no one has cried yet. She is normally finishes her math and French at school and this is a good thing because I doesn’t do the math or Francias, cuz I ams a English majer. I read a funny blog post about homework this week by Alice Bradley (Finslippy.) It was excellent because – like the best humour – it is true. I had my kids read it and they agreed wholeheartedly. Thank you, Alice.
• We’re in week two of Movember, and some twitter friends and I created emoticons to celebrate:

Are you participating, or supporting someone who is? It’s not too late. When it comes to facial hair, it’s NEVER TOO LATE.

• This coming week I am having lunch with some new friends, who I met despite that fact that adults don’t make friends as easily as 5 year-olds do. Ann at Ann’s Rants had me smiling all week thinking about what it would be like if we did. She is totally getting invited to my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.
• If this post seems disjointed, blame these:

Seven of them in a sitting will give you the shakes, heybutchaknowhat? I don’t care.

This week I also wrote at MamaPop.com about the crazy-but-lovable-wait-no-they’re-horrible Jackson family, and I also have an article at iVillage.ca about one of the worst parts of being a divorced parent.

Have a great week. Or at least one that doesn’t suck.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

I will cry real tears when this child stops spelling phonetically.

Life is awesome, amIright? I mean, what 8-year-old boy doesn’t want a Cowasocee dirt bike? Especially one that is fun and not at all scary? For doing cool jumps and stuff?

THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER.

Oh; but wait.

I swear it didn’t actually hit the floor. It was more like it kinda rolled out.

Tip Thursday: School Picture Day

Source: http://www.ellentv.com

School has been back in swing for weeks now, and in our region, the school photographer is making the rounds. Every year my children head off to school looking reasonably tidy, with me waving good-bye and knowing that this year?

This will be the year they hit the mark.

A few weeks later they’ll pull crisp white envelopes out of  their backpacks and proudly show me their school photos.

Photos I paid for.

And this year? This year will not be the year.

So in the interest of preventing our children from becoming a horrible Facebook meme, I’ve prepared some school photo tips for this Tip Thursday:

1. Write the date down as soon as you receive notice. I can’t tell you the number of times my son has been photographed in a skull and cross-bones bathing suit simply because I didn’t mark the date on the calendar. (Note: Three.)
2. Practice photo poses at home. Showing your child how to smile at a stranger may not keep him safe on the playground, but it’ll pay off come Christmas card season.
3. Send a tidy lunch. Picture Day is no time for marinara meatball surprise in the thermos, parents. Keep it dry and keep it tidy. Crumble free crackers or soft pieces of bread are a good bet. Actually, it may be best to “forget” to pack your child a lunch altogether that day. Offer a big breakfast instead. Bonus: gaunt, pale cheeks in photos are flattering to all body types.
4. I’m a firm believer of the “If you’re not the worst, then you’re pretty much almost sorta the best” principle. It works like this: if in a class of say, 25 kids, mine aren’t wearing the most unmatched patterns, have the most unkempt hair, or sport the most mustard on their t-shirts, we’re in the clear. No one’s gonna remember my son as being the standout if another kid in that year’s picture is missing one sleeve of his hoodie and he looks like he’s been crying because his lunch was stolen.
5. Before children assemble for pictures, sign in at school as snack-parent. Find your child’s locker, then move two lockers to the right. In that locker you will no doubt find school gear including a hoodie and a lunch box. Tear one sleeve off the hoodie, and steal the lunch box. Pro tip: hoodie sleeve can be used to wipe down fingerprints left at scene.
6. If you’re lucky and your school offers a green screen “choose your own background” option, request “pig pen” or “mud pit.” This will pre-emptively quell the “What the hell is on his face?” questions you’ll no doubt get from well-meaning relatives who clearly never had male children.

Finally, if – despite all your best efforts to starve, vandalize, and bribe your way to successful photos – cherish the ones you get. They’re a clear snapshot of who your child was that day. If that means he or she is wearing a superhero themed pajama top, mismatched bedroom sneakers, and a hat they took from the bowling alley lost-n-found, then so be it.

Unlike the hat, the photo won’t smell like beer and urinal cakes. 

Can you be successful and still make room for chocolate chip napping?

At the Marilyn Denis Show. I’m totally pinching her ass.

This past weekend I attended the “Blissdom Canada” conference in Toronto. To me, “bliss” is synonymous with chocolate chips and bed-naps, so at first I was hesitant. Could I learn something with a bag of Hershey’s semi-sweet morsels in my left hand, and a blanket clenched in my right? Can you be successful AND have chocolate stupor-induced naps?

But there were other reasons for my initial hesitation to attend. It wasn’t the thought of meeting new people, or of being alone in an unfamiliar situation. I’m an extrovert by nature and I’ve never had a problem voicing my opinion or asking for something if I needed it.

