I often find myself explaining to people where we are from. That is understandable seeing as we are in the famous park a lot and obviously speaking different languages and looking foreign. OK. The thing is, many people say, "Oh Canada! Wonderful! Che bello!!" and often follow it up with, "What are you doing here?!?"
I used to answer differently when I was single. I was young at the time too. Good job, Italy is fun, Italy is interesting, the food is good. Then my answer changed when I got married. Italy is OK. Good job. I've lived here for many years. Then time passed.
Now I answer differently. Good job but we'll probably consider going back soon-ish. There's more opportunity for the kids in Canada and they are Canadian citizens.
Am I right? Are we just being selfish/complacent/lazy/fraidy-cats by staying here? What about me? What will I do? EFL management is not exactly a booming business in The Great White North. Will I still be empolyable at over 45? And when will The Big Move take place?
In theory I have a 5 or 6 year plan. It goes something like this: buy a flat here in Italy, get a Masters, improve my French, sort out some type of EU citizenship if at all possible, don't let the kids get too big or settled in the Italian system, try a sabbatical in Canada as a trial run and then make the decision to either sell up and move or stay put... or something else (Spain might be interesting...).
Check back with me in 6 years' time. Who knows where we'll be.
Sunday 21 August 2011
Wednesday 17 August 2011
Overprotective?
Am I overprotective?
I often fear I am the ever-present, hovering mother who is always saying "Be careful!" and "No don't do that!" or "Get away from there, you'll hurt yourself!" which will inevitably stunt my children's emotional and physical growth and turn them into paranoid mummy's boys.
I am a girl. I am an only child. I have no idea how much is too much, how much a boy can and should run and jump and risk their butts in the playground - I was happy to trot around my garden and play with toys.
In my defence, I remind myself that Elias is still 2, albeit for only about 2 more weeks, but that although he seems tall and hairy, he is still a small kid. I think I'm OK with Xavi becuse he is not even one and a half yet, although he sure likes to pretend he is about 5. But then I see little Darius at the park who is a tiny, sinewy, Russian thing who is running and holding his own with the big boys and whose father just occasionally shouts instructions to him from the sidelines (could be the enormous beer belly the man is sporting which prevents him from doing much more but still, the kid is amazing). And the fear returns - is my boy going to be a wimp?
In the throes of self-doubt over all this, I decided to conduct a small experiment and really try to be objective to take a good look at what was going on. I decided to sit on my hands, position myself in one place in the playground where I could leap to their aid if needed and shut up and watch them. It was stressful but effective. They ran. I watched. I refrained from too many instructions and warnings. They had fun.
I did this a couple of days. Then a few things happened.
Elias decided to hang over a window thing in the wooden playhouse and as he leaned over it, he just kept on going and fell all the way out, disappearing completely and evidently landing right on his head. It was not high up but it was a little dramatic. Other parents tensed up even. I went over to him, I didn't freak out. Elias emerged, red-faced and rubbing his head. He didn't cry but he was fairly unimpressed. He took it easier for a while after that.
Xavi then proceeded to get knocked over by two bigger girls chasing each other. He was completely unscathed so that went well. When another girl came along riding her bike in the little kids' play area I did tell her nicely to go somewhere else though - I mean, there are limits here (no comment as to where her mother was of course, needless to say, she was not supervising her...).
Later as I exchanged greetings with a mum of two girls, I had to interrupt our conversation as Elias was about 6 feet up climbing the ropes and about to try hanging off the monkey bars (which his little hands can't even get around enough yet and which are 7+ feet off the ground)so I gently extracted him. Meanwhile Xavi was trying hard to do the same and had managed to get up about 2 feet or so but he extracted himself. The girls' mother was stunned at my boys so I thought, "OK, if she's shocked, I am not too paranoid after all." Mind you, she has girls.
Elias has always tumbled and fallen easily. Two chipped teeth, bleeding lips galore and some pretty major bumps to head are a few of the results. He walked early and fell a lot. He is not clumsy so much as distracted and fairly unaware of a few of the fundamentals of injury prevention. He is the kid who will run while looking the other way, he will let go of the swing to examine his thumb, he will just... fall over his own, very big feet. He is also intruigued with big kids and wants to participate in their games, even though they're too much for a little guy. Xavi is, of course, different. He walked late and is less likely to fall but, like any little brother, he wants to do what Elias is doing and will follow him all over the place. He also has no idea what mummy is going on about and will happily wander far, far away without looking back once.
