Its all fun and games until somebody loses an eye...

or: Well that's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

Three year olds and pointy sticks don't mix. Now, no one was seriously hurt, I assure you, but lessons were learned.

This Sunday the geekykids and I accidentally invited ourselves to a friend's child's third birthday barbeque. What happened was that on the preceding Saturday we were at the 41st birthday party of a different good friend, mom to Geekgygirls friend N. The other friends husband said " will you make it to A's birthday party tomorrow?" We had not actually been invited, which I attempted to communicate gracefully, without seeming to be slighted (I was not at all put out, guest lists for parties have many constraining factors, and I always consider myself happy to be invited to anyone's carefully planned occasion, and completely understand if numbers/prior fashion faux pas/badly behaved kids/simple sleep deprived oversight have deemed me and mine uninvited.)

But of course we were invited on the spot, and I felt that they did genuinely want us to come. Well, I really wanted to feel that way, since they had secured a wonderful location (Fort Mason, overlooking the bay), it was a fabulous warm day, I needed a nice 'get out of the house' activity since Geekydaddy was feeling "kidded out", and they are both vegetarians (like me) and superb cooks.

So we went to the party. The drive from where we live over to Fort Mason never fails to take my breath away. The car crested, then tipped over to point down at Alcatraz, and Geekygirl gasped "Mummy, look at the ocean! Don't drive into it", quite understandably, because it really feels as if you could just fall right into the bay.

We toy with leaving our city for the burbs, Geekydaddy and I. The terrible schools, our ridiculous commutes (mine is only 30 miles but Geekydaddy drives over 50 miles each way a day, down to Santa Clara) make us question why we stay here, but the sheer breathtaking beauty of the bay, bridge and sky on a sunny day recharges me with the will to remain a San Franciscan. For an Engish girl, living here still feels like waking up in glorious technicolor. The scientist in me knows the sky is bluer because of the curvature of the earth, but the affect these cornflower skies and the azure water have on me is not rational. Just when I think I know the city like the back of my hand I find a new spot with a different, even more perfect view.

There at this glorious edge of the western world, we ate our gourmet barbeque, our kids ran and played on an ancient cannon, and indulged in the time honoured game of climbing up and rolling down a grassy bank. Geekygirl, who, when I observe her play seems to take over groups of children and bring them into a world of her own making, had devised an intricate game of "lets save the baby alligators" which involved giving the imaginary baby alligators hidden in the trees food dangled from sticks found on the ground. How sweet, me and my friend of the 41st birthday party observed. Not once did we think "should they be playing with sticks?".

Sure enough a wail ensued and apparently Geekygirl had gotten her stick in her friend N's her eye. I give great credit to my friend for not being in the slightest bit angry, or wanting to seek explanations and assigne blame. N was fine, but I found myself wanting to know what had actually happened. Geekygirl was sheepish. But was she just worried about her friend, or had she deliberately hurt her? I was just recently reading "the secret of happy children" by Steve Biddulph, which reminded me that our assumptions about our kids can become a self fulfilling prophecy. So I assumed innocence, acted with empathy and an attempt to draw her out; "You look like you are worried about N", which was met with agreement and relief, and culminated in an apology for the accidental poke in the eye.

I keep a mental checklist of "successful parenting moments" (and the unsuccessful ones too, maybe I should make myself a sticker chart) and chalked this one up as a situation well handled. If the birthday party invitations dry up though, I may have to rethink my assessment. And it could of course all have been prevented if we had realized the obvious, and not let the kids run around with sharp sticks!

a lovely award

Thanks to Coding Mama at WAHM-BAM for this award.


I recently joined "British mummy bloggers" and came across all sorts of lovely people, including Coding Mama. As a recipient of the award I am to tag five blogs I have recently started to follow, and to tell you my five pet peeves.

When I got this tag I thought "I'm a very chilled out person. Not much peeves me", and I struggled with what to write. Then a news article and its blog fallout, followed by a related issue at work both made my blood boil, and triggered all manner of peevishness!

So here are my five:

1. The absolutely awful, dismal employment rights protections that this country (the USA) provides for women with children. It didn't escape my notice that the article about women being unhappier now than in the 1970's that spurred the debate on the Times blog was an American one. When it comes to our kids and our careers, most of us have the stark choice "Come back after 12 (often unpaid) weeks, or leave, and take your chances on getting back into the workplace if/when you do want to return"

2. People in HR who don't know their job, almost screw my people out of the meager legal maternity protections that they do have, and then blame others for their errors.

