PRO TIP: Don't try to wipe my kid's face

Dear Random Lady Who Tried To Wipe F's Face Today,

Wow! What a great day out there, today. I'm glad that you decided to spend your afternoon soaking up some of the Haligonian beauty and enjoying the warm weather. We were really happy to get outside, too.

I'm sorry that you seemed to think I wasn't doing an adequate job of keeping F's face clean while we were enjoying our ice cream cones on the sidewalk. What you obviously don't know is that ice cream tastes infinitely better when you have it smeared all over your face. You also clearly missed the pile of chocolate ice cream-stained napkins from the thirty times I'd already wiped his face. It's hot. Ice cream melts. Perhaps you can see how that was an uphill battle.

I am not sorry that I asked you to please not touch my child. I don't know what planet you live on, but I live in a world where you don't lay a finger on another human being without asking their permission. I also live in a world where people have this crazy thing called "personal boundaries", and when you walked up to us at the table and reached across with a napkin to wipe my kid's face, you're lucky I didn't throw my ice cream cone at you. Of course, that would have been a waste of a perfectly good ice cream.

I know that you (probably?) meant well and that you (hopefully?) meant no harm, but get your shit together, lady. Would you like it if I stood up and fixed your hair? Probably not. 

I hope you remembered your sunscreen and that the next mother of the kid whose face you try to wipe is as patient as I was. If not, you kind of deserve to get smacked.

Sincerely,

Ashley

Little Change

Although I wasn't totally sure we would, Little, F and I survived our three-week sleepover and I'm confident in saying that none of us were too much worse for the wear. It was a long three weeks at best, but between hiccups and tears I think we had a pretty great time. But something strange happened - F really changed.

Even when F's sperm donor father was in the picture, it was usually just F and I. Even when we lived at Mom and Dad's, it was F and I. Just the two of us and our own whacky, little dynamic. You probably didn't know this, but F and I can be home for hours at a time and not even notice one and other. We can also spend hours snuggling and so focused on one and other that we miss everything around us. It's pretty special - and while our dynamic is unique, I think it's safe to say most parents share a similar bond with their kids. They're the centre of our universe while simultaneously being an enormous pain in our asses. Amazing, no?

Needless to say, the addition of Little to our routine was a real switcheroo.

And it was hard. On all of us.

Because he wanted any attention at all, F misbehaved to make sure he got it. Because he was lonesome, Little often came into the middle of the few stolen moments F and I tried to share. Because I work 40 hours a week in an office, plus write my Frenzied Fashionista posts, plus I work out every evening, plus I try to have a social life and see Mr. Hockey Coach, I found myself getting short with both boys and my patience was pretty thin at the end.

But then, F just changed. His temperament was different - he listened better. He got himself ready for bed. He asked to go to bed at a reasonable hour. He ate his dinner at the table, put his plate in the sink and he was more helpful than ever. I said thank you more, I was angry and frustrated less... wait, did I change?

The differences between Little and F were stark, and I found myself appreciating some of F's quirks more than ever before. Perhaps my appreciation sparked the change. But more on that later. I've got one last night of child-free bliss to thoroughly enjoy...

an imperfect saturdate

I am not a perfect parent.

Actually, at least half of the time, I don't even think I'm a "good" parent. It's not for lack of want or effort, but I'm often tired and my tiredness translates to a short temper, a sharp tongue and little to no desire to go to the park and play when the day comes to an end. And weekends just don't seem to last long enough.

Last night, I let F watch a movie while we snuggled in bed together. When I awoke at 6 am this morning, I was immediately frustrated. It's a Saturday, and I just wanted to sleep in. So I tried to fall back asleep. And I couldn't. Then F woke up. Then there was just no getting back to sleep. So I started thinking about the million and one things I wanted to do today but about halfway through the list I realized that the day was early and I was already being a shitty parent. Why? Because not a single thing I was planning to do involved F. And that's pretty shitty.

So I plopped my laptop down on the bed and I turned on Frozen. And then, I went to the kitchen and made pancakes. And then I took those pancakes, dropped 'em on plates and took them to bed where I watched the entirety of Frozen with F as we ate our chocolate chip pancakes and drank chocolate milk and just enjoyed him. And then we went to Starbucks to meet a friend before walking to a playground for an hour.

And then we walked home, ate macaroni and cheese (his request), and we went to the Frog Pond for a walk. And then we ate popcorn for supper because it's a Saturday. Even though the day was pretty great, F had two timeouts and Mama has a headache now.

Absolutely nothing runs smoothly with F. He's a great little boy but he's got too much of his mother in him. We butt heads. He's stubborn and testy at the best of times, and positively stabby when things don't go his way. But he's also sweet and sensitive and intelligent, and each day is a lesson in patience for both of us. We argued at the park about whether it was time to go. I negotiated with him at the playground when the time had come to leave. It's never easy, but it's wonderful.

And that's parenting, isn't it? 

It's not about perfect outings and the cleanest home, having the most obedient child or a car without a layer of grime and Cheerios. It's about the hiccups. The arguments. The tears and the frustration and the love and the pride that makes your heart feel like it could burst. And of course, chocolate chip pancakes on Saturday mornings.