I Hate the Internet

Notwithstanding:

• that because of Facebook I have connected with two of my cousins, whose lives and deeds of inspiration have brought great joy to my heart
• that through blogging I have made a few wonderful friends whose daily musings both entertain and excite me, sometimes sparking deep personal reflection
• that if it weren't for email I would never have contact with my sister
• that I love being able to instantly find whatever information I am seeking--a recipe or a definition or a video of how a tornado is formed(!)
• that my spunky little computer may be my ticket to achieving my dreams,

I hate the Internet.

I hate the way that some people use the Internet to communicate in ways that they would never do in real life.  And I'm not talking about pornographers or terrorists.  I'm talking about regular, everyday people who think that sitting at a computer screen, getting glimpses into other people's lives, gives them the right to unleash their hyperbolic reactions and opinions in ways that they would never do in real life.

I'm not even talking about the occasional obnoxious comment that I receive here on my blog.  Honestly, if people don't like my ideas about natural parenting, unschooling and healthy living, there are lots of other places on the Internet for them to hang out.  Why would they waste their time on me?  It would never even occur to me to leave hostile criticism on someone's website, no matter what they write about it.  I just have other priorities.

What really bothers me are the people who express every knee-jerk reaction that springs to mind, yet in real life, they have nothing to say.  For example, every article that appears in an online newspaper on the topic of Unschooling seems to attract the most hateful, uninformed responses.  Would these commenters speak to me like that if they met me and my children at the park?  I doubt it.  

And that's the problem with the Internet.  The lack of face-to-face communication allows people to completely disregard the social standards of proper interaction.  It allows people to behave completely without social skills.  It allows for too much anonymity and lack of consequences for engaging in anti-social behaviours.

Imagine that my family and I were invited to a wedding.  While there, some of the guests find out that we are Unschoolers and they start screaming at us that we don't deserve to be parents, that we are unfit and abusive.  Would that happen?  No, because in real life, people know that there are social boundaries that we don't cross.  On the Internet, it seems that people don't give themselves boundaries.

And the reason this really concerns me is that already an entire generation has grown up with the Internet and without these personal boundaries being firmly in place.  When children see that adult Internet-users do not hold back their vitriolic and hateful opinions, they learn that they don't have to either.  We have school-age children who are expert cyber-bullies and we don't question how that happened.

As an adult Internet user, I have a responsibility to communicate in the same way that I do in real life.  The tone I set online is who I really am.  I don't have an online personality and a different one in real life.  When I have nothing to say, I stay quiet.  When I vehemently disagree with another person's ideas, I walk away and I don't come back.  When I believe in something, my real life and my virtual life work in harmony to promote it.

Will you do something for me?  Will you make a pledge with me?

I pledge that my online voice will be an authentic reflection of who I really am, the life I am living and the opinions I hold dear.  I will not use virtual words that I would not use in real life.

It's a small thing, but let's unite in our desire to uphold the social standards of communication that have been with us for generations.  Please leave me a short comment to let me know that you agree.

(If you are reading this in an email, you will have to click on the blue title at the top which will take you to my webpage.  Scroll to the bottom to leave a message.  Anonymous messages are accepted.)

6 Reasons I Never Wanted to be the Mother of a Boy

Did you read my guest post at TouchstoneZ ?

I wrote with honesty and anguish about how disappointed I was when I found out that my 4th babe was a boy. I wrote a follow-up post, too.  It's about the ridiculous things people have said to me about the sex of my children.

I'm not done with this topic yet.  It really matters to me.  I'm still completely appalled at how determined our culture is to make me raise a boyish-boy son and to make me want to value his contribution to my family more than my daughters'.  And it's not that I still feel disappointed that I had a son.  I adore my little Julian.  He is absolutely as wonderful as my daughters were at his age.  But he isn't MORE wonderful just for being male. 

Here's why I didn't want a son:
1.  I mostly don't like any of the little boys I know.

