Road Biking Woes

I have always been a reluctant exerciser.  But something about living through two pregnancies (and the aftermath) has nudged me into a new phase of gratefulness.  Nowadays, finding the time and having the ability to exercise is a privilege I am eternally thankful for.   It has yet to loose its appeal…

As such, when Mia was a year old, instead of going for a 3^rd child I took a different approach; I bought myself a road bike.

I can’t tell you how much I love the opportunity to go for a “bike around the block” after the kids go to bed.  When you live up in the sticks like us, “around the block” is a good 20km ride.  Biking past rolling farm fields and grazing cows with the never-ending sky above and the setting sun casting a romantic glow on the earth below, it is an idyllic way to get some exercise.

I was so rapt with my new bike that I even agreed to participate in the hospital fundraiser – the Wasaga Beach duathlon.   The first time I participated I was a novice.  I came some dreadful place that had 3 numbers in it and Toby had to cover his eyes when he saw my abysmal placing.  By the second year I had upgraded to toe clips and had started passing the grazing cows with much more oomph so I expected more from myself.

My-slightly-more-competitive-and-incredibly-athletic-but-completely-unhelpful-colleague kindly pointed out to me with much wonder and amazement that I had managed to finish the bike portion of the duathlon with the EXACT SAME TIME as the year before.  That is quite the feat.  And much as I tried to rationalize it in my head (must have been the shoe changing and the wind)… I was deflated.

THIS year, now that I am in my THIRD year of road biking, I decided that I was going to actually APPLY myself and try NOT to get the EXACT same time as last year.   I have purchased a “thing” that records my speed, time and distance.  I have a few set routes and I not only record my stats, I actually CHALLENGE myself to improve and go faster each time.  Somewhere in my brain I have the magic speed of “30km/hr” as a good target to strive for…

Today I set out on one of my more regular routes.  Right away I could feel something was different.  I felt invigorated.  I FLEW up the first few hills and careened down the slopes with more speed than I have ever felt on my bike.  When I reached the flat portion I had myself in highest gear and yet my legs were going hard – my speed was over 35km/hr and it was totally flat.  Even the cows, I kid you not, looked up with a sense of awe as I flew past them.

I’m going to be honest with you, now, and share with you the thoughts that ACTUALLY went through my head today as I whizzed down the abandoned back roads of Rob Roy today.

1.  I might ACTUALLY have a secret talent for biking.  All this time (36 years to be exact) I have been a mediocre athlete at EVERYTHING (except for basketball at which I am appalling).  But maybe just MAYBE I have found my calling.

2.  It must be my big thighs.  I’m like Clara Hughes.  If my parents had only monopolized on my big thighs and started me at road biking when I was younger maybe I COULD have made it to the Olympics…

3.  I have a cousin, Scott, who is a phenomenal biker.  (He even won the Centruion50 the other year.) I started rethinking my entire genetic gene pool.  Maybe we DO share some of the same athletic genes.  I should do the Centurion this year.

4.  I think I might need to get a faster bike.  I’m literally in my highest gear and this is easy.  If I had a really EXPENSIVE road bike (like the one the dude in the store tried to up sell me to) it would probably have higher resistance levels for athletes like me and then I’d be able to go faster.  Yup, the only thing holding me back right now is just the fact that I have but an entry-level bike…

It was at this time that I had to break from these delightful thoughts and stop as I had reached the turnaround part in my bike route.  I won’t lie to you - I really WANTED to keep going, but I had to stick to the prescribed route so that I could see by just how much I had obliterated my previous time.

And so I turned around.

There’s an Irish Proverb out there that goes something to the effect of “May the wind be always on your back”.

I get that now.

The wind, on the way home, was most definitely NOT always on my back.  In fact, it was blowing so hard in my face that the first thing I had to do was downshift.  Twice.  I then had to avert my eyes from the dust and debris that was being violently FLUNG into it. 

I huffed.

I puffed.

I pedaled as hard and as fast as my Clara Hughes thighs would take me, but I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, break 20km/hr.

At one point I actually had to WALK up a hill.  In my fancy clip-in-I'm-a-real-road-biker-I-know-what-I'm-doing-shoes.

OH, my poor ego.  

