When I was younger, regardless of my relationship status, I had nothing but contempt for Valentine’s Day. “A stupid, made-up holiday created by the card companies – I don’t need a special day to say I love you” is one such witty, original thought you might have heard uttered by myself. This is along the same lines as my thoughts about diamond engagement rings. “DeBeers monopoly! Far overvalued! Excessive and unsavoury marketing practices! Attempts to purchase romance!” Suffice it to say I do not have a diamond ring, and I also do not receive gifts on Valentine’s Day. Clever, clever girl I am.

My feelings about Valentine’s Day have really changed since having kids. I need to word this delicately so as to not sound like a weirdo: I really enjoy getting Valentines from the kids. Or rather, I would really enjoy receiving Valentines from the kids, SHOULD THEY ACTUALLY THINK ABOUT IT. This, surely, is some kind of Valentine-related karma.

Now, I don’t want to seem creepy. The last thing in the world that I want is to be one of those mothers who say things like “I’ll always be his number one girl!” with regards to their sons. Or one of those mothers who think that no woman will EVER be good enough for her baby boy. Because we all know how those boys turn out, don’t we: either they live with their doting and creepy mothers forever or they come to despise their doting and creepy mothers and never speak to them again. Or only speak to them in forced, uncomfortable telephone conversations around statutory holidays.

That disclaimer out of the way, I really wish the boys would make me a Valentine of their own free will. This year, spurred on by last year’s trauma (which will be related shortly) Rob essentially made the boys feel so guilty that they made some paper hearts. Or rather, they said wanted to make paper hearts and as they lack then necessary artistic skills, I made the hearts and they decorated them. Last year, excited to receive my very first red-paper-and-doily preschool Valentine, I was, shall we say, disappointed to find that Mark had created that exact thing ADDRESSED TO HIS FATHER. This year, as we set out their cards to make for their classmates, both boys immediately set aside a special one JUST FOR DAD. Now, I’m ecstatic that they think their father is so awesome (as do I, by the way) but WHERE ARE MY VALENTINES, YOU UNGRATEFUL CHILDREN???? I have to think that those years of Valentine’s Day disdain has come back to bite me.

Yesterday was the preschool Valentine’s party, and it appears that Mark is the class dreamboat. I’ve never really liked Valentine’s Day – and this is definitely the subject of a different post – but I love the way young children celebrate it. I love choosing cards with the boys for them to distribute (Iron Man for Mark, dinosaurs for Jake). I love getting the class list and having the kids make out cards TO EVERYONE, so no one is left out. I love how they make envelopes to collect all their cards. I love making heart shaped cookies and cupcakes with heart sprinkles. But what I really love is looking at the kids’ Valentine cards. This year, they were really hilarious. Jake got so many “You’re cute” and “My friend” cards, but Mark’s were all the “XOX” and “Kiss Me” and “I Love You” variety. Truthfully, it’s Valentine’s Day, so I would never have thought twice about it, had the moms of several girls in the class not given me a head’s up. “Marina didn’t really want to give out cards to most of the boys” her mom mentioned, “But she has a special message for Mark!”

Let’s just say that Mark is popular with the ladies. Last year he told me that certain girls were always following him around; this year he complains that they try to kiss him in class. We ran into a friend from his class at the mall, and she stroked his arm as she cooed (I’m not kidding) “I just LOVE the Cars movie” which is certainly music to his Cars-obsessed ears.

The secret to his allure is his total indifference to girls. Ah, there’s nothing quite as attractive as indifference, is there? Being hard to get? Apparently it all starts at preschool. As Mark himself puts it “Chelsea really likes me, but I’m not really interested in what she likes to do”. My husband and I joke about this a lot, imagining him and his unfortunate future girlfriends, girls who will earnestly pour out their hearts to him, to which he will respond with something along the lines of “I think I need to get an oil change”. Poor girls.