Why do the little boys in my neighbourhood stand on their front lawns and pretend to shoot guns at my daughters and I as we walk by?  Why do I always see brothers beating up and tormenting their younger siblings?  Why does every little boy who talks to my daughters have to turn every little interaction into a competition?  Why do all the little boys at playgroup and La Leche League try to destroy and/or hoard all of the communal toys?

And why are all of their parents oblivious to these behaviours?

You see, if these behaviours are just normal boy behaviours, then I don't want a boy because I don't want any child of mine to act like that.  Why would I have wanted a boy if I had to expect all these aggressive and anti-social behaviours from him?  And if these aren't just normal boy behaviours, then why don't the parents of these boys that I've described do something to help their boys learn nicer behaviours? 

2.  I can't stand all the stereotypes about boys.

If all the aggressive behaviours of boys that I've described above are TRUE, then I genuinely don't know how to be the mother of a boy because I CAN'T STAND those behaviours.  BUT, if boys are actually socialized to behave aggressively (which I believe that they are, but that's another post all together), then I should be able to prevent those behaviours by 'socializing' my son in the same manner as I am 'socializing' my daughters.  Right?

Well, maybe.  Unfortunately, people are constantly ready to throw ancient gender-stereotypes at my children.  They tell me that my daughters are CUTE, but my son is BIG and STRONG.  My daughter who wants to do everything herself is STUBBORN, but my son is INDEPENDENT.  They tell me that my daughters will spoil my son but that my son will protect his sisters.  Excuse me?

And why do people insist that my curious, happy one-year-old boy is 'such a boy' because he gets into the cupboards or because he insists on playing on the stairs at every opportunity?  My daughters did those things at the same age--so were they 'being boys'? 

Babies are babies.  A boy is just a girl who's a boy.

I refuse to believe that there are 'boy behaviours' and 'girl behaviours' in children who are too young to understand sex or gender difference.

3.  I hate the way that everyone wanted me to have a boy.
Just a few of the stupid comments I've heard:

• Still trying for a boy, eh?  (while pregnant)
• This one better be a boy!  (while pregnant)
• You better get the order right this time. (while pregnant)
• Daddy must be happy this time.
• Finally Daddy gets his little boy.
• So your husband finally got the recipe right!
• You got your boy!
• Well that took long enough!
• You can finally call it quits, eh?
• I guess you're done now, right?

Hi, people?  I had a 4th child because I wanted a 4th child.  I was never, never, never trying for a boy.


4.  I don't trust men so I don't know how to raise a boy into a man.
Throughout my twenties I seemed to gravitate toward men who were first-class liars.  Not just liar-liar-pants-on-fire-liars (No, I didn't sleep with my ex-girlfriend after I deliberately ran into her at the gym), but the kind of liars who would lie about what they had for breakfast.  Chronic liars.  Guys who couldn't open their mouths without lying.  Guys for whom lying was synonymous with breathing.

Add to that that I have two brothers, neither of whom has spoken to me in 7 years nor even acknowledged that I have children.  They seem to have a world view which includes requiring me to live by their values even if they don't do what they think I should be doing.

And then top it off with having a father who was emotionally unavailable for most of my life.  He didn't have my back when I was growing up, he didn't stand up for me, never validated or empowered me, never recognized my obvious talents.  I've forgiven him and I have a very good relationship with him now and I've figured out that his weaknesses are no worse than mine.

Still, I have serious baggage where men are concerned.  There is no man in my life who I would consider to be an ideal role model for my son.

5.  Mothers are always blamed for whatever their sons do that deviates from what is considered 'normal'.

If a boy is shy or sensitive, it's because the mother babied him too much.  If a boy is aggressive and bully-ish, it's because the mother didn't give him proper boundaries.  If a boy is not athletic and coordinated it's because the mother didn't give him enough opportunities and encouragement.  If a boy is lazy it's because the mother did everything for him.  If a boy is attention-seeking it's because his mother didn't give him enough attention.  I could go on and on....