I arrived home deflated and dejected and about 10 minutes longer than it had taken me to do the exact same route two weeks prior.  All super-biking-power-abilities had fast been obliterated from my brain.   As I walked in the door to an absolutely quiet house (all 2 kids and 1 husband were fast asleep) I soaked up the blissfully tranquility.  I still had a few minutes to myself before putting my mommy hat back on…I guess in the end it’s OK not to be a fantastic athlete.  I may never improve on my time at the Wasaga Beach Duathlon.  My thighs may never be as powerful as Clara Hughes and Scott and I may never bond over our first place finish at the Centurion, but I can tell you one thing…I definitely think my decision to buy a road bike was a good one…

A Special Friendship

There are lots of things to feel guilty for when you’re a mother: not spending enough time with your kids, not doing as thorough a job at work as you’d like, not taking time to nurture your friendships, not devoting enough undivided attention to your spouse…such is life when you’re a mom I guess.

A constant source of guilt for me these past few years is that of Toby’s long bus ride.  Because we live “in the red zone” Toby has a 1 hour bus ride to and from school.  (Sometimes longer in the winter!) When I first heard this I decided on the spot that I would drive him in to school every day.  He has never once had to take the bus twice in one day.   After a few weeks of JK, hearing his sad lamentations about his long bus ride, and often having to carry my sleeping boy off the bus some evenings, I made it my mission to also try to pick him up on Tuesdays and Fridays.  It mitigated the problem somewhat but greatly complicated my own life and provided the potential for extreme guilt when I was unexpectedly delayed at work on a precious Tuesday or a Friday.

This year, mature enough not to sleep on the bus anymore, yet having developed the logistical skills to compound my guilt, he found other problems with the bus ride – too hot, too cold, too boring, too long.  Our only attempt at an after school playdate this year failed miserably after his BFF announced that he bus ride was TOO LONG and he was never coming over again.

But we must weather the storm if we want to see the rainbows.

As a guilt-ridden mother I heard only the pathetic lamentations.  It took me a while to pick up on the hints that Toby was also giving me about something good that was emerging from his arduous bus rides. 

My first hint came at Christmas time when Toby looked disgustedly at all the Christmas gift cards I had purchased  – nanny, teacher, day care worker, doctor etc.

“Um…Mommy…AREN’T you FORGETTING someone???”

Oh, shit, please, NO…There was NO WAY I was forgetting someone; I had wrecked my brains making sure I had everyone covered.

“What about PAUL…” he left the sentence hanging awaiting that joyful moment when I realized how right he was to have pointed out my gross misjudgement in overlooking…PAUL…the mysterious man I had never even heard of.

Every bad thought in the world went through my head as I tentatively asked who in the world this PAUL was…??

“Um…my BUS DRIVER, obviously!!”

(Yes, go ahead and read it that way - when correcting his mother, my 6 year old speaks like a teenager)

I was more prepared  the second time around when this exact same conversation happened just before Valentines day and I had mistakenly put aside the biggest Valentine for Mrs Shields and ONCE AGAIN overlooked poor Paul.

 Paul – the 65 year old (at least) dude who drives Toby home every day and gruffly waves to me from beneath his ball cap when I wait to greet Toby from the bus – was the (joyful?) recipient of the lone SPECIAL valentine that comes in the Walmart 28 pack of Valentines.  It was also the only card that Toby wrote a special message on.

“Thank you, Paul

Love,

Toby”

Coming from him, it was indeed special.  And so I questioned him a bit about it.  I told him that it was a very nice card he had made for Paul and asked him what he was thinking him for.

“For talking to me.”  was his quiet answer.

As it turns out there’s a rule on Toby’s bus that you can’t talk to the bus driver.  But every day after the last kid is dropped off and it’s just Toby and Paul left on the bus Paul will say to Toby, “Ok, Toby, come on down and talk to me” and the two of them will “chat” for the rest of the ride home.  Toby informed me that his talks with Paul on the bus are sometimes his favourite times of the day.

I asked him what they talked about.

“Oh you know, Mom…the usual stuff.”

I most certainly do NOT know what the usual conversation topics are when an elderly bus driver to talks to a young chatterbox kindergarten student. 

“Well…usually Paul will tell me about the weather.  And I tell him just little stuff.  Like how our house is laid out and how far my bedroom is from you guys.  And how I have to walk down the hall and up the stairs to get to you.  Or about the score in the hockey game last night.”

I was starting to get the gist of it…what Toby had found on his long bus rides home was the simplicity of an easy friendship.  In the past 2 years I had done nothing more that wave from our porch to the old man in the driver’s seat, not realizing the special place he has in Toby’s heart or the important role he has had in easing one of my major mommy anxieties.

