Chandra Clarke

Award-winning entrepreneur. Author. Professional Optimist.

Childhood Defined

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Image credit: Pixabay

It’s tough being a parent in the 21st century. Not because there aren’t any places to go for advice on important issues – just the opposite, in fact. There must be hundreds of childrearing books out there, a couple dozen parenting magazines, and umpteen web sites.

Naturally, they all give conflicting advice; worse, some of them give advice without explaining it. For example, one source says it’s bad to give your child raw carrots under the age of three, with no reason given. You’re left to wonder if A) It’s because they could be a choking hazard, and if so, why only carrots and not, say, raw broccoli? B) Whether mature carrots — those three years or older — would be acceptable or C) Carrots are verboten simply because too many parents of the previous generation were driven mad by their youngster posing with a carrot all day and repeatedly saying “Ehhhhhhh, what’s up doc?”

Anyway, after spending many hours navigating the parenting media (okay so really it was only five minutes; I’m a parent and that’s all I had to spare) I’ve come up with a list of terms that might help you find your way too. Good luck!

DVD: For the modern parent with kids to entertain, a unit of time. Example: “Hi Joan, I’d love to talk but I’ve only got half a DVD left to finish the laundry.”

Debris field: The area around your child that contains half chewed biscuits, dumped bottles, water, toys, socks, juice etc. The size of the debris field grows exponentially every month, until it eventually takes in your entire house and backyard. And possibly the neighbour yards as well.

Bib: Theoretically, something your child wears to protect clothing. Realistically, it’s a spot to print cute phrases like “Daddy’s Number One Fan.” Given that children smear food into their hair, their ears, along the table, and on you, the small area of protection afforded by the bib is laughable, really.

Toys: Expensive items that parents are encouraged to buy in great quantities to educate their children. Children do learn from toys; indeed, when a parent steps on one, they learn all sorts of new words.

Soother: Also known as a dummy or a pacifier, it is designed to be something that babies suck on for comfort. Unfortunately this design also makes for a sleek, aerodynamic profile which allows even the youngest arm to throw it up to 10 feet away. The amount of dirt that clings to it is inversely proportional to the proximity of a sink for washing it.

Sleeper: A type of clothing that very young children are supposed to sleep in. Children don’t actually sleep, however, until they’re old enough to fit into regular pajamas.

Crawl: A form of motion that your baby will try to do hundreds of times without success. Anxious parents who want to encourage their baby’s development should simply look away for five seconds. Baby will suddenly be able to crawl at speeds approaching 50 kph.

Emergency Trip: At least once per year, all children are required to look ill enough to require an emergency trip to the doctor or hospital, at which time they miraculously recover about two minutes before being seen by medical staff. This is nature’s way of stimulating the onset of grey hair. See also: 2 a.m., weekends.

First word: A child’s first word will not be what you’ve tried to get him/her to say for a week. It will be something that you didn’t realize you were saying like: frackingcomputer! or stupididiotneighbour!

Kitchen sink: The one item you will not have to pack to take your young children across the street.

Childproof: A mythical state of being. To date, nothing has been conclusively proven to be childproof. However, many such items that claim to be are very adult proof.

Pthththtb: The rude raspberry noise that is one of the first sounds a baby learns how to make. This says more about the human condition than I ever could.

A Little Bit Pregnant

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Image credit: Pixabay

They say that there are certain experiences that can be life-altering. Travel is one example, and I can confirm that visiting another country can have a profound effect on your perspectives. Winning the lottery is another example, and just in case anyone in charge is listening, I would definitely like to volunteer to find out how life-altering this would be.

One of the biggest changes in your life, however, can come from something fairly routine: pregnancy. And while there are plenty of books out there detailing how things are meant to go, after four children, I can tell you that there are lots of things these publications don’t tell you as well.

So this week, I present: What They Don’t Tell You To Expect When You’re Expecting.

FIRST MONTH:

You discover you’re pregnant and happily report news to your partner. You are astonished to discover they can do cartwheels, handstands and back flips. It takes you three days to get their head out of the clouds.

No matter what pregnancy books you buy, two things can be said about all of them: 1) You will be completely horrified at the number of things that could go wrong and 2) Your baby will not have read any of the books and will be blissfully unaware what it is supposed to be doing.

You will feel smug about how easy this pregnancy thing seems to be for you.

A woman’s blood volume is said to double over the course of a pregnancy. This is just as well because this month, your doctor will take the first of approximately 38,475 blood samples. By the end of your pregnancy you will not be able to cross any international borders without being questioned by guards about a suspected heroine injection habit.