I don't believe any of those ridiculous statements--but I've heard every one of them as an elementary school teacher. 

The way I see it, I'm going to have enough guilt about my parenting skills without leaving myself open for society to blame me too.

6.  I think it's harder to be a man in modern culture than it is to be a woman.

This could be an entire post in itself.

Why is it that girls who become astronauts and engineers are celebrated, but boys who become daycare workers or dental assistants get the raised eyebrow?  Have you ever noticed that people still use the expression Male Nurse?

I've observed that men are expected to be both macho and sensitive, but I find those two attributes to be mutually exclusive.  By contrast, I find that women are expected to be both sexy and intelligent, two attributes that I don't find to be mutually exclusive.  Men face pressures that women don't.  I'm sure there are many who would disagree with me about this point in particular.  I'm just saying that for ME, being a woman in 2011 seems a whole lot easier than being a man.


********************************************
After re-reading this post, I feel compelled to reiterate that I absolutely love my son Julian and I really believe that he is the perfect addition to our family.

But I'm still not done with this topic.

TOMORROW:  Gender Fluidity, The Genderless Baby and How I Intend to Raise my Son



Totally gratuitous picture of Julian (13 months), learning to walk while on the beach at Lac Morency in The Laurentians



Guess What? I'm Probably a Terrible Mother

Part 1
One night I had a dream that Partner-Guy and I were in some huge underground caves with our 3 daughters.  I think maybe we were on vacation.  He was carrying two of the girls and I was dragging a huge suitcase and carrying a bag and calling to the other girl to stay with me.  Suddenly a wave came into the cave and carried away my daughter.  I stood there, holding the suitcase, while I watched the wave carry her further and further away.  Eventually the wave receded and I could see her on the floor of the cave, far away.  I called to Partner-Guy to go check on her while I proceeded out of the cave with the suitcase.

And then I woke up and had a little cry because I couldn't believe my brain would have me act like!

Part 2
This is not a dream.
Last summer we were at an amusement park.  My three daughters were on a ride with their teenage cousin while I watched from the ground, a short distance away.  I noticed that one of my girls was leaning somewhat dangerously on the safety harness of the car that they were in.  I felt my heart rate increase and my mouth became dry.  I started to run toward the operator of the ride to tell him to stop the ride.  As I got closer I saw that it was NOT the daughter that I had originally thought was going to fall out.  I relaxed immediately and did not intervene.  

And then I went behind a tree and had a little cry because I couldn't believe I had just reacted that way. 

Part 3
My children behave like children. 
One of my daughters is extremely prone to screaming.  About almost anything.  Regularly.  Many, many times per day.
One of my daughters talks non-stop.  She tells everyone around her to stop talking so that she can talk.  She does this throughout the day.  But not ALL day.  Only whenever someone else is trying to talk.
One of my daughters says 'No' to me about everything.  Would you like spaghetti for supper?  NO.  Would you like me to help you comb your hair?  NO.  Did you enjoy your bike ride with Daddy?  NO.

Sometimes, it's all just too much for me.  Sometime I say, "Mommy is feeling a little overwhelmed just now.  I need to be away from all of you for a few minutes so that when I come back I don't feel like a mean person anymore."

And sometimes I don't say anything and I just walk away because if I do talk, it won't be very nice.  And in that moment one little daughter is the recipient of my tantrum of silence.  It doesn't even matter what the trigger was--I've had to walk away from each of them at different times.



You know what?  This isn't always easy.
I struggle.
I replay and believe the old recordings of negative self-talk that tell me how I never do anything right.
I give in to the old habits of lecturing and arguing.
I forget to listen and validate and empower.
I forget to take care of myself and practice some self-love so that I can recharge and have more of my best self for my children.
I get tired and hungry and hot.