So am I overprotective? After my recent experiment I think that as long as I do not smother them or follow them around while constantly say no, no, no I will stay within the limits of healthy parenting. I am teaching Elias to stop when I say "Stop!" when he runs too far off, and I am teaching him about bicycles in the park. He will never be like Darius but I hope he will also be brave enough to try things out without being foolish. Xavi is a different story but if I can make sure he knows his limits then I will be more comfortable with him testing them.
Just as long as neither of them ever want to skydive or bungee jump, I'll be fine.
I often fear I am the ever-present, hovering mother who is always saying "Be careful!" and "No don't do that!" or "Get away from there, you'll hurt yourself!" which will inevitably stunt my children's emotional and physical growth and turn them into paranoid mummy's boys.
I am a girl. I am an only child. I have no idea how much is too much, how much a boy can and should run and jump and risk their butts in the playground - I was happy to trot around my garden and play with toys.
In my defence, I remind myself that Elias is still 2, albeit for only about 2 more weeks, but that although he seems tall and hairy, he is still a small kid. I think I'm OK with Xavi becuse he is not even one and a half yet, although he sure likes to pretend he is about 5. But then I see little Darius at the park who is a tiny, sinewy, Russian thing who is running and holding his own with the big boys and whose father just occasionally shouts instructions to him from the sidelines (could be the enormous beer belly the man is sporting which prevents him from doing much more but still, the kid is amazing). And the fear returns - is my boy going to be a wimp?
In the throes of self-doubt over all this, I decided to conduct a small experiment and really try to be objective to take a good look at what was going on. I decided to sit on my hands, position myself in one place in the playground where I could leap to their aid if needed and shut up and watch them. It was stressful but effective. They ran. I watched. I refrained from too many instructions and warnings. They had fun.
I did this a couple of days. Then a few things happened.
Elias decided to hang over a window thing in the wooden playhouse and as he leaned over it, he just kept on going and fell all the way out, disappearing completely and evidently landing right on his head. It was not high up but it was a little dramatic. Other parents tensed up even. I went over to him, I didn't freak out. Elias emerged, red-faced and rubbing his head. He didn't cry but he was fairly unimpressed. He took it easier for a while after that.
Xavi then proceeded to get knocked over by two bigger girls chasing each other. He was completely unscathed so that went well. When another girl came along riding her bike in the little kids' play area I did tell her nicely to go somewhere else though - I mean, there are limits here (no comment as to where her mother was of course, needless to say, she was not supervising her...).
Later as I exchanged greetings with a mum of two girls, I had to interrupt our conversation as Elias was about 6 feet up climbing the ropes and about to try hanging off the monkey bars (which his little hands can't even get around enough yet and which are 7+ feet off the ground)so I gently extracted him. Meanwhile Xavi was trying hard to do the same and had managed to get up about 2 feet or so but he extracted himself. The girls' mother was stunned at my boys so I thought, "OK, if she's shocked, I am not too paranoid after all." Mind you, she has girls.
Elias has always tumbled and fallen easily. Two chipped teeth, bleeding lips galore and some pretty major bumps to head are a few of the results. He walked early and fell a lot. He is not clumsy so much as distracted and fairly unaware of a few of the fundamentals of injury prevention. He is the kid who will run while looking the other way, he will let go of the swing to examine his thumb, he will just... fall over his own, very big feet. He is also intruigued with big kids and wants to participate in their games, even though they're too much for a little guy. Xavi is, of course, different. He walked late and is less likely to fall but, like any little brother, he wants to do what Elias is doing and will follow him all over the place. He also has no idea what mummy is going on about and will happily wander far, far away without looking back once.
So am I overprotective? After my recent experiment I think that as long as I do not smother them or follow them around while constantly say no, no, no I will stay within the limits of healthy parenting. I am teaching Elias to stop when I say "Stop!" when he runs too far off, and I am teaching him about bicycles in the park. He will never be like Darius but I hope he will also be brave enough to try things out without being foolish. Xavi is a different story but if I can make sure he knows his limits then I will be more comfortable with him testing them.