SECOND MONTH:

You will experience sudden waves of tiredness so intense that you will end up face down on your keyboar(*HDFOa..a

Just like the word “wedding” or “bridal,” affixing the word “baby” to anything results in a 3000% retail mark-up. This means that in certain stores a crib, change table and small dresser could cost you more than your car did.

At these same stores, you will realize that there are some expectant parents who regard their first born as something to accessorize. They will spend hours debating which shade of Ralph Lauren paint best matches the tones of the Classic Winnie the Pooh bedding set.

Your partner will develop a pathological inability to pass any rack of stuffed animals without stopping and loading up the shopping cart.

THIRD MONTH:

Morning sickness will hit you like a ton of bricks, without warning. One minute you’ll be springing out of bed and heading for the shower. The next minute you’ll be crawling back under the covers and moaning piteously.

Your partner, bless them, learns the exact moment after that in which its safe to offer a restorative cup of tea.

Everything involved in baby care these days is part of a ‘system.’ You cannot buy a plain old diaper pail; you must purchase a ‘diaper disposal system.’ Likewise there is the ‘bottle management system’ and the ‘baby cleaning system.’ See also the 3000% mark-up mentioned in the Second Month.

You and your partner will start looking at baby names by coming up with a long list of names you know you don’t want to use. These might include the names of your bosses, ex-girlfriends or boyfriends, or that irritating kid in grade five that used to throw erasers at you. Friends and relatives will helpfully come up with suggestions like: Potiphera.

FOURTH MONTH:

When you’re not feeling ill, you will have the appetite of three full-grown Belgian quarter horses.

Fortunately, your husband knows how to feed Belgian quarter horses. This is because he eats like one most of the time himself.

Your friends and relatives will begin having frequent ‘grandma moments.’ This is the pathological inability to pass by any baby product aisle without putting at least one, if not several items in the shopping cart.

You go shopping for maternity clothes, and actually believe that the pregnancy pillow they give you to fit under your shirt will be an accurate indicator of how you will look in a few months. Note to maternity wear stores: A watermelon would be more accurate.

The ultrasound appointment that always seems like a fun time on TV shows will actually involve:

1) Drinking and holding 32 ounces of water for approximately eight hours; only 45 minutes of this will be your actual appointment, the rest of this time will be spent in the waiting room.

2) The application of goop on your tummy that will be a temperature of approximately -32C. (Americans: this is as many as five football fields)

3) Assurances from the technician that this grey smudge over here is a knee and that dark grey smudge over there is a head, and that really, there is a baby in there. But you’ll go home with a cool picture.

FIFTH MONTH:

This is actually the best month of your pregnancy. You’re not too heavy yet, you’re having fun eating for two, and you’ve felt the first few baby movements, which seem really, really cute.

Your partner can feel the faint movements too. The number of stuffed animals per cartload increases exponentially.

Best of all however, is meeting people you haven’t seen in a while and watching their internal struggle. You just know, as their eyes shift from your face down to your tummy and back again, that they’re asking themselves: “Is she pregnant? Or has she just put on weight? Should I say something? Argh!”

SIXTH MONTH:

They don’t warn you that eating for two also means that you’re also doing other things twice as  much. You spend 23 out of every 24 hours from now on making trips to the bathroom.

You discover that you’re already a derelict parent in the eyes of your neighbour when you are scolded for not having decorated your nursery with a theme. Never mind that you thought you had, and that the theme was, well, “baby.” No, you were meant to choose something like “1930s Mickey Mouse” or “Cute Australian Marsupials” and go from there.

There will be at least one if not several news items reporting a health scare directly related to pregnancy, or something you’ve done during your pregnancy. Your partner will talk you down.

Baby movements are less cute now, as they develop the ability to do roundhouse kicks, karate chops, and full force hockey checks.

SEVENTH MONTH:

Since your pregnancy is now unmistakable, people develop the irritating habit of assuming your brain has shrunk or disappeared altogether. For example, if you visit a hardware store you’ve never been to before, and make the mistake of asking where you can find their Bosch 3/8-in. 5.5A variable speed drills, you will get the response: “Awwwww, are you wost? Now don’t you stress, I’ll have some cute little stockboy find that drilly willy for your hubby wubby.”

You will get the worst cold of your life at this point, if only because you can’t take a thing for it.