I'm not making excuses.
I know my weaknesses and my triggers.

What matters is not that I totally blow it sometimes.  What matters is how I strive to do better next time.

And I am STRIVING.

I'm doing The Work of Byron Katie.
I'm re-reading my favourite parenting book. 
I'm resting and meditating and going to yoga.
I'm starting to keep a hand-written journal.
I'm practising gratitude.

Do you ever feel like you aren't meeting your own standards in parenting?  How do you overcome your self-doubt?

Everybody Has a Story

March 24 is the birthday of my sister Julia who died in 1974.

She was 4 years old when an accident suddenly took her life.  I was 4 1/2 months old.

It is hard to grieve for a person I never knew.  A person whose story has never been told.

I named my son Julian to acknowledge and honour my sister Julia.  I don't know what he will someday think of the source of his name.  All of my children are named for my deceased female relatives, so perhaps he will see that every name in our family has a story.

About 4 years ago my mother passed to me some clothing that had once belonged to Julia.  It was the first time since 1974 that she had looked at or touched the items.  There was a set of flannel pyjamas that were just the right size for Anna and I put her to bed in them one night.  As she lay there asleep, I suddenly began to sob.  I cried for a sister I never knew.  I cried for a mother's heart broken.  I cried over the unfathomable possibility that I could ever bury one of my daughters.  I cried because I needed to know the story of that little girl with the red hair who was my sister.

In that moment, I grieved.

I still grieve.  My life was shaped by her death; how could it be otherwise?  But who would I have been if she had lived?  And who would she be in my life?  Would she, like my brothers, deem me unworthy of her time and affection?  Or would she have been my friend, my role model and my protector? 

Because of her, I take nothing for granted.  If my children whisper "I love you", I am overwhelmed.  When I stroke each little forehead before I go to sleep at night, I am filled with gratefulness.  When they recover from an illness or suffer only minor scrapes and bruises, I am relieved.  When we travel busy highways and arrive safely at home, I am able to exhale.  And when I am tired, frustrated, annoyed, angry or petty I remember that I AM LUCKY to have these 4 children.  I remember that my mother has a child who is never coming home.

I grieve.  And I am grateful.  And I take nothing for granted.

Shoulda Stayed in Bed

Jasmine's birthday is on Saturday and she wanted to go to an indoor playground so we went today when I knew it wouldn't be busy. I invited her little friend to come along (a little benefit for me, since I got to visit with a mommy-friend too) and we all had a great time.

Until it was time to leave.

I had been letting the kids know that they should do their favourite activities one more time because it was soon time to go. The all-important time to go was dictated by the bus schedule. And since it was a cold day I didn't want to risk missing a scheduled bus and then have to stand outside in the cold for 25 minutes waiting for the next one.

Well, they did their activities and then everyone wanted a snack so we decided to eat before heading out to catch the next bus. By the time the snacks were done, Holly and Julian were really ready to leave. Holly was hot and tired and had been asking to leave for half an hour already. Julian never nurses well in public and he was both tired and hungry. But Jasmine didn't want to leave.

I accommodated her. She went to the slides while I changed Julian's diaper. She went to the slides again while I got Anna and Holly into boots and coats. She went to the slides again while I put Julian in his snowsuit and then handed him to my friend. Still she would not leave.

I didn't know what to do. If I stayed longer Holly was going to meltdown and Julian was going to start screaming. If I made Jasmine leave she was going to freak out. Desperately, I tried to remember everything I had read and learned about Authentic Parenting, empathy and non-violent communication. I tried to fill my heart with love and patience. I spoke calmly and tried to connect with the children. And then I made my decision.

"Jasmine. We're leaving. Now."

Oh, poor Jazzy. I wrestled her fighting little body into her boots and coat, grabbed Julian from my friend and fled out the door with Jasmine by the hand.