I was recently party to a conversation with regards to junior high school. A woman I know was discussing the school we both attended, and she stated “Those were still the best days of my life”. People, I was astonished. Junior high? I myself was so miserable in junior high that I almost can’t comprehend how someone wouldn’t be, let alone being able to think of that time with nostalgia and fondness. Let alone saying that your junior high years were the best days of your life. When I close my eyes I can picture myself perfectly, with a late-eighties spiral perm and teased bangs, tight rolled-up jeans and a tucked-in Depeche Mode t-shirt, and glasses that I refused to wear which subsequently caused me to wander around in semi-blindness until I obtained contacts at the age of fifteen. I can still feel the struggle of fitting in, the difficulty in figuring out who I was, and the almost total lack of self-esteem.

Later, I slowly started to figure out who I was and what I wanted. I can see myself evolving as a teenager, losing the rolled-up jeans, but not, sadly, the perm. I picture myself in a black babydoll dress, tights, and strangely, army boots, which would later make way for short plaid skirts and turtlenecks. My goal in life was to be a concert pianist, and then it was to be a great theatre actress. In grade twelve I was introduced to and fell in love with calculus, which shaped the rest of my academic career. Just writing that makes me feel like Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club (“and in the physics club we talk about physics”). Maybe I should rename this blog “Nerdy Girl in a Boy House”.

I have never been happier than I am right now. I love my husband, my children, my dog. I’ve never been so happy with my physical appearance, despite the fact that my varicose veins make my legs look like they are being strangled by boa constrictors and a hundred fine lines have taken up residence under my eyes. I’m happy and content with my life, but never at any point did I think I would be where I am right now. I, who in grad school had a poster of the feminist manifesto on my office wall beside a picture of a fish on a bicycle, am a housewife.

It’s not like I don’t have some internal struggle with this, especially when I hear about old colleagues achieving success and traveling around the world, or when the boys question me about my pre-partum life. But at the end of the day, this is where I want to be.

Today was a good day, actually a very good day, as opposed to yesterday which was a very bad day. Anyone who is or was a stay-at-home mom can understand how a day in which nothing significant happens can actually be a great day. In the past half hour I have heard phrases uttered such as “Hey, I know! We can BOTH be Batman” and “Let’s be a TEAM” which is nice and heart-warming. I was actually thinking about putting my children up for sale yesterday (hey, they’re cute!) or even myself up for sale (hey, I’m cute!). But today is a much better day.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I actually don’t really like babies. I mean, I love my children so much, and I somewhat enjoyed the time when they were babies, but boy, am I happy they are not babies anymore. I know many many women who think nostalgically about their children’s babyhood, but I am not one of them. Today when I saw them frolicking around the melting snow, and then chasing each other and the dog around the house, I just thought – it just gets better and better, doesn’t it. As they grow into the little people that they are, even the bad days seem not so bad.

Although, I can’t help but think I just jinxed tomorrow.

I don’t know about you, but I LOVE getting new books at Christmas. I just finished one such book – The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – and I have a word of advice: don’t bother. What a bore. Predictable storyline, boring and unsympathetic characters, and a literary style (using letters and correspondence to convey the story) that can work, but in this case just didn’t. I noticed the blurb on the back was written by none other than the celebrated Elizabeth Gilbert.

Now, I’m not sure if I should hack on Elizabeth Gilbert – I mean, did I found a whole you-go-girl-find-yourself-travel-around-the-world-do-some-yoga-build-a-house-for-a-native-Islander movement? No, I did not. – but wow, did I dislike Eat, Pray, Love. Not because of the concept; conceptually it is a very interesting story. I just thought the writing was boring and I found myself really not caring what happened to her, Miss “I Gave Too Much of Myself and So I Get To Live a Fabulous Year Abroad Doing Whatever I Want and Getting Paid For It”. Sorry if that sounded a bit bitter. The thing is, once I finished enjoying the food descriptions in Italy, I found that the rest of the book sort of sucked. One big snore. I really expected more from an acclaimed writer; instead I found myself paging through the book looking for whatever it was that made it a sensation. I still haven’t found it.