And so it came as no surprise to me (but the irony was not lost on me either) that Toby’s immediate reaction to the news of our impending move into town was that of sadness, “Aw, REALLY?  Mom…you know what I’m going to miss the MOST?  My bus ride…”

As the end of Toby’s final year in kindergarten comes to a close I have a lot to be thankful for and a lot of presents to buy.  But this time I am well prepared and will definitely NOT be leaving Paul out.  In fact, I know he’ll be getting an extra special Thank you card…from both of us, this time.

An Unreliable Service Report

A TERRIBLE thing happened in our house last night.

...Wait for it…the tooth fairy forgot to come.

I know, I know…you’re probably thinking the same thing I was thinking when I found out; it’s because we live on the mountain.  Cell service is sketchy, internet service is slow, and apparently all correspondence between the Tooth Fairy and 6 year olds who lose their teeth at school is also imprecise.

I have to just clarify one very important point, though, before you jump to conclusions - this was NOT Toby’s first lost tooth.  The tooth fairy DOES, in fact, know where we live, and she DID come through TRIUMPHANTLY with the first tooth, offering a congratulatory note AND a whole TWONIE to the monetary-naïve child.  I was expecting nothing more than a loonie or a quarter on this second time around, but NONE of us were anticipating a blank slate…

I am partially relieved and partially saddened to report that the other parents at soccer have informed us this morning that this is NOT the first time the tooth fairy has overlooked a newly-toothless child.  Whereas Santa NEVER leaves a child unnoticed on Christmas Eve, according to the parents of the Skye Blue 5/6 Collingwood Soccer Club team, this has happened before and quite possibly MAY happen again.  Interestingly, there is also apparently an exponential increase in the tooth fairy’s forgetfulness that is proportionate to the number of children in the family.  With this being only the 2^nd tooth of our first child it means only one thing; Mia is screwed.

There are lots of hypotheses as to the whereabouts of said Tooth Fairy last night.  I, personally, am blaming it on the 2014 FIFA World Cup of Soccer.  I, being the good little mother that I am, went to bed on time whereas my husband stayed up WAY past his bedtime to catch up on all of the PVR’d games of the day.   I DO remember saying to him, SOMETHING to the effect of, “DON’T stay up too late or you MAY have to contend with the Tooth Fairy in the middle of the night.”

My advice was not heeded.

I was, quite smugly, glad that it was to Rob’s side of the bed that our tragically tearful 6 year old lamented his miserly-woes at the early hour of 6:45 this morning.  Toby usually sleeps in until 8am but had awoken EARLY this Saturday morning to see what the Tooth fairy had left him.

The mystery may never be completely solved but one thing is certain : no matter HOW exciting the PVR’d soccer games are tonight, the tooth fairy WILL appear to collect tooth #2.  And, as Toby has been reassured by ALL of the Collingwood soccer moms AND both sets of grandmothers, he is SURE to receive a HIGHER sum of money as a result of her forgetfulness….so much for it only being a loonie this time…

Marriage Woes

The title of this blog post is Marriage Woes -- Toby’s – not mine.  What 6 year old has MARRIAGE woes?  As it turns out, my serious little 6 year old does.  Driving him to school yesterday we were riding along in silence, listening to the radio when out of the blue Toby piped up with his confession,

“Well, Mommy, I’ve decided who I’m going to marry.” He said matter-of-factly.

“Oh?” I asked noting his determined crossed-arm stance in the back seat.

“I’m just gonna have to go with Sienna T.  She’s my second choice.”

That single statement contained a surprising amount of information in it.  It also begged a number of different questions.  I stammered a bit, not knowing where to start.

“OK…hmm…” I said.  “So who was your first choice?”

A quiet despondent voice answered in barely a whisper.

“Erin.”

After a pause came the qualification, “And SHE doesn’t want to marry ME.”

It was so ludicrously irrational yet simultaneously heartbreaking that I didn’t really know which angle to tackle it from.  I started in on a little speech on the importance of NOT settling but quickly changed gears to a more realistic take on the matter.

“Toby, you’re not even ALLOWED to get married for YEARS and YEARS.  By the time you actually WANT to get married you will probably have found someone you don’t even know yet.  Look at me and daddy-  we didn’t meet each other until later on in our 20s. “

His jaw hit the floor.  (He thinks I’m ancient.)