3. Women who don't support other women (see above).

4. People who oppose gay marriage, especially those who say that "we need to protect our children" from it. I hate to break it to you, but some of our children are/will be gay. Don't we want their relationships with their chosen partners to be equally valued under the law? We need gay marriage in order to protect the rights of all gay people, now and in the future.

5. Children who don't say please and thank you. Especially when they are my own.

Now I need to link to five blogs I have recently discovered, and pass this award on to them. I don't actually have five recent finds, too busy, but I have recently enjoyed reading the eloquent Noble Savage, the amusing and touching Mothership, and the savvy Susannah at a modern mother. I'm also going to break the rules and link to my bestest friend Followthatdog, over at "From stage dives to station wagons" , because she rocks, and because by chance she just posted a list of peeves anyway!

all dressed up and ready to go?

This morning we set off to work and daycare bright and early and all in good spirits, everyone dressed and fed, lunchboxes packed. I even had mascara on both of my eyes. It looked like a good start to the day.

I had already complimented geekygirl on her attire as we got ready to go (she was sporting a yellow sleeveless shirt over green short sleeved shirt and pink polka dot leggings with socks and sandals). My mental checklist said "clean clothes; yes. appropriate for the weather; yes (I'd already nixed her wearing the yellow sleeveless shirt alone, hence the colourful layering), socks and shoes on; yes.

As I strapped her into her car seat, however, I realized that my list checked only that items were not forgotten, not for extraneous clothing. I'm glad that one of us noticed before taking her into preschool that she was wearing a pair of "sleeping beauty" underpants over the top of her leggings, superman style!

When asked why, I was met with the entirely rational explanation that "People can't see Aurora on my underpants if they are underneath".

I explained that underwear are for, well, wearing underneath clothes, regardless of how pretty they may be, and took Aurora off. She was, fortunately, wearing princess Ariel underpants underneath her leggings.

I realized today that though I am happy to let my daughter choose her clothes and mix and match to an eclectic degree that many other parents may find bizarre, I do have a place where I will draw the line!

relaxing with friends

We had a good friends over this evening, his wife is studying, so needed the kids out of the house. I love to relax with parents who I know well, while our kids play. The kids entertain each other and we parents can expertly keep a conversational thread, punctuated with calls for help, questions about the universe, wiping noses, and cutting food into chunks, of course, but two experienced parents can keep thoughts on point, and have a satisfying exchange, whereas a non parent gets bewildered and frustrated by the interruptions.

Geekygirl was thrilled to have her buddy over to play; L is a few months older and they have known each other since birth. She is clearly relaxed in his company. When we called the kids in to eat their chinese takeout she she was completely naked. When I asked her to get dressed she returned clad only in a silver puffy vest, sans underwear. A little persuasion got her into her cinderella undies too, but that was as dressed as she wanted to be. The evening ended with the now traditional couch bouncing fest, and the house looking like, well as if four kids had run riot in it for two hours while their parents drank wine.

It is amazing how four kids can take a house apart! After saying goodbye, Geekygirl sad to see her friend go, "I am so sad L is leaving because I love him so much" she said adorably, I got them to bed then began clean up. Puzzle bits, instruments, teeny tiny princess shoes, vehicles, stuffed animals, dolls clothes, sunglasses, and strange plastic shapes I have no idea we even owned but may have been part of my breast pump, many of these items covered with teeth marks that could belong to a dog or a toddler or possibly both. I finally cleared the floor. And started to wonder, do we need less stuff, or more storage? I suspect the latter, and a trip to Ikea in the near future!

Poop on the potty!!!

I know, it is a parenting cliche to be so excited and delighted about this milestone, but when you have two kids pooping in diapers, getting one of them out is a real cause for celebration.

I was starting to worry that geekygirl would be pooping in her diaper until she went to college. According to her preschool, she is perfectly potty trained, dry in underpants every day. But our little secret was that this smart little girl, who at three years old has an incredible vocabulory, can write her name, her brother's name and those of several Disney Princesses and can perform simple addition as long as the numbers can be found on her fingers, had never, not once ever, pooped on a potty.