It was terrible. I did not feel like I had 'won'. I did not feel victorious. I did not feel like I had asserted my parenting skills at all. I didn't feel like even had any parenting skills. I felt like a total failure. I wanted to run and hide. I was totally mortified and humiliated--not by HER behaviour, but by MINE.

What a failure. Jasmine cried all the way to the bus stop (although I'd like to add that I did not drag her down the sidewalk. She walked willingly.). She cried while sitting on my lap as we waited a few minutes for the bus. She didn't cry on the bus but she resumed crying when we got off the bus and walked the 2 blocks home. She cried while I took off her coat and while I fed Julian. And then all of a sudden she stopped crying and said "I want a drink of soy milk". Crisis over. For her.

I spent the rest of the day hugging her and apologizing. When Partner-Guy came home she told him where we had been. He asked, "Did you have fun?" and she replied, "Yeah. Den I cry. A yot." And then I cried. A lot.

I've said here before that I have rarely cried over my children but today I did. I was such a failure. An impostor. A hypocrite. A mainstreamer.

I overpowered a toddler.

Never again.

Never.

Time to Stop Reading

I read a lot.

Since Julian was born I've read 2 books, mostly while nursing.

First I read A Little History of the World by E. H. Gombrich. (It was a New York times Bestseller when it came out in 2005.) At almost 300 pages, it was not little. It covered all recorded history up to WWI and included all regions of the world during every era. So I read about what was happening in China while the Egyptians were building pyramids. And I read about what the Germanic people were doing while the British were colonizing. And I read about what the Mayans and Incas were doing while the Colosseum was built in Greece. It was very interesting. Although I took Canadian History and European History in university, I had never learned about any history from any other part of the world.


That lack of knowledge, I'm afraid, is pretty typical of a public school education. Even now, the curriculum in Ontario schools requires that Pioneers is taught in Grade 3, Medieval Times is taught in Grade 4 and Ancient Civilizations are taught in Grade 5. Explorers are taught in Grade 6 and then the meat of Canadian History is taught in Grades 7 and 8. None of these time periods are taught in such as way as to connect them to each other, and most kids have absolutely no interest in history. In fact, when I worked at a school where most of the students were immigrants or the children of immigrants I found that they were not even very interested in their own history. I think that there is no context established in which to teach history in public schools. It's approached as a subject with facts to be memorized. It should be approached as a fabulous story to be enjoyed and savoured. And it should help us to better understand the nature of being human.

The next book I read after Julian's birth is The Birth House by Ami McKay. It is a fabulous historical fiction about midwifery in Nova Scotia around the time of WWI. It was about 100 years ago that the medical establishment began to take over birth and women's bodies and to brainwash women into believing that all health-related decisions should be made by a doctor. This attitude continues to prevail, unfortunately. Just a few weeks ago Macleans magazine had an article on how people are starting to not trust doctors and it featured a woman who had gone to see a doctor because she couldn't get pregnant and he told her she would never conceive and needed to have a hysterectomy to prevent other complications. She followed his advice and had the surgery and later learned that there was nothing wrong with her uterus and that she probably could have had a successful pregnancy.


Anyway, that book was right up my alley. A perfect reinforcement of my belief in trusting ourselves and our bodies and using alternative therapies whenever possible. And of course, my strong support of natural birth certainly kept me turning page after page.

I started another book just last week that I can hardly put down. It's The Tiger by John Valliant. I read the review in Macleans magazine and I knew it would be perfect for me, so I ordered it from Amazon right away. It's the true story of a tiger hunt in South East Russia in 1997. You have to read it to understand why it so compelling. It includes a lot of history of Russia (no wonder people are trying to get out). But it's the vivid insight into human behaviour that has me trying to nurse Julian 20 times a day, just so I can enjoy another page or two.

In addition to usually having a book on the go, I also read Macleans magazine, cover to cover, every week. And I usually read The Toronto Star every day, focusing mostly on local events and cover stories.

But last week I read too much.