Just as long as neither of them ever want to skydive or bungee jump, I'll be fine.
Tuesday 16 August 2011
Muchacha Pelo Largo No Shoes
As I walked into the park on Sunday afternoon ("Sand Park" also known as "Shiatsu" in our family's park code), I overheard a woman on her mobile ask, "Y Milady?" and knew she was Cuban. Thus began my sociological observation of her (as is my wont).
We got to talking. Obvisouly her husband was Italian. They lived in nearby Small Town Nothing and came to the park for the sandpit. Their son was Gabriel and the little one was Greta. She was with her husband, her mother, her tiny daughter and her son. Her son was gorgeous, 4 years old with beautiful grey eyes and, we later learned, he also shared the same birthday as Elias only he was one year older.
Now here's the thing and the point of this post. She spoke Italian to her kids. Gabriel didn't speak Spanish. He understood it OK because his grandmother spoke it to him but he couldn't say anything in Spanish.
Now as I grow older and wiser, I do not like to criticize how people bring up their kids. As long as the child is happy and healthy, you're doing your job. But I do remain perplexed as to why people do not speak their native language to their children. My father didn't. I was born over 20 years after he had left his country and after which he had practically stopped speaking Norwegian except for on the phone to his sister every so often. He thought there was no point speaking a little-known language to his 3rd child in his second marriage, especially if his wife, my mother, didn't understand it. When I was old enough to know better, I disagreed with him and in retrospect he admitted he may have done things differently given the chance but by then it was, of course, too late.
So back to the family of the other day, here was this kid who spoke no Spanish but who had a Cuban mother. She and her husband regretted this, but thought it was too late to change now. I suggested what we do in terms of books and DVDs which they thought was an interesting idea - all books, DVDs and YouTube viewings are in English or Spanish in this house. She did look a bit longingly at Elias and René interacting in pure, unadulterated Cuban Spanish though which was a bit sad I thought.
As we went home and the more I thought about it over the next few days, the more I realised we have a good thing going in our family. I am so pleased that René and I didn't even have to talk about this - it was a given that he would speak only Spanish and I would speak only English to the kids. At one point he expressed doubt about the "purity" or "correctness" of Cuban Spanish but when someone can show me the correct form of any language, I will then believe that they exist so we got over that one pretty quickly.
I can only hope and pray that our kids continue to grow up with at least two if not three or more languages in their daily life. I love the fact that Elias' uses the word 'fula' for anything bad, boring or irritating, that he speaks English with an already distinctly North American accent ('dirty' or 'can't') and uses North American words like 'cookie'.
Until Xavi speaks more, Elias' is the one coming up with wonderful linguistic inventions but I am sure his little brother will follow suit very soon. The best so far? Elias' name for Rapunzel: Muchacha Pelo Largo No Shoes. Look at the poster, it is 100% fitting.
We got to talking. Obvisouly her husband was Italian. They lived in nearby Small Town Nothing and came to the park for the sandpit. Their son was Gabriel and the little one was Greta. She was with her husband, her mother, her tiny daughter and her son. Her son was gorgeous, 4 years old with beautiful grey eyes and, we later learned, he also shared the same birthday as Elias only he was one year older.
Now here's the thing and the point of this post. She spoke Italian to her kids. Gabriel didn't speak Spanish. He understood it OK because his grandmother spoke it to him but he couldn't say anything in Spanish.
Now as I grow older and wiser, I do not like to criticize how people bring up their kids. As long as the child is happy and healthy, you're doing your job. But I do remain perplexed as to why people do not speak their native language to their children. My father didn't. I was born over 20 years after he had left his country and after which he had practically stopped speaking Norwegian except for on the phone to his sister every so often. He thought there was no point speaking a little-known language to his 3rd child in his second marriage, especially if his wife, my mother, didn't understand it. When I was old enough to know better, I disagreed with him and in retrospect he admitted he may have done things differently given the chance but by then it was, of course, too late.
So back to the family of the other day, here was this kid who spoke no Spanish but who had a Cuban mother. She and her husband regretted this, but thought it was too late to change now. I suggested what we do in terms of books and DVDs which they thought was an interesting idea - all books, DVDs and YouTube viewings are in English or Spanish in this house. She did look a bit longingly at Elias and René interacting in pure, unadulterated Cuban Spanish though which was a bit sad I thought.
