Ask a three year old what shapes to use and this is the result:

The Lame-O-Lantern*.

Carter chiseled chest Superman costume will be a hit with the ladies at daycare. I’ll be beating the girls off my little man.

Maybe I’ll use The Lame-O-Lantern.

And I haven’t bought candy yet because I know I’ll eat it all between now and tomorrow night. This way I’ll be scrounging for the craptastical candy and whatever isn’t given out will just be substitute for the stuff I steal from Carter’s good shit tossed in the trashed.

Happy Hallowe’en!

*Dear 20 year-old Carter;

Mommy is just kidding; that’s what she does. She’s a jokester. I really loved your lame-o-lantern jack-o-lantern.

And what the hell are you doing here? You do not want to read this. Trust Me.

I signed myself up for another field trip with Carter’s daycare class. I’m beginning to believe I have this sick compulsion for screaming and defiant children; there really is no other explanation for it. Why else would I subject myself to 23 snot-nosed, loud, and bossy children that aren’t my own?* (Okay 22 children, because yours? Your child was so well behaved.)**

This morning we headed out to a local farm for some pumpkin action. We went on a family outing Sunday, to a different farm, for their fall festival where there was pony rides, petting zoo (which was about four different animals caged and hiding in a corner), corn mazes as well as a puppet show. This morning was pretty much a lot of the same with exception of the frigid temperatures! I can’t believe how much and how fast the weather has turned.

Clad in my spring jacket with a turtleneck sweater, I was sure I would wind up too hot, but the wind! The wind pierced right through me like a million tiny needles, while Carter freaked and clung to me with fear that the wind was going to take him away.

With tears brimming in his eyes, snot running down his face, he forgot about the wind for a few minutes while on a mission to find a pumpkin. He forged ahead as the wind fought back, he was going to find that pumpkin.

We were instructed to find one pumpkin per class (there were three classes in our group) to take back to the school, Carter would not leave his pumpkin. He sat and waited, insisting that this was the one for his class (which I agreed because it was very nice) and was beyond devastated when he had to leave it behind.

All was forgotten when I mentioned the lamest, most craptacular puppet show and cider.

[There is nothing like apple cider on a frigid fall day, but it HAS to be hot. At least warm. cold apple cider is a no-no. Period.]

I’m just glad it was only a half day. I don’t know that my spring jacket, or Hudson would have been able to hack an entire day. Winter is coming far too quickly.

Gratuitous baby picture:

*  I think my child was the snottiest and loudest there.

** I was really too busy trying to tend to my baby to notice if your child had a snotty nose, but they were screaming. A lot. I’m just glad I opted to drive my own car.

Ever miss just making out? I do.

Like the making out that doesn’t really lead to anything else but raw lips and a stubble rash (okay, so I was making out with boys a lit-tle older then moi). The making out that makes you want to get. it. on… but you don’t? Ya, that making out.

At fifteen I was “dating” a nineteen year old, kinda. Regardless, we would make out, a lot and you know? It never got old. That’s the great part about being young and “in love”. The heart flutters when you see them, the rush of panic mixed with lust the first time you hold hands. The bubbling over with excitement when you experience your first kiss together.

Mike and I, we were like that when we first started dating, but it wasn’t so much about the making out as it was about the – well, you know. Like, ALL. THE. TIME.

[Okay, I was going to write crazy hot sex, but then got scared because OMG, what if a family member is secretly lurking on my blog? so I wrote "well, you know" and I'm pretty sure even if there was a family member lurking - they would understand what "well, you know" means. Duh.]

So. Crazy hot sex. We have had it. We were passionate. In love and always in each others arms.

Eight years have gone by and we’ve slowly subsided into that typical parent-like relationship. The obligatory kiss in the morning, when he returns home from work, when we go to bed. In fact, it’s less of a kiss than it is a peck on the lips. Without thought, feeling, emotion – it’s just a kiss.

A kiss should never be just a kiss when it’s between lovers. A kiss should be passionate, heartfelt and warm. It would evoke emotion and urges. It should be meant.

It’s difficult with young children, pulling at you every second, requiring constant attention, that won’t let you put them down, and have needs that must be met NOW!; they don’t realize that when their parents are trying to share an embrace in the kitchen while dinner is simmering that it’s the first time they’ve been in each other’s arms all month week.

Dammit, I want to be kissed. I want to make out with my husband and maybe have it lead to – well, you know – I want a romance novel like scene where I’m swept up in his arms and kissed hard and passionately.  I want to wake up in the morning, spooning with my husband and not in a seperate bed with my infant son.

When I heard people complain about not having sex because there was no time or energy for it after having children I scoffed at them. What do you mean no time? There’s always time for sex! I was wrong. At least with small children, sex is just about the furthest thing from my mind.