Besides, you change your mind all the time.  Right now your first choice is Erin but do you know that 2 years ago you wanted to marry Connor?

“WHAT!?!?!?!?!” came the shocked response from the back seat. “That’s CRAZY!!!”

Now I was the one who was heartbroken.  All of my hard work to raise my kid thinking same sex marriage was equal to the other kind and already a few years at school had beaten it out of him. Besides, we just love Connor and his family– it seemed like a good idea to me, too at the time :)

Toby said just what I thought he would say next, “Mommy, YUCK,  I do NOT want to marry Connor anymore.”

“But why?”  I pressed the used.

“BECAUSE.” He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “if I married Connor we wouldn’t be able to have babies and I REALLY want to have babies.”

I was grateful that it was at least a practical opposition as I informed him that he could adopt a baby.  He thought about this for a bit before flooring me with the BIG one,

“Mommy…” he said pensively, “I just don’t get it.  How do two guys DO it when they get married?”

I had no one to blame but myself.  I was starting to sweat.  My mouth was dry.  My heart rate shot up to 200.  Was this it?  Was THIS the day we were going to have THE big talk?  Was I really going to have to explain sex AND homosexual sex all together in the same conversation when I had only 2 blocks to go before we got to school?

In a last ditch escape attempt I meekly clarified what exactly he meant by “do it”.

“You know, like, when they get married?  What do they do?  Does one of them wear a DRESS?  And how do they decide which has to wear the dress?”

OH THANK GOD.  I suddenly got where he was coming from - he was trying to picture him and joe BFF Connor duking it out at the alter over which one of them had to wear the dress...

“Suits!!! They both wear suits, Toby.”

We pulled into school and I regained enough composure to put my Mommy hat back on.  I told him that things would look very differently down the road.  And that you didn’t have control over who you fall in love with and as he gets older he may fall in love with a woman OR a man; he would just have to wait and see.  I reminded him that it’s a wonderful thing that happens  in whatever way it unfolds and that it can lead you to places you never even imagined….

“Like to where, Mommy?” He asked as I put the car in park.

“Like to you, Toby…”

 He didn’t get if, of course. But I did.  Everything that means anything has led me to him and Mia.  I left him at school that day feeling heartbroken for his Erin woes, but smugly satisfied that I had surpassed that awful stage in life where you constantly worry about who or IF you’re going to find someone.  If only I had had a crystal ball those times in high school and university when I worried so much that I wasn’t making the right choice, or I wasn’t going to find “Mr. Right”.  One glimpse at my earnest little boy in the backseat would have reminded me that life is good and the journey has meaning and that all will be right in the end….

Toby and Connor at the soccer carnival last year -- Dressed as (Saber toothed) Tigers, of course...

Guided Imagery Exercises

I have spent the past few days attending a Pediatric Palliative Care Conference, learning both the wonderful and the horrific.  One of the most interesting skills I was taught was that of guided imagery, where you talk a child through an uncomfortable episode or procedure by asking them to close their eyes and go to their happy place, and then asking them questions about this place.

Toby, who is really into his bedtime relaxation CD, was the perfect kid to test this out on.  Tonight’s bedtime presented the ideal opportunity; the power had gone out and as we lay in the dark together in bed I took my first shot at it.  Trying my hardest to emulate the peaceful, hushed voice of my mentor, I quietly asked Toby where he would like to go if he could pick anywhere in the world.

He chose an airplane.  Seat 13A beside the window, coach class, en route to Australia.

“GOOD GOD!!!  I hope I’m not on it!” I exclaimed, breaking my own spell of tranquility. 

“Oh you ARE, Mommy, you’re sitting right next to me.”

Awesome.  The middle seat.  And who was to my right, I asked?  You guessed it: Mia.

What seemed to be Toby’s ultimate fantasy was fast turning into my worst nightmare.

It got worse.

We were watching cartoons; Toopy and Beenoo to be exact.  If I was put to death in a slow hell of torture I’m sure Toopy and Beenoo would be there in some capacity.   I was also SURROUNDED by plane food and APPLE juice.  The only smells I was granted was that of the plane food and the apple juice and the sounds I heard were of WHOOSHING air because one of the windows was open.

HOLY SHIT!!!!