It wasn’t monetary, either; Blissdom tickets are a bargain for what you stand to gain. I was able to commute to the city since I live a reasonable distance from Toronto, and able to sleep in my own bed at night. Plus, I was looking forward to meeting people I knew only through a screen and was determined to bring my online (read: real) personality. The biggest compliment during the weekend was “You’re exactly like you are online!” (Even though a few times I’m not sure it was intended as one.)

This is me, folks; for better, or for worse, or for come-with-me-stranger-for-a-two-floors-elevator-ride-because-I’m-paranoid-terrible.

The truth is I knew I’d be hearing and learning from writing professionals this weekend. I’m of the mind that knowledge is power and if you have the knowledge, you had better use the power. It’s a waste otherwise. That would be like Superman being aware of all he could do, but instead of helping reverse time by spinning the planet backwards to save Lois Lane, instead he’d…oh, I don’t know… choose to eat a bag of chocolate chips and take a bed nap?

I came home from Blissdom with an interesting collection of swag and many new friends. I also returned with a collection of knowledge culled from a gathering of smart, creative, and impressive women (and five men.)

Once home, I tipped my bag out onto the kitchen table. I dumped out a jumble of business cards, contact sheets, and phone numbers scribbled on cocktail napkins. In amongst the papers (and some chocolate chips) I think I found a little bit of power.

This totally made showering worth it.

THREE DAYS IN A ROW.

With Jen Reynolds, Editor-in-Chief of Canadian Family Magazine.
Yep. Pinching her ass, too.

If it’s in “Comic Sans,” you know it’s serious

This is not a “parenting is so hard” post, because if you’re a parent, you already know that. I’m not whining about it either. What’s the alternative? I tried the “Let’s go for a walk in this here dark forest!” but they always find their way home.

But there is a difference between “hard” and “impossible.” Hard can be accomplished. It might take outside the box thinking and some blood, sweat, and tears, but hard can be done. I’ve done hard. I’ve got hard handled.

HARD IS MAI BITCH.

Impossible, though? I’m still working on that.

Perhaps I should be flattered that my children give me requests that are impossible to fulfil. Maybe it’s a sign of their confidence in my abilities. It’s as if they actually believe that I am able to do things like alter the time/space continuum, recharge dead batteries with a blink of my eyes, or make the last broken chocolate chip cookie in the bag restore itself to its former glory.

I don’t think my kids are more demanding than any others. Maybe some of the problems they bring to me seem harder to handle because this is a one-grown up household. As of yet I have not been able to be in two places at once, although I have tried to convince law enforcement officers of this in the past.

My son often requires that I dry laundry immediately, as though I could breathe fire. He gets attached to things with fervour, and if he’s into a particular piece of clothing, then good luck getting him to wear anything else. My rule is that you can wear an article of clothing only while it is clean and unable to propel itself on its own power. I had to institute this rule after our camping trip in the summer of ’10. He had worn a John Deere t-shirt and pair of jeans for a week straight by the time I noticed. (You let a lot of things go by the wayside when you’re camping, like hygiene and not drinking at 8am.) Finally his clothes gained enough steam (and microscopic organisms) to stage a mutiny and make a break for it, and they threw him, unclothed, out of the tent.

Recently my daughter was lamenting my failure as a mother because I have not provided her with an older sibling.

“Who’s gonna pave the way for me? Who’s there to break you down, and make things easier for me as second in line?”

I let her vent. I’ve learned that it’s for the best to just let her blow off some steam. Otherwise, she’ll write me a letter. One day, if I get her permission, I will share one with you. They’re quite dramatic. She’s also a very good writer, and will write complaint letters the likes of which would make even a jaded telephone company representative crack.

When she was nine I found an email in my outbox that she had sent to a large toy manufacturer complaining about their website and how it was not “user-friendly.” I knew she was pretty mad because the letter was written in three different typefaces, with specific passages in 36-point font. She used every colour in the Word template, and things were in bold and underlined.

Her most recent complaint is in specific regard to high school. She starts next year, and of course the worrying has commenced. What classes should she take? Will she see her friends? Is it scary? What kind of food do they have in the cafeteria? Will she be forced to, you know, like, learn stuff?

Going from a school of 200 students to being one of almost 2000 is going to take some adjustment. But why waste away your last year of being a big fish in a small pond worrying about something you have no control over? It’s going to be fine, I reassure her. But I can only do this for so long until my “nice mom” outer layer breaks and she has my gooey irritable centre to contend with.

She sighs. “If I had an older brother or sister, they would be able to tell me what to expect at high school!”

I reassure her that I can tell her what to expect, because I went to high school, too.

For a whole year.