I’ve tried to explain this to Mike by telling him that as soon as my head hits that pillow I want to nestle into its soft warm-y goodness and doze off to la-la-land rather than have my head banging off the headboard to which he responded: We can do it somewhere else then. The couch? The floor? On top of the washer?

[Okay, and here I was worried about lurking family reading about hot sex. Stoopid.]

You know what would be more appealing to sex at this moment? Having the laundry washed and put away. The dish washer unloaded; the carpets vacuumed. That would be on the verge of orgasmic for me right now.

Maybe he could dress like a Chip n’ Dale. Then we’ll talk about sex on the washer.

Kill two birds with one stone, no?

As we pulled into the parking space, Carter pipes up: That’s where the boy fell because his Mommy wasn’t paying attention. I was a little shocked that he remembered the incident and also that he was so quick to blame the mom.

Why is everything mom’s fault?

Sufficed to say, it kinda hit a nerve with me.

If dinner’s not on the table, laundry is not washed and *someone* can’t find socks / a belt / underwear / a shirt it’s because of something the mom has or has not done. Even with all the talk of gender equality and co-parenting, there seems to be this undefined line which isn’t crossed – like it’s invasion in mom’s territory or something.

A few friends of mine have fallen into the very gender traditional roles; child rearing, cooking laundry and what have you, and I don’t want to say cater, but cater to their husbands. For them, it’s what they want, they’re happy and that’s fantastic. It’s not for me.

I am not happy when I am called to see what’s for dinner, when I’m asked if I’ve washed his work clothes yet. I instantly get upset: I can’t help it, a knee jerk reaction. I’m on the defensive immediately. Maybe I find it degrading or sexist? I dunno. Don’t get me wrong, I will do these things, but as soon as it’s requested of me it irks me.

Mike’s commented before about co-workers whose wives make their lunches daily. I do not and have not ever made his lunch, nor do I wash his work clothes; but for some reason I feel guilty when he mentions it. I feel as though I am not fulfilling my “duties” as a wife. I’m not keeping my husband happy by providing what he requests of me. How 1950’s is THAT!?

Maybe my house would be cleaner, activities would be better organized and I would be happier if I just changed my tune. I can’t tell you why I take it to heart the way I do, I’m just hardwired to be independent and refuse to cater to a man I suppose, I can’t think of any other reason for it aside from just being plain ass lazy. Maybe I was a housemaid is a previous life?

What about you? Are you happy to do the “stereotypical mom duties” or are you like me and revolt?

For the most part, my brother and I shared gender neutral toys. We each had a Cabbage Patch Kid: mine a girl and his a boy, but from what I can remember, everything else was geared toward both of us. As we got older, the toys began to segregate and were more and more defined by gender. I with my pink and my brother with his blue. It’s just the way it was. It was an unspoken social calamity for a male child to be seen with anything remotely shaded in a feminine colour for he would be labeled: Gay. Homosexual. Fag. A fairy.

Enter the POWER! COLOURS!; a sign of the times changing. More men were, and still are, seen in brighter more supposed “feminine colours”: lavender, pink, baby blue (which I might add I find very attractive on a man).  It’s more than acceptable and doesn’t carry the sigma of being of the homosexual variety. With most.

The men in my life (read: husband, brother and father) are comfortable with the colours and such, but still very much have the unrelenting belief that dolls are for girls. Boys do not play with dolls.

I, on the other hand, am a firm believer that an object such as a plastic doll cannot and would not determine the sexual orientation of a human being: be it a female or male.

Mike and I have had many discussions which have ended on the verge of a fight because Carter has asked for the Mariposa Barbie Doll for Christmas.

I’m all for it and he’s against it – obviously – and we are both so very adamant out or respective positions that I am on the brink of losing my mind because I am so disgusted with the fact that such an insignificant item, such as a Barbie doll, has caused such an uproar between us. It’s a fuckin’ chunk of plastic that I am willing to buy just to prove my point.

Mike’s concern is partly of the perception people will have of our child, the teasing he could possibly endure, because he has a doll. What do I think of that? He’s THREE! The children at daycare wear tiaras, princess outfits and carry dolls. Girls and boys. I highly doubt that they are going to make fun of a Barbie doll but instead, try and take it for themselves.

The other significant worry he has is that it will turn our son gay. (Is it bad that I even cringe while writing that and feel a touch of embarrassment for my husband?) Playing with a doll will inevitably mean that our son will become homosexual. (I can’t even write it without rolling my eyes.)

[Mike is not a "gay basher" by any means; I wouldn't even classify him as a homophobic person. I'll say that he tolerates it. (Even though that sounds horrible. Tolerates it. Gah!)]

I am very open about my appreciation of any sexual orientation. It’s a personal decision and does not affect myself or my personal way of life. I believe love is love and everyone deserves to have love in their lives whether they find it with someone of the same sex or not. I am all for gay marriage, same sex couples, same sex adoptions, what have you – so I find it very difficult to see the logic of the other side of the spectrum.