As we went home and the more I thought about it over the next few days, the more I realised we have a good thing going in our family. I am so pleased that René and I didn't even have to talk about this - it was a given that he would speak only Spanish and I would speak only English to the kids. At one point he expressed doubt about the "purity" or "correctness" of Cuban Spanish but when someone can show me the correct form of any language, I will then believe that they exist so we got over that one pretty quickly.
I can only hope and pray that our kids continue to grow up with at least two if not three or more languages in their daily life. I love the fact that Elias' uses the word 'fula' for anything bad, boring or irritating, that he speaks English with an already distinctly North American accent ('dirty' or 'can't') and uses North American words like 'cookie'.
Until Xavi speaks more, Elias' is the one coming up with wonderful linguistic inventions but I am sure his little brother will follow suit very soon. The best so far? Elias' name for Rapunzel: Muchacha Pelo Largo No Shoes. Look at the poster, it is 100% fitting.
Saturday 13 August 2011
Pick your battles - use dinosaur cookie cutters
You always hear "Pick your battles" and "Don't sweat the small stuff" when it comes to raising little ones.
How true.
The usually cooperative Elias is now in a "no" phase. No going to the toilet, no naps, no baths or showers, no bedtime and today no lunch (unless on the sofa at which point is was mummy's turn to say "no").
Now. I am a bit extreme in my sticking to a routine and wanting everyone to follow it. Someone in this family once compared it to a military operation. I took that as a compliment, go figure. So this "no" business is sending me into fits of anxiety because it totally throws off The Routine. In an attempt to stick to The Routine, we have recently had screaming showers, yelling bedtimes and very vocal pee pees and I have become a frazzled mess.
And then I thought: WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?
Elias is nearly 3. He is little. God in heaven. I am super tired and often lacking in originality, just wanting to get the bathroom, feeding, bathing stuff over with so that we can get on with the other stuff. Well that must be really crap for him, let's not mince words here. So I started thinking. I gave myself a talking to. I listened to a nice mum at the park and I changed tack. Here's what's happening so far:
Bathtime. One day we went with no bath, just a wipedown and a bit more on the smelly bits. I mean who cares if a kid goes without a bath, he's 3 for Chrissake and on holiday! Even if he is dirty from the park and the mosquito spray and the sweat, wipe the kid down and forget about it! The next day I just said to him he didn't need to take a bath but to come in the bathroom anyway. When Xavi and I began blowing bubbles in the bath, next thing you know, Elias was fully in the tub and having a great time.
Meals. I draw the line at eating in the living room so pasta on the sofa no way. But I was getting into a tug-of-war "either you eat your pasta at the table or you don't eat" scenario and then I thought OK, mummy, get a grip. I canned the perfect lunch idea by looking at the tired and hungry and stubborn 2-year-old that he is and softened. I offered him crappy, processed cheese slices - to hell with the pasta (that he had specifically requested but hey, I won't hold him accountable for these things just yet!). Then I had a lightbulb moment and I got out the cookie cutters and made sandwiches in the shape of dinosaurs, a giraffe and a couple of dogs. He wolfed them down. The pasta got eaten by daddy. Xavi participated by watching the show, bemused and getting in and out of his highchair 25 times. It was cool.
Bed & naptime. We have skipped naps. It's not entirely unsuccessful in that it's been OK save for a couple of meltdowns due to exhaustion (his meltdowns that is!). Yesterday at bedtime I said OK, let's go to the bedroom but you don't need to sleep. Of course he conked out. I am still a bit stuck on this not wanting to go to bed one, but I manage to get around it although it is a bit of a challenge. That said, it's normal - the gadzillions of stories aboout kids getting up 200 times for water, another story, a toilet run, etc. etc. are all over the place so whatever.
The toilet. I have given up on getting him to go on command so I just throw a change of shorts and underpants in the bag and go. Unless he is holding it in (and risking a bladder infection) he'll be fine. I tried an interesting book that we only read in the bathroom as a lure to go when I want him to (i.e. before we go out and before bed - the other times I don't bug him about it at all) but that didn't last too long. He had to do pee pee in the park the other day and didn't really enjoy that so hopefully this will not continue to be a big issue. Worst case scenario is he wets himself or the bed - and hey, so what? He'll learn and we'll all be less stressed out!