But the seats were comfortable.  They felt soft and mushy.  (Which I’m sure would do wonders for Rob’s back after the full 22 hours it would take to get to Australia.)

OH, wait, I stand corrected.  The flight would take precisely 19 hours according to my know-it-all-story teller.

I stopped my worst nightmare (aka Toby’s ultimate relaxation fantasy) before anyone had to use the air-sickness bag and suggested we had done enough guided relaxation for the evening.

“But wait! “ Toby had yet another brainwave, “Mommy now it’s YOUR turn.  Close your eyes and tell ME where you want to go.”

Things were looking up.

I was on a beach.  The sand was warm beneath my fingertips and I was sitting beside my two girlfriends from the UK whose companionship I am constantly craving…we were sitting under the hot sun and…

“WHO were you watching?”

I was REALLY tempted to be watching some hot young (maybe Australian?) surfer dude but I resigned myself to the answer my guide so desperately wanted to hear.

“I was watching you, Toby.  You and Mia were playing in the sand building sand castles.”

DAMN!  And just like that my perfect idyllic fantasy was shattered.  I was about to make up for it by placing a very competent grandmother or nanny beside them when my guide interrupted me.

Suddenly excited and with a burst of energy, Toby sat up in bed.  “Mommy!  Do you know what happened next?”

(I leaned over and took a sip of my beer?)

“NO, what happened next, Toby?”

“You were suddenly VERY hungry, so you went to go get something to eat so you left everyone and had to SQUEEEZE through the trees – SQUEEZE your stomach in,

I was about to protest- this was NOTHING like how my mentor had done it this morning…there was no sucking your stomach in – and he CERTAINLY wasn’t sitting up in my face YELLING out my guided imagery exercises to me.  But my guide kept going,

“And you go to get food and you realize you have NO MONEY!!!! So you go back to where you came from and – SQUEEEZE your stomach, Mommy, SQUEEEEEZE through the trees  - EVERYONE is gone!  You panic!  You look around and can’t find your money but you find your pants!  And you find your wallet is GONE but you have money in your pants so you go back and you - SQUEEEEEZE through the trees, Mommy, SQUEEEZE  -- finally get back to the food stand!!!  And you buy…”

There was a pause long enough for me to regain some control…

“A margarita and French fries?”

Toby was lying back down again at this point, exhausted from coaching me through those damn skinny trees.

“Yes…” he said softly with his eyes closed, ”…with ketchup.”

I think I may wait a bit before trying my hand at guided imagery with any of my patients.  Attending a conference on pediatric palliative care was tiring and emotionally draining, but toping it off with an airplane ride to Australia and the panic of skinny trees and lost wallets pushed me over the edge.    And remind me NEVER to go on vacation with Toby.  Ever.

A Trip Down Memory Lane...

Toby and I had a little heart-to-heart tonight.  And by “heart-to-heart” I mean that I told him the story of the time he was sick and almost died.  It wasn’t something I ever planned out, how I was going to tell him; I just assumed it would just somehow become a part of the story of his life.  Although suddenly now he’s 6 and we have yet to mention it to him for no other reason than the fact that I absolutely hate the feeling it gives me to think back on those few weeks of his life.

But that’s what Grandmas are for.  One day, after spending the weekend exploring Toronto with Toby, I got an offhanded warning from my mother.  Along with the usual information about bed times, meal consumption, behaviour and a run down of all 100 activities they had managed to fit into the 24 hours visit, she added an extra, “Oh and he MAY mention something about Sick kids.  We drove past it and I kind of mentioned something about him being sick.”

That was the last I heard of it for a few months.  Until yesterday, when I was driving him to school and out of the blue he launched into, “So did YOU know that Grandma Lynda CRIED when she was in her 60s!?!??!”  (He is under the assumption that the older you get the less likely you are to cry…)  I forgot to heed my mother’s warning and innocently walked right into it, “NO, I didn’t know that, Toby, why did she cry?”

“Because I almost DIED.”

And there it was.

“Oh, right. Yes, THAT.”

“Well…??” he asked as I turned the corner to his school.

There is no correct way to answer this.  I had less than 15 seconds to clarify WHAT exactly he was asking, explore what exactly he wanted and needed to know, and do so without vomiting on my steering wheel.   I delivered a heartfelt promise to come back to this very topic after school and sent him on his day with reassurances and a few extra hugs and kisses.

I had exactly 6 hours to prepare.