I had prepared the sticker charts that were so successful with pee pee training, put out jars of lollipops as an incentive to "go", and tried to be low key and low pressure about it at the same time, but to no avail. She would keep coming up with different desired prizes when she goes poop on the potty, "An Angelina Ballerina tutu" "A Belle costume with white goves" (well she calls her "Bear" for some reason, but I know what she means). But still, every single day she would request her diaper for her poop.

"I'll poop on the potty when I'm ten, Mummy" she would say. "Will you get me doll house furniture for my sticker chart when I'm ten?".

I was starting to believe this would be the case, when I fell upon an article in parenting magazine. Now I don't actually subscribe to the magazine. It gets delivered to me every month for some reason, maybe they are hoping I will sign up, or maybe I'm getting a delivery intended for a paying customer, I"m not sure. I have religiously put it straight into the recycling for months, not because I have anything against the publication, just that I have very little time to read, and if I'm too tired for my Scientific American or my earnest sociological tomes probing a women's role in the world, I go straight to the bottom of the literary barrel and read Us magazine.

But on Sunday, before recycling it, I decided to save any pages with pictures that might make fun cutting out for the kids. And I came across an article describing solutions to our exact (and no doubt very common) problem. A pee pee potty trained child who requests a diaper for poop.

They suggested something that had not occurred to me: Getting a jar of candy, and rewarding yourself publicly and with great celebration for every poop in the potty. So on Monday morning Geekydaddy and I gave ourselves a gummy bear. Geekygirl was profoundly interested. On Tuesday morning, again we got our gummy bears and Geekygirl helped us pick them out. On Tuesday evening I knew she needed to poop, since she didnt go on Monday. One of my concerns had been that she would wait and wait, and get constipated, forgetting to ask for her diaper, probably worried about the pressure to switch to the potty. Geekydaddy earned himself another gummy bear that evening. "I'm going to have a pink gummy bear when I go poop on the potty" Geekygirl announced. However it was time for Geekygirl to go to bed. I was about to get her in her nighttime diaper, assumings he would then poop. But "I need to go poop" she told me. "Come here and get your diaper on then" I replied. "No, Mummy, I'm going to poop in the potty", she announced. And of the tromped, closing the bathroom door behind her.

One flush later she appeared, so happy and proud. Gummy bear well and truly earned. We started a sticker chart right there and then, and this kid who would hold it for days has already earned three stickers. The haste in which she is accumulated them sent me scrambling to toys R us at lunch, to buy the requested doll house furniture, and while there I couldn't resist buying an extra gift, a plastic doll house sized "Belle" in her own carry case with a selection of different outfits and ridiculously tiny shoes, because I am just so thrilled that this day I though would never come without the intervention of child therapists has finally happened. Only two more stickers to go, and I'm crossing my fingers that this is it! One down, one to go!

Give me gin and tonic

Some weekends are longer than others. I'm speaking metaphorically and literally. Today was a long long Sunday, and we have a whole extra weekend day left. This is memorial day weekend, like a "bank holiday" back home. I love the weekends, I love to spend time with the kids. But I also love to go back to my nice quiet office on Monday morning. Work is demanding, but not in that "now, now, Mummy now" way that small children are. If I need to have a difficult conversation with someone I can plan and time it. If I don't want to be disturbed I can close my door. I can say "it is not a good time, can we deal with this tomorrow?". Baby boys backing into your lab with board books you've already red ten times today don't respond so well to that.

For some reason I woke up in a foul mood, which was worsened by my attempt to microwave the much anticipated weekend breakfast of hot oatmeal (according to the instructions) and ended up with a besplattered microwave, superheated cereal, and crying hungry children. This caused a curt exchange between geekydaddy and myself (he was in charge of breakfast), which dominoed into a tantrum from a geekygirl. I could see how worried she was by our cross words, we almost never fight. Our sniping precipitated a closed, fearful look on her face, which almost melted my crosspatch mood, then the moment passed and the inevitable meltdown ensued (dropped fork, insistence on replacement with new fork rather than wiped clean floor retrieved fork). I lost my usual mummy zen cool, and retreated into the shower, from whence, cleaner at least, I attempted to start the day over.