You will get the worst headache of your life at this point, if only because you can’t take a thing for it.

Your partner will come up with ways to help you with your cold and your headache, and develop excellent shoulder massage technique.

You will have memorized everything you have read on baby care, which will be absolutely useless when baby arrives, as baby hasn’t read these books either.

EIGHTH MONTH:

You learn the names and distinguishing characteristics of every horrible disorder known to affect a woman’s nether bits. This is because 1) Your ob/gyn’s preferred method of decorating is to have graphic, full colour posters of said disorders in every waiting and exam room. 2) You have several hours to read them.

If you should mention to someone that you’re going to do the dishes, this will be attributed to the ‘nesting instinct’ simply because you happen to be pregnant. It will not matter that the only reason you’re doing the dishes is because you haven’t seen the kitchen sink in three weeks.

If your partner decides to do the dishes, they will be told they are having sympathy nesting instincts.

Everyone you know, and several people you don’t care to know, will feel compelled to share their labour horror story with you. Whether or not they have actually been through labour personally will be irrelevant.

NINTH MONTH:

You will acquire a condition known as “hobbit feet.” This is where your feet swell to two or three times their usual size; it is extremely uncomfortable. Presumably this is to let a pregnant woman know where her feet are, since she hasn’t seen them in three months.

You will need a block and tackle set just to get out of bed in the morning.

At some point, you will be in the obstetrician’s office, wearing nothing but a giant paper napkin (given to you for the sake of preserving what little dignity you can in an ob/gyn’s office) while waiting for your latest exam. You’ll be suffering from stretch marks, water retention, weight gain, and hobbit feet. Naturally, the only magazine for you to read will be a copy of People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People issue. It is permissible to allow the nesting instinct to kick in, and shred the magazine.

Your partner will not get any sleep all this month as they are on permalert for the three a.m. elbow in the ribs to tell them it’s time.

Finally, everyone will forget your first name. You are greeted instead with either “Are you still pregnant?!” or “Haven’t you had that baby yet?”

Enjoy!

I, Roomba

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For the past couple of years now, I’ve been saving two-dollar coins, carefully tucking them away in a wee piggy bank instead of using them to buy my weekly cafe mocha at Tim Horton’s. Those of you familiar with Tim Horton’s coffee know the extent of my sacrifice. For those of you who aren’t, think of your favourite caffeinated beverage and imagine what it would be like if it were ten times tastier. Think whipped cream. Think chocolate sprinkles. Right, now you all understand my pain.

I was saving for something that I figured I couldn’t justify as a household budget expense, but that I really wanted. And last week, I finally had enough to buy it.

A robot.

Not one of those Robosapiens, or the cute little Aibo, and sadly, not the big Asimo of the Honda commercials. Nevertheless, something very cool: A robot vacuum.

There, I’ve admitted it. I am a geek. Other people save up for new bikes, or big screen TVs. For me, this was like having a Ferrari show up at my door. Better, actually, because a Ferrari would have screamed “mid-life crisis!” to the neighbours. The only statement my robotic vacuum makes to the neighbours is that I have a cleaning crisis. Okay, it says that I’m a geek with a cleaning crisis.

You see, nature may abhor a vacuum, but I’m rather partial to clean floors. I also have kids. This means that A) It’s impossible to keep the floor clean — the Cheerios dispersion rate alone defies measurement; and B) The floor must be kept clean, because toddlers don’t differentiate between dropped Cheerios, marbles, onion skins, grocery lists, or dirt tracked in from the garden. Combine this with the fact that children have this rather inconsiderate habit of requiring food, diaper changes, and lots of playtime while you’re trying to do frivolous things like run a business … well, you’ve all been there. Or you are there, and really want to leave.

Dreaming of my robotic vacuum cleaner has kept me going through many a midnight tidy-up session. Much like my washing machine means I don’t have to take the clothes down to the river and pound them with a rock, I looked forward to a time when the vacuum canister wasn’t getting caught in door jambs, smashing into the back of my ankles, or falling down the stairs. Right, so maybe what I should have purchased was the book Vacuuming for Dummies.

Never mind. What’s important is that it arrived last week. A circular machine about the size of a large pizza, it’s not a very bright little ‘bot. It starts in the centre of the room and works its way out, gently bumping into things and turning away – just like me first thing in the morning before I’ve had my coffee. If it strays too close to the stairs, little sensors warn it of impending danger and it backs away – sadly, not just like me in the morning. Prior to my coffee, all *my* sensors do is throw an “ILLEGAL OPERATION: WINDOWS WILL REBOOT NOW” error and down the stairs I go.