Luckily, Mr. Inquisitive of the Unforgiving Memory was somehow diverted until bedtime when I got some time just the two of us.  I went down into the basement and got out the 2 books my wonderful friend, Gwen, had prepared for just this moment.  There was a beautiful leather-bound scrapbook of all of our photos, paraphernalia and print outs of my blog posts from his weeks at Sick kids and a printed kid friendly book version. 

We read both.

Toby was very quiet throughout the whole thing.  Every time we flipped to a photo he asked me to move so that he could get a good look at it under the light of his bedside table.  Although there was some duplication between the two books he took every photo very seriously.  His questions included ones about why he wasn’t wearing any clothes and why he was crying and most frequently why there were so many lines and tubes around him. I was glad to have the medical background to explain things to him.  He was PARTICULARLY horrified to see that they had shaved his head in order to put an IV in it.  WHY, exactly?  I don’t know…I told him honestly…they just did.

At the end of bedtime I was exhausted.  When I asked Toby if he wanted me to sing him his song he asked instead if he could ask me some questions.

“Of COURSE!” I said, thinking about how much I had just unloaded onto him.

His questions shocked me, “What was the most fun part about being there?”

No one had EVER asked me that.  There WAS nothing fun about it.  Although I did tell him that it was kind of fun to see him playing with his balloons?  And leaving was DEFINITELY fun. 

In return I asked him what he though might be the scariest or saddest part of the story.  He thought about this for a bit,

“I think the saddest part of that story was when I had to leave.”

WHAT???

“You know…when we had to leave Sick Kids and go back home.  It seemed like such a nice place and we had people visiting and you talked about how loved and supported we were.  Must have been sad to have to leave all that and come home.”

Oh, my dear, Toby.  Although I’m glad he wasn’t permanently traumatized by his experience, I don’t know that I was ready for such an offhanded, misunderstanding of it all.  But as I digested this later on that night I grew to realize that we both took the same thing out of it.  Though it is far in our past, it is embedded in everything we do.  Every experience we have is laced with the knowledge that life is precious and precarious.  Every triumph Toby has relieves our secret fears that the myriad of drugs and sedatives his 10-month-old brain was subjected to has caused some delay or damage.  And every now and then I think about the amazing meals that were cooked and brought to us; the medical care my very best friends gave; the groceries and bottle of wine that waited for us when we got home; the thousands of loving messages we received on our website; the incredible love and support from family and friends that got us all through.  Toby was right.  Although it was a horrible thing to have lived through, the gift it gave us – knowing we are loved and supported by so many- is inexplicable.  But he missed a key point: we brought it all home with us.

His last remark of the evening, though, brought me back to the now.

“Who IS Shania Twain, ANYWAYS…can we listen to her sometime?”

(I haven’t been able to listen to Shania since.)

“Sure, Toby.”

I guess it’s time to bring her back out again.

Man, I feel like a woman.

Bombshell Eyelashes

We all know the dangers of exposing kids to adult TV shows, but the thing that we often overlook is the amount of misinformation they can garner from one simple TV commercial.

Tonight in the bath Toby sang to himself, “There’s nothing that gets you  more attention than being PRETTY or being SICK.”

After I had digested this statement a few times I asked for some clarification,

“WHAT was that you just SAID?!?!”  I asked, covering my poor impressionable-and-already-obsessed-with-princesses-daughter’s ears.

Toby informed me that it was the TRUTH because he had heard it on TV for a commercial for “BOMB SHELL EYELASHES” (said with a fluttering of his oh-so-masculine ones).

“OH, so if you have nice eyelashes they call you a bombshell?”  I asked

“No, Mommy.  If you have really long and nice eye lashes it means you have a BOMBSHELL in them.”

OH I see.  I didn’t really WANT any more information on this but I got some more anyways.

“And if you have BOMBSHELLS in your eyelashes, Mommy, it means they look SEXY.”

(More flickering of the manly eyelashes.)

Sigh.  Just this morning I had a heart to heart with Toby about Disney princesses and how I don’t approve of their emphasis on looks.  We talked about all the other things it’s important to be other than PRETTY if you want to be a good person.  Toby came up with the idea of LOVE and being KIND to people and finding a job that you love doing.  I thought we had made such progress.

And now tonight, mere hours later, he’s corrupted again by bombshell eyelashes and the idea that being pretty is one of the best ways to get attention.

One more day on the rollercoaster ride of parenting…