The point is – read the blurb on the back of the book. Often the blurb author is a great indicator of the quality of the book. So I’m looking for a book recommendation – anyone?

So I was reading this local parenting magazine, and I came across an article on picky eating. Since my children will not even eat macaroni and cheese – macaroni and cheese! Nectar of the comfort food gods! – I read every single picky eating article I come across. After reading, I realized that it was written by someone I know, which was exciting, and yet depressing, as I know for certain that her children regularly eat everything set in front of them. I have the utmost respect for professional opinions, but when it comes to picky eating, I think you actually have to live with a picky eater before you can offer advice on how to deal with it. Otherwise, it sort of feels like getting parenting advice from a non-parent, a phenomenon which has happened to all of us I’m sure, and is especially lovely when it comes from a relation who likes to visit and tell you how you are DOING IT ALL WRONG. But, I’m not going to go there.

Some picky eating advice is quite decent, like paying attention to the food presentation, or involving your children in meal planning and preparation. I do all these things, but yet, the variety of foods consumed by my children is fairly limited. Mark can happily scrub an entire sink full of potatoes, but is about as likely to eat one as he is to don a tutu and dance the Nutcracker. Which is to say, not likely.

I may be going out on a limb here, but if your child eats a fairly rounded and balanced diet, who really cares if he doesn’t eat certain items. I mean, sure, it’s great to expose your children to new foods, but it’s also great not to waste time and money on preparing things that will almost certainly be not eaten. It’s great if your child will happily dig into everything you prepare, but hey, that is totally not the situation in my house. Add that to the fact that I am really not an enthusiastic cook, and you get the following rules in my house:

1. Breakfast is always eaten and always contains at least two or three food groups.
2. Juice is fine at snacktime, but only milk or water at dinner.
3. Fruit and veggies are served generously at snacktime, along with home-baked goods (that contain sugar! Bad bad mommy indeed).
4. Dinner consists of a vegetable, a grain, and a protein. If the protein I have prepared is not to your liking, yogurt may be substituted.
5. Yes, yogurt is acceptable at dinner. I care more about calcium and protein than drawing a line in the sand with regards to acceptable dinner foods. This may or may not be the result of my own childhood memories, in which I am forced to sit alone at the table, long after everyone has left and the kitchen cleaned, crying into my plate of liver or hamburger casserole that I must consume before leaving said table. Which leads me to number six.
6. Eat until you are full and then you may be excused. We do not have a “clean plate” rule in my house. This means that small portions are served to reduce waste and seconds and thirds are available, if needed.

My children are healthy and tall, they take their vitamins, they eat vegetables and fruits, and they are picky eaters. Sure, I wish they would try a few more things, that they wouldn’t grimace when I cook something different, but on the whole I would rather not fight with them about eating. I think dinner should be pleasant and social, rather than stressful and experimental.

Do you have a picky eater? If so, how do you deal with it?

So Rob is at a hockey game tonight, and I just finished my standard “Rob’s not here” meal of pita and Greek salad, I’m counting down to bedtime while my children are, strangely enough, playing a game in which they are hammering something – what? – through the holes in their play workshop, and laughing in a shrieking, hyena-like way. I’m looking forward to wine and maybe an episode of Jeopardy and NYPD Blue. I’m also laughing about Mark’s new obsession: just in time for his birthday (okay, it’s seven weeks away) he has been taken by a new commercial. Remember how I said the kids are largely unaffected by commercials? Well, I was wrong. They just needed to see the right one. Mark really really REALLY wants a “Sham-Wow”. It’s a miracle chamois that can clean up an entire spilled can of cola, should you spill an entire can on your carpet. You can wash ANY vehicle with Sham-Wow, and that vehicle will shine like the sun. “But Mom, you will never have to buy paper towels again if we get the Sham-Wow”. Good to know.