Goin' For The Gold

Spring is in the air. I know this because, quite literally, my baby has been springing into the air.

I laid him down for his usual afternoon nap yesterday with his Poochie (newly found and laundered), his stinky blanket (which smells like BOY no matter how laundered it gets) and turned on his fan. He looked up at me, like a wee angel with sleepy eyes. I brushed his forehead and left the room. 

Then, feeling sleepy myself (as happens more often than working moms would care to know), I laid down for a wee siesta, too.  

Soon I was in Paris, sitting outside sipping an espresso. I had on a beautiful pair of black ballet flats, skinny jeans and a black and white striped top. I also had hair to my waist that had those bouncy curls in it that make women want to throw rocks at your face for achieving such perfection at 9am.  I was alone in this café. Blissfully alone. No one touching me, no one drowning me in bodily secretions (with the viscosity of your choice). I could smell the freedom, taste the peace, see the wind as it gently brushed my arm. 

Dang it. That wasn't wind. That was Kiddo #2 gently brushing my arm. Granted, he didn't run in screaming, or bawling. He didn't jump onto the bed and beat me on the head with his wooden train, or chuck his slobbered-on Poochie at my mouth. He didn't have to; he had me at the gentle brush of his wee hand on my Parisian dream.

I have a feeling I'm not in Paris anymore, Toto.

I fluttered an eyelid, "How are you here?"  He smiled. 

He said, "Heeeey."  

I, still with one eyelid shut, said, "Heeeey. How did you get out of bed?"

He laughed.

I sat up (still with one eye closed in defiance) and made Witch's Fingers, aka Tickle Fingers, which are both kinda like a slo-mo version of the Itsy-Bitsy Spider.  He squealed with delight.

"Show-a-mama how you got out of bed you stinky boy!" and I chased him down the hallway, laughing all the way. 

How I Know My Child Will Be A Gold Medal Winner In The 2028 Olympics

1) Using his mini-(hockey) stick, he pole vaulted back into his bed.

2) He then dug a wee chalk bag out of his Lycra pants (when did I get those for him?) and did the following move to "Show-a-mama" how he got out:

How To Bust Out Of a Pack and Play in 4 Easy Steps

3) After that impressive display (the Russian judge gave him an 9.5 if you can believe THAT!), Kiddo #2 then showed me how he can leap over baby gates with a single bound.

Below is an artist's rendering of the event--
the only difference being his hula hoop wasn't gold.
It was red. 

But the pièce de résistance was when he decided to pick up Poochie using only his foot. 

While lying on the ground. 

On his stomach. 

And the dog was in front of him. 

So, with his new found freedom comes great responsibility-- for me. "Boo that." I thought to myself and went to pick up Kiddo #1 from school.  

On the way home, we passed by some picketing people. That is to say there were several people gathered in front of the local Children's Aid Society, picketing how their rights as parents have been infringed. 

Hate all you want, that's as open minded I can be about it-- if you have had been visited by Children's Aid to the point where your rights have been revoked, severed or otherwise tampered with, it seems unlikely that they did that without cause, in my books.  

"What do we want? Trees. When do we want them?
In an environmentally responsible amount of time."

Just as we drove by, one of the infringed started yelling through a mega phone. I pretended not to notice because, well, frankly, it's not like they were a bunch of Loraxes and David Suzuki selling environmental responsibility and change. That, I feel like I could pitch to my child. But explaining that these people are picketing because they were such crap parents that they had their kids taken from them, and now they suddenly care enough to picket a government agency to get them back is not for me. 

Which is, of course, precisely why she said, "Momma, why are they yelling like that?"

I said: Well. (Regular pause) ... (Dramatic pause) ... (Pregnant pause) 

Kiddo #1: Momma?

I said: Well, I had to think. And. Well, those people have signs and are yelling because they are feeling like they are being treated unfairly by people that are the bosses of them.

I'm feeling pretty smug about that response, I'm not gonna lie. It took a lot of pausing to figure out how to say something that was true but that also didn't tell the whole story and take away her innocence.  Plus, I don't want to give her the idea that peaceful protest is wrong. And I don't want to give her the idea that standing up for yourself is wrong. But, at the same time, I'm also sitting here judging these people pretty severely as "Wrong," which I am also not wishing to get into with her.  I'm not feeling very good about that dialogue in my head either. Gah!

Why do people have kids again? 

Anyway, there was another pause while I relived my wickedly awesome response (Yeah me!!), and contemplated coming up with another fantastic thing to say when I realised that was it. That's all I have. 

So I followed-up with a very pathetic and mostly lame: "And I can't think of any other way to say that."  

Then there was a pause, this time from Kiddo #1, and she said, "Momma, is there a way to say it in French?" 

Sigh. 

Yes. 

There's a way. 

And that would technically be another way to say all that, and perhaps it might make the deliberately vague words seem somehow clearer to my baby four-year old. But I hope not. I translate the words but I could tell she still didn't quite get it. I feel shameful.

So, I did what every good parent does when asked something that you don't want to answer. I looked out the window and said, "Honey! Look at that teeny tiny puppy!" and then made her hunt all over to try and see the puppy that didn't exist.  "Oh Kiddo #1! It's so cute! Do you see the pretty pink bow? Oh and the bright blue toe nails? No, on the left. I mean the right. Behind that bush. Or car. That's the cutest little doggie I've ever seen!"  

Distraction, thy name is Puppy. 

We went home. Kiddo #2 flipped himself out of his carseat (which was suspended upside down in a giant vat of water, if you must know) and went inside. Kiddo #1, still dreaming of the puppy I'd described and she "missed" seeing, chattered non-stop as she crossed the threshold.  

And, like magic, before I could summon the courage to care whether Snooki is having a baby or not (and also, what would she name it? Pookums?), the kids had eaten, played and were in bed.

I sit down at the computer and contemplate tweeting, pinning and facebooking when I hear the familiar thump of my son sticking a landing and the crowd going wild. 

It's gonna be another golden night.  Which, in case you're wondering, goes something like, "Regarde! Il y a un petit chiot derrière l'auto! Oooh!"