So if we end up eating sandwiches for weeks, or not properly bathing, sleeping or not, and needing to whizz up a tree so be it. Life is too short. Pick your battles and don't sweat the small stuff but above all, try and make things fun and positive and don't get into inane tugs of war for the sake of it!
How true.
The usually cooperative Elias is now in a "no" phase. No going to the toilet, no naps, no baths or showers, no bedtime and today no lunch (unless on the sofa at which point is was mummy's turn to say "no").
Now. I am a bit extreme in my sticking to a routine and wanting everyone to follow it. Someone in this family once compared it to a military operation. I took that as a compliment, go figure. So this "no" business is sending me into fits of anxiety because it totally throws off The Routine. In an attempt to stick to The Routine, we have recently had screaming showers, yelling bedtimes and very vocal pee pees and I have become a frazzled mess.
And then I thought: WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?
Elias is nearly 3. He is little. God in heaven. I am super tired and often lacking in originality, just wanting to get the bathroom, feeding, bathing stuff over with so that we can get on with the other stuff. Well that must be really crap for him, let's not mince words here. So I started thinking. I gave myself a talking to. I listened to a nice mum at the park and I changed tack. Here's what's happening so far:
Bathtime. One day we went with no bath, just a wipedown and a bit more on the smelly bits. I mean who cares if a kid goes without a bath, he's 3 for Chrissake and on holiday! Even if he is dirty from the park and the mosquito spray and the sweat, wipe the kid down and forget about it! The next day I just said to him he didn't need to take a bath but to come in the bathroom anyway. When Xavi and I began blowing bubbles in the bath, next thing you know, Elias was fully in the tub and having a great time.
Meals. I draw the line at eating in the living room so pasta on the sofa no way. But I was getting into a tug-of-war "either you eat your pasta at the table or you don't eat" scenario and then I thought OK, mummy, get a grip. I canned the perfect lunch idea by looking at the tired and hungry and stubborn 2-year-old that he is and softened. I offered him crappy, processed cheese slices - to hell with the pasta (that he had specifically requested but hey, I won't hold him accountable for these things just yet!). Then I had a lightbulb moment and I got out the cookie cutters and made sandwiches in the shape of dinosaurs, a giraffe and a couple of dogs. He wolfed them down. The pasta got eaten by daddy. Xavi participated by watching the show, bemused and getting in and out of his highchair 25 times. It was cool.
Bed & naptime. We have skipped naps. It's not entirely unsuccessful in that it's been OK save for a couple of meltdowns due to exhaustion (his meltdowns that is!). Yesterday at bedtime I said OK, let's go to the bedroom but you don't need to sleep. Of course he conked out. I am still a bit stuck on this not wanting to go to bed one, but I manage to get around it although it is a bit of a challenge. That said, it's normal - the gadzillions of stories aboout kids getting up 200 times for water, another story, a toilet run, etc. etc. are all over the place so whatever.
The toilet. I have given up on getting him to go on command so I just throw a change of shorts and underpants in the bag and go. Unless he is holding it in (and risking a bladder infection) he'll be fine. I tried an interesting book that we only read in the bathroom as a lure to go when I want him to (i.e. before we go out and before bed - the other times I don't bug him about it at all) but that didn't last too long. He had to do pee pee in the park the other day and didn't really enjoy that so hopefully this will not continue to be a big issue. Worst case scenario is he wets himself or the bed - and hey, so what? He'll learn and we'll all be less stressed out!
So if we end up eating sandwiches for weeks, or not properly bathing, sleeping or not, and needing to whizz up a tree so be it. Life is too short. Pick your battles and don't sweat the small stuff but above all, try and make things fun and positive and don't get into inane tugs of war for the sake of it!
Thursday 11 August 2011
The Park
The Park. We go to the park minimum four, maximum fourteen (when on holiday) times a week - that works out to twice a day. We live in an apartment so we need to get the kids out to get fresh air, run around, get tired and get dirty. I love seeing them have fun, I love taking them home filthy and tired. But oh boy, there are times when I absolutely cannot stand the park. And you know why? It's not the other kids. It's the dang adults.