It wasn't the volume of words I read that was the problem. It was the content.

For 4 days in a row I read article after article in both Macleans and The Star about the sadistic monster who killed those women in Tweed. I wanted to stop but I couldn't. And then I'd lay awake all night thinking someone was breaking into the house. I couldn't even go into the basement unless Partner-Guy was home. I was so irrational that I once took the girls downstairs with me to get something out of the freezer.

By Saturday I knew I had to get a grip. I told Partner-Guy how freaked out I was and I asked him to bar all the basement windows so that they can't be opened from the outside. I also insisted that the doors to the deck have a second lock put on them, since they are in my bedroom. I expected him to laugh at my fears but he took me completely seriously and went directly to Home Depot to buy the supplies. (Note to self: you know you've got a good guy when he takes your completely irrational fears seriously.)

I guess I'm easily freaked out. It makes me wonder what other women think when they read such gruesome details of criminal behaviour. Does it not affect them? Do they just assume that random acts of violence could never happen to them? If I lived alone, I would have installed an alarm system this week, and it is only because I have a man who comes home to sleep every night that I don't have one. When I lived alone in condominiums, I used to put a piece of furniture in front of my door every night. And when my parents owned their house outside of Moorefield, I was terrified of being there at night alone. In fact, I would go out of my way to avoid ever being alone there after dark. When I was a teenager one of my girlfriends wanted to watch the movie Psycho. Even though I spent most of the movie in another room (I was too scared to watch it) I was totally jumpy and nervous about taking a shower for more than a year. I even went so far as to check inside the vanity in the bathroom every time I entered the room (as if there'd be someone hiding inside it).

What I read or see on TV stays with me in way that I don't think other people experience. So I think I'll stick to reading about birth and tigers. At least I already know I can handle natural child birth. And I'm not scared of tigers.

When is a Mistake not a Mistake?

My post yesterday about how I learned in Grade 1 that I was smarter than other kids has me remembering another event from those days.

When I was in Grade 2 one of my friends introduced me to a boy named Chad who was in Grade 1. Chad was totally different from any other kid I had tended to befriend. He was a total mess all the time: food on his ace, underpants sticking out over his belt, never a coat zippered, old food in his desk. And the most disturbing thing about him was that he didn't try to please the teacher by paying attention or trying to complete his work. I don't know anything about Chad's family and I don't know what my friend's connection was to Chad, but for some reason he immediately became my project.

I can remember helping him into his galoshes at recess time, and doing up his coat, and making sure he had mittens. I even remember coaxing him to bring his notebook and a pencil outside so I could help him complete his writing. I could not understand why he was so ambivalent to taking care of himself or to trying his best at school. I didn't hang around with him or play with him; I only tried to mother him, since he clearly needed help to get through the day.

One day I was totally frustrated by his behaviour and I wrote him a note that I placed in his disgusting desk among the bread crumbs. It said, "You are a nit-wit. Why?"

The Grade 2 teacher, Mrs. Adams, found the note and knew I had written it. She gently but firmly accused me of being mean to him and told me that I must stop bossing him around. My desire to be respectful of her prevented me from trying to explain that I was trying to help Chad, not control him. I never did explain myself to Mrs. Adams, but I did as she said and I never spoke to Chad again, although I continued to be acutely aware of how he would come in from recess with his boots full of snow and with raw, red hands from wearing no mittens, and of how he could not read or write or even recite the days of week in order. I felt sorry for him, but he moved when I was in Grade 3 and I never saw him again.

I now wonder why I felt such a compulsion to help that boy. And even more mind-boggling is the question of why I found another such boy to 'save' when I was in highschool, and another one after university. In each of these three cases I was introduced to the male by someone who was already my friend (or in one case, by my brother). And each of these three males was, in all honesty, a total loser. Someone who did not have it together at all. Someone who was a bottomless pit of misery, anxiety, deceit and bad decisions. Not just a loser, but a user.