Our mission of the day was much anticipated. Buy new couch. Any reader who has been to our house can attest that this day is long, long overdue. Our couch is the one that Geekydaddy and his roommate bought for their bachelor pad on Russian Hill in 1994. Almost everyone we know, (and plenty of people we are barely acquainted with) has spilled a glass of wine on it. Most of our friends have slept on it. Sometimes together. More recently small children have wet their pants on it and used it as a trampoline. It is a dear old fixture, it is still comfy, but it has become an eyesore and an embarrassment. Old friends know and forgive it, but newer friends sit on it gingerly, suspicious of its stains.

The mission was initially thwarted, which worsened my mood. I knew that this window of opportunity might not happen again, financial and temporal stars perfectly aligned for purchasing of large items. All the stores we planned to hit were not open until noon, which we deemed too close to nap time to be achievable . Geekydaddy had the intelligent idea of sending someone out on reconnaissance instead. I suspected this was an excuse for him to escape from the house of toddler insanity, but he proposed that I, of the two of us the one with the better eye for interior design (for a scientist and an engineer that isn't saying much), perform this task.

I pounded the pavement of ninth street, past sad, shuttered windows with "final sale" sprayed across them. I found a few of the discount furniture stores still in business, and very eager for mine. Took a few pictures, made some selections, and headed back. I'm a ruthless shopper since having kids. Dither and leave at your peril, you may never seize the will to shop again.

On the way home I swung by Whole Paycheck Market, to pick up fish for dinner, and noticed an organic tonic water sample. Intrigued as to how anyone would break into the tonic water market, I swigged a glass. It was actually very good in an "agave puree hand, picked Peruvian quinine" kind of way (you I"m kidding, this is exactly what is said on the label). "Delicious. But it needs more gin", I thought. So I picked up a four pack and headed home.

Naptime over and kids in that post nap window of amenability, we whisked them of to SOMA SOFA's , where Geekydaddy approved my couch choice and the kind and desperate sales folk allowed the kids to bounce on a variety of furnishings (shoeless, we are not complete barbarians) while I feverishly panned though fabric swatches, trying to find something attractive and also washable.

Back home, with the fabric samples blanketing a series of stuffed animals laid out like disaster victims across the living room floor, we selected a nice gold/yellow for the couch and a modern circle design (wishfully named "Martini Hour") for the accent cushions.

And on the dot of 6.00pm we cracked that organic tonic, poured in a generous dollop of Bombay Sapphire and a slice of lime. It tasted sublime. I should have had one for breakfast.

Pretty Mummy

Lately I have been getting called "poo poo head" a lot. Which is preferable to being hit, but still I'm not too delighted with this. I'm all for creative nicknames though, so I asked my daughter what she thought I might like to be called instead, and she came up with some good ideas, one of which was "pretty mummy". Since then, every time she wants to make a point, she has been using that moniker instead. A great improvement and much better for my self esteem.

Until today. I do daycare pick up, so every evening we all come into the house, and we have a routine; Geekygirl closes the garage door with the magic button and runs upstairs. Orangegeek the cat slips into the garage and pees on the car tires, and I chase him ineffectively around the garage for a while until he decides to head back up to the house, then I stagger up the stairs with Geekybaby (now such a large lad that he needs to be renamed Geekyboy, or Geekylinebacker), balanced on one hip, and the lunchbags, my laptop, and my purse giving ballast on the opposite shoulder.

Geekygirl usually changes into her pink tutu, her pink and orange swimsuit, or her pink sleeping beauty costume as soon as she gets home. She is big on pink these days. Some feminist Mums I know get oddly angry about pink. I've seen long emails on our parent group requesting advice on how to stop little girls gettings sucked into the Disney marketing pink machine. Personally I don't have the energy, and besides, I quite like pink. I think us feminists should reclaim it and make it our own.

I, after starting the kids dinner, letting the dog out and feeding the cats, change into my "I'm relaxed and I'm home" gear; slipper socks, tatty grey sweatpants and an old blue sweatshirt with native american symbols embroidered on it that I bought in Bryce Canyon when we camped there back in July 2002, and got caught in a freak snowstorm. This evening when I reappeared in the kitchen so attired I heard "But Mummy, you are not pretty". I looked down at myself and realized the truth in that statement. Comfy, but really not pretty. I've let myself go.

Maybe it is time for me to get myself a nice comfy tutu to change into when I get home from work. Or at least some pink sweatpants and a spangly sweater!