Oh the tales I could tell. Oh OK then, I will. This week, for example. We went to the pebble park. So we brought the sand toys because you can use a spade and bucket and a dump truck or two with pebbles. Of course a few other little ones honed in on the toys and that is great because I want my kids to share and play with others. So play they did. And then, inevitably, a few issues arose. So inspired by this and other incidents, I have created a few categories of Idiot Adults Who Accompany Kids to the Park. Here are some:
Distracted or Whimsical Fathers
Children under the age of 3? 4? really do not know how to play together and I don't expect them to. I do expect the parent/grandfather/carer to intervene when the kid does something unacceptable within the limits of their little age range, for example hitting, grabbing, etc. etc. So when little Gabriele grabbed the spade from Elias' hand and his father, busy sending text messages on his cell, totally ignored the situation, I intervened.
Thus ensued the fight between me and a two-year-old to get spade back (OK maybe not my best moment but what the heck). I started calling the kid's father even! In the end I just let go of the damn spade and said, "OK forget it. Elias this kid isn't worth it," and then his father intervened. By taking his kid, who of course started crying, home. Nice one, dad. So much for educating, explaining and resolving. The guy was probably blaming me too. Whatever.
There was another unforgettable time when Evil Child was busy and repeatedly shoving his smaller "friend" down the slide while their fathers chatted together, oblivious to the littler one's crying. When Evil Child's hand reached for my boy's bottom to do the same, I gently but decisively grabbed his wrist and said, "No, we don't do that". He went whimpering to his father (who had forgotten he existed) who asked him what was wrong. Evil Child couldn't explain and you know, I didn't volounteer to help out there.
Well-Meaning and Not-So-Well-Meaning Grandparents
Back to this week's park experience. While Gabriele and I were having our tug-of-war, not-so-little (older than Elias) Filippo was busy emptying a toy pram and filling it with pebbles. His grandfather was also busy on his cell phone. Filippo was a decent kid but he could have set a car on fire, chopped down a tree and thrown himself off the bridge into the river and his grandfather would have been oblivious. When the mother of the owner of the aforementioned pram discovered its fate, I had to say to her, "we didn't do that" or else she would have blamed us. I thought it was Filippo's sister's so I hadn't said anything in the first place. Oh, his grandfather never noticed...
Wild Child is what I called a kid, 3 and a half, running wild in the park while grandmother ever so vaguely looked on. When said Wild Child began grabbing from René who started giving him a kind but firm lesson by telling him that's not how we do things, grandmother vaguely intervened - but only after about 5 minutes of jumping, screaming, grabbing Wild Child's antics - and blamed daycare for her grandchild's behaviour. We walked away, shaking our collective heads.
Mothers Who Need to Get Dirty
Oh the parents who take their kids to the park and then yell at them for getting dirty.
I secretly envision them slipping in dog doo on their way home from the park and messing up their designer shoes forever.
So let's set the scene. You have a child. You dress them really well in total designer clothes. You take them to the park. You do not let them go down the slide because it is dirty. You ignore them because you need to check your cell phone or chat to some other superficial mother. You finally realise your child's been missing for 20 minutes, you locate child and then you give them hell because they're dirty.
One time we were busy getting filthy in the sand pit when we were joined by two boys about 10 years old. We chatted about Canada and played a bit together and then Mother came along. She proceeded to get upset at her son for getting sandy at which point I totally and rudely interrupted but smiled sweetly throughout so she couldn't really tell me to shut up. I told her we had been talking about Canada and she HAD to smile and be polite and feign interest. Then she said to her son, "Oh come on, on my birthday too of all days, why can't you just be good?" at which point I butted in again (sweetly smiling) and insisted we all sing her Happy Birthday in English. Oh she was gritting her teeth through her fake-as-hell grin and it was wonderful to put her through the torture of having to wait there and listen to us. Stupid cow.
I am seriously considering making posters to the effect of "Adults - please keep an eye on your children and intervene if necesssary. Forget your mobile phone - enjoy your kids!" and secretly taping them all over the parks!!!