So this begs the question: am I a total sucker? Why would I commit myself to helping someone who would not put any effort into helping himself? Am I totally altruistic, or just an idiot? What would make me put all my values and personal priorities on hold for someone else? To repeat a metaphor from another day, why would I hitch my wagon to a sinking ship? And why was there no Mrs. Adams when I was a teenager and again in my 20s to shake some sense into me and get me to walk away?

I have no answers here. But I am very intrigued now that I have found this particular pattern in my life. Now that my children are my top priority, I will not likely be sucked in by similar circumstances again and I sure hope I will notice if my children show similar behaviours. The past is in the past and can't be changed, but I can still hope to learn from my mistakes.

Lemonade, anyone?

This morning at 8am I decided to quickly input the data to complete my income tax for 2008. Somehow I owe nearly $4000. While I am pondering how this is possible I am also accepting it without question. What's a girl to do?? Can't exactly fight with the government.

Upsets like that have a tendency to push me over into the 'negative self talk' part of my brain. I spent my entire 20s with this sense of darkness and doom, believing that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, no matter how hard I tried, life was pretty much going to kick me in the teeth at every turn. And it did. Pretty much consistently.

Of course, it didn't help in those days that I had hitched my wagon to a sinking ship. How's that for a metaphor? If misery loves company, then I sure was pulled into the quagmire to be companion to a wide assortment of losers and pessimists.

Although my authentic self is basically happy, I really do have to fight with myself to not let the dark voices inside of me take over. They convinced me for 10 years that I don't deserve to be happy, that I am fundamentally unlovable, that my work is meaningless, that in spite of all my efforts people will always turn their backs on me.

I hate being a pessimist, but is sure is easy. As long as I believe that no good will ever come to me, I can stop trying, right? It's a lot less effort to do nothing than it is to keep trying to do better. I'd love to walk away: sell the house, get a new job, start over. I'd also love to spend the next year in bed. Or with my chair pulled up to the fridge. Or at least cry for a day or two. Doing nothing would mean I could stop trying so hard to do my best for my kids, right? I mean, other people's kids cry themselves to sleep and get left at daycare and eat non-organic hotdogs, and they turn out just fine. Right? And they go to public school and get bullied and labelled and have low self esteem and they turn out just fine, right? What if I spend all this time and effort on being my best and doing my best for my kids and they grow up angry and lazy and stupid anyway?

The problem with choosing to embrace the life of the pessimist, is that it really won't serve my children very well at all. I could do all those things, but it would never feel good in my heart. Now that I have children, it is truly my responsibility to be optimistic. Happy. Positive. Joyful. Realistic. I have to model for them that I can handle it when life doesn't go my way. So I unexpectedly owe $4000 in taxes. Is this much different from when Anna unexpectedly can't play with her friend because the friend is sick? Or when Holly unexpectedly can't have a popsicle because we're all out? Disappointments happen. A disappointment is not a death. It is not a cause for despair. It is a reality, we deal with it and then we move on. This is me doing better. I'm just trying.

Following the upset, I decided to start getting the kids dressed and fed. Gotta go on like normal, right? Jasmine put up a huge fight about her diaper, so I decided to let her be naked for a few minutes while I got breakfast. She instantly made a bee-line for Anna's bedroom where she peed at least a gallon on the floor. Right onto the basket filled with all the Disney princess dolls. Within seconds Anna was hyperventilating. Jasmine was so proud of her new splash pad that she laid down in it and splashed around while I comforted Anna and tried to wring out a very soggy and unpleasant Snow White. And Cinderella. And Tinkerbell.

So the princesses ended up in the bathtub and Jasmine ended up in the sink. What's a girl to do?

I tried to insert a super cute picture here of Jasmine in the sink, but I unexpectedly discovered that the USB port on my computer is broken and so I can't export any pictures off the camera. When life gives you lemons.........