When it comes to dirt though, this little robot is an Einstein. Around and around it goes, sucking up crushed Doritos, crayon crumbs, and the large handful of pine needles my smallest son thought was fascinating until they poked his palm. It hoovers up the dog hair left by our last canine visitor, and it attacks our doormat again and again. Did you know our mat actually says WELCOME and not WE C M ?

I must confess my productivity hasn’t increased yet — I’m too busy following the thing around the house, cheering it on as it successfully clambers over the extension cord strip and scoots under my bed to suck up things that neither broom nor regular vacuum have been able to touch. I’m so enthused, I have seriously considered making it a bumper sticker that says: DUSTBUNNIES FEAR ME.

Once the novelty wears off though, I’ll be able to do any number of things while it cleans the floors. I can spend more time with my kids. I might have a shot at finding my kitchen sink under all those dishes. I might even be able to file my column more than a few hours before deadline.

Well, maybe not. It’s not a miracle technology, after all.

Image by Eduard Reisenhauer from Pixabay

Married (And Travelling) With Children

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Erma Bombeck once said that when you look like your passport photo, it’s time to come home. It’s good advice, but if I’d followed it, I think I’d have done a u-turn about an hour into our first major trip.

You see, we made the trek from our home in Canada to the south coast of England. And I did it with a toddler in tow.

Don’t get me wrong: my son behaved wonderfully. It’s just that he’s was a one-year-old.

It started out with a train ride to the airport. First, we had to reassure him that the huge metal thing that just came thundering into the station was not as scary as it seemed. Then came the baggage and baby ballet – a complicated dance which involved A) whisking our child out of the stroller B) folding the stroller C) swearing and hopping up and down because the stroller had mashed a hand D) grabbing the 10 kg bag of our clothes and toiletries, the 20 kg bag of laptops, my purse, the stroller, and the 450 kg bag which contained my son’s toys, diapers, food, clothes and books and then E) heaving them all onto the train while holding our toddler and F) whimpering our way to our seats, having destroyed most of our back muscles.

Next came the train ride, which was to take about three hours. This went something like:

ME: Okay, let’s get out the shape sorter.
HIM: Ga! [Sort, sort, sort, FLING!]
ME: Okay, how about the stacking ring?
HIM: Ya! [Stack, stack, stack, FLING!]
ME: Right. Okay, how about I read you this book?
HIM: Again!
HIM: Again!
HIM: Again!
HIM: Again!
HIM: [FLING!]
ME: Okay, right then what about this?
HIM: [FLING!]
ME: And this?
HIM: [FLING!]
ME: Dear, how much further?
HUBBY: Oh, I’d say we’ve got about another two hours and fifty minutes.

This is not to say my husband didn’t do his fair share. He took our son for frequent walks up and down the carriage, a task from which he has yet to recover. This is because our son currently walks on his own with help, and that means my husband had to bend at awkward angle to hold wee little hands, trying to maintain his balance as the train swayed over track that hasn’t been repaired in twenty years. I’m still amazed they didn’t end up in the laps of the passengers in row four.

From the train we had to get to the subway. Unfortunately, we arrived in Toronto in late afternoon; thousands of cubicle workers were making their daily dash to the commuter trains. To say it was difficult to get three people, four bags and a stroller through these crowds would be an understatement. I now sympathize with those salmon that have to swim upstream.

From the subway (heave, push, shove) to the bus (struggle, grunt, wheeze) and at last, the airport. Here, having arrived the prescribed two hours before boarding, it took … five minutes to get through security. Please note there are exactly zero things for a one-year-old to do in an airport lounge. We resorted to walking him around the lounge to try to wear him out (“please sleep on the plane, please sleep on the plane…”). Thirty circuits later, we were exhausted; he was just getting warmed up.

And finally, the flight. Apart from the bad food, poor air quality, tiny seats and zero leg room, things were great. The best part was when the pilots misjudged the timing of turbulence. Just as we were in desperate need of a diaper change, they told everyone to buckle up. So we waited… and waited… and nothing happened. Off came the lights, and we dashed to the restroom. And *that’s* when the turbulence hit. For those of you eating lunch just now, I won’t describe what happened.

Only one thing spoiled our joy when we finally arrived at our destination: The thought that we’d have to it all again to get home. So I have just one thing to say to the scientific community:

Will you *please* hurry up and invent those transporter beams?