Oh the tales I could tell. Oh OK then, I will. This week, for example. We went to the pebble park. So we brought the sand toys because you can use a spade and bucket and a dump truck or two with pebbles. Of course a few other little ones honed in on the toys and that is great because I want my kids to share and play with others. So play they did. And then, inevitably, a few issues arose. So inspired by this and other incidents, I have created a few categories of Idiot Adults Who Accompany Kids to the Park. Here are some:
Distracted or Whimsical Fathers
Children under the age of 3? 4? really do not know how to play together and I don't expect them to. I do expect the parent/grandfather/carer to intervene when the kid does something unacceptable within the limits of their little age range, for example hitting, grabbing, etc. etc. So when little Gabriele grabbed the spade from Elias' hand and his father, busy sending text messages on his cell, totally ignored the situation, I intervened.
Thus ensued the fight between me and a two-year-old to get spade back (OK maybe not my best moment but what the heck). I started calling the kid's father even! In the end I just let go of the damn spade and said, "OK forget it. Elias this kid isn't worth it," and then his father intervened. By taking his kid, who of course started crying, home. Nice one, dad. So much for educating, explaining and resolving. The guy was probably blaming me too. Whatever.
There was another unforgettable time when Evil Child was busy and repeatedly shoving his smaller "friend" down the slide while their fathers chatted together, oblivious to the littler one's crying. When Evil Child's hand reached for my boy's bottom to do the same, I gently but decisively grabbed his wrist and said, "No, we don't do that". He went whimpering to his father (who had forgotten he existed) who asked him what was wrong. Evil Child couldn't explain and you know, I didn't volounteer to help out there.
Well-Meaning and Not-So-Well-Meaning Grandparents
Back to this week's park experience. While Gabriele and I were having our tug-of-war, not-so-little (older than Elias) Filippo was busy emptying a toy pram and filling it with pebbles. His grandfather was also busy on his cell phone. Filippo was a decent kid but he could have set a car on fire, chopped down a tree and thrown himself off the bridge into the river and his grandfather would have been oblivious. When the mother of the owner of the aforementioned pram discovered its fate, I had to say to her, "we didn't do that" or else she would have blamed us. I thought it was Filippo's sister's so I hadn't said anything in the first place. Oh, his grandfather never noticed...
Wild Child is what I called a kid, 3 and a half, running wild in the park while grandmother ever so vaguely looked on. When said Wild Child began grabbing from René who started giving him a kind but firm lesson by telling him that's not how we do things, grandmother vaguely intervened - but only after about 5 minutes of jumping, screaming, grabbing Wild Child's antics - and blamed daycare for her grandchild's behaviour. We walked away, shaking our collective heads.
Mothers Who Need to Get Dirty
Oh the parents who take their kids to the park and then yell at them for getting dirty.
I secretly envision them slipping in dog doo on their way home from the park and messing up their designer shoes forever.
So let's set the scene. You have a child. You dress them really well in total designer clothes. You take them to the park. You do not let them go down the slide because it is dirty. You ignore them because you need to check your cell phone or chat to some other superficial mother. You finally realise your child's been missing for 20 minutes, you locate child and then you give them hell because they're dirty.
One time we were busy getting filthy in the sand pit when we were joined by two boys about 10 years old. We chatted about Canada and played a bit together and then Mother came along. She proceeded to get upset at her son for getting sandy at which point I totally and rudely interrupted but smiled sweetly throughout so she couldn't really tell me to shut up. I told her we had been talking about Canada and she HAD to smile and be polite and feign interest. Then she said to her son, "Oh come on, on my birthday too of all days, why can't you just be good?" at which point I butted in again (sweetly smiling) and insisted we all sing her Happy Birthday in English. Oh she was gritting her teeth through her fake-as-hell grin and it was wonderful to put her through the torture of having to wait there and listen to us. Stupid cow.
I am seriously considering making posters to the effect of "Adults - please keep an eye on your children and intervene if necesssary. Forget your mobile phone - enjoy your kids!" and secretly taping them all over the parks!!!
Wednesday 10 August 2011
Why a new blog?
I want to start this blog for me and for my small but energetic family. I'm not interested if anyone reads it, except I would like it if I could keep it going and have the kids read it when they are big enough. There are so many things that happen on a day to day basis that I always say, oh I must remember this and that but that I never write down. My memory is so bad anyway that I fear I have lost so many things already so now I am hoping to record a few special things here.
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