Which leads me to Proposition 8.

Proposition 8 is an initiative measure on the 2008 California General Election ballot titled Eliminates Right of Same-Sex Couples to Marry. If passed, the proposition would “change the California Constitution to eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry in California.” A new section would be added stating “only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California.”

source: wikipedia

I could go on and on about how those of a same sex relationship deserve the same rights as those in a traditional man-and-woman relationship, but the real issue is civil rights.

The right for a person to make a choice.

The right for a person to choose.

The rights of a person regardless of their sexual orientation.

It’s about Human Rights.

To put it as simple as I possibly ever could:

Let’s review:

A doll is a doll is a doll.

A child is born free and oblivious to hate, racism and prejudice.

It is our job, as parents, as adults, to keep our children open minded and accepting.

It’s the only way we’ll ever win the battle against hate.

Temporarily Me is hosted with DreamHost and has been since I moved to Wordpress in 2007. You may have noticed that my blog is perpetually slow. Yes. Shocking. I know. Commenting is quite often a nightmare, and so you’re aware: so is writing a damn post.

I’ve dealt with their support staff on many occassions trying to devise a resolution that will last for more than 24 hours – which still has yet to be done. That’s the joy of shared servers my friends. I find myself in the mix of some high volume sites which are sucking all the juice and leaving virtually nothing for my wee blog.

During one of the many excrutiatingly slow periods, I requested a move to a different server. Which was met with immediate service and friendly, informative help – I will say that their staff is very pleasant to deal with – but I think I was moved to an even SLOWER machine which has resulted in even more slow periods and now the recent commenting fiasco. You know the one – where everyone and their dog was met with a big fat FAIL!? (I wish I could have my very own FAIL WHALE each time a reader was met with the This fuckin’ web host is eating my brains page.

Why haven’t I jumped ship you’re wondering? Well, I have a contract until February of ‘09 and at that time, I will consider it. Unless someone from DreamHost spots this post and in an effort to keep me aboard they offer me a private server.

(Hey, it could happen.)

Don’t get me wrong, DreamHost has been an excellent service and have great staff. They are very inexpensive and I can host all my sites through one package, which isn’t the norm (so I’ve read). But with the inexpensive fees they also have a large customer base and everyone is cramped on to servers like passengers on a Chinese subway. Getting fast service is really a hit and miss based on which server you’re on.

(Think of my little blog like a band geek getting run down by an entire football team. I know, it’s sad, right. Poor band geek.)

(I mean no disrespect to band geeks because HOLY SHIT! I can barely chew gum and walk let alone read sheet music, play and walk – sometimes dance.)

And the whole point of this fuckin‘ boring post?

It’s not my designs that are screwing up everything! *phew* I was getting a complex.

And!

Look at me! I have a new design!

It’s got less images to load which will *hopefully* help my pages load a little faster as they fight their way through the masses to get to you.

All for you guys.

Aren’t I the sweetest thing EVAH!?

I saw you as we entered the store. One child up front in the seat and the older one in the back, standing. I thought to myself: I hate when people do that. I didn’t think much of it after that, after all I’ve seen it so many times now.

I busied myself with my children and our own shopping, I saw you pass by again. You were distracted with the little baby up front while your older boy stood hands-free in the back, to which I winced. As I return my attention to my children and the snowsuits, I heard it.

The unmistakable sound of flesh hitting tile. The thump! of bone meeting a hard surface.

I heard you gasp and loudly whisper: Oh God!

My heart sank.

As you scooped up your son, I resisted the urge to run to you.To scoop you up and tell you that he’s all right. I wanted to bad to say that we’ve all be there at one time or another. To say, it’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.

But I did nothing.

I was worried you were about to cry as your voice cracked while inspecting your son for boo boos. I fought so hard not to go to you. If it had been me and a stranger approached? I would have begun bawling; I didn’t want that for you.

As your son buried his face in your neck I wanted so much to sweep up my own offspring into my arms  and shush him too, though he wasn’t even crying, but running around somewhere out of sight.

Let’s go home, you said as you took your child into your arms while he continued to whimper, the younger one starting to cry in the shopping cart.

I busied myself so you didn’t see me watching, thinking I was judging when I most certainly was not. I was feeling for you. I was hurting for you and I was wanting to turn back the clock ever so slightly so I could be there and stop it from happening.

I’m sorry.

Hudson and I have a very different relationship in comparison to what Carter and I shared; I now see that maybe my urge for him to grow up and experience things overcame the loving and bonding we could (or should) have shared. Maybe I could have held him more, even played together more? He’s a completely healthy, outgoing and super independent toddler that I don’t think I would do anything differently.

But once night would fall, I couldn’t think of anything else but getting some alone time before I went to bed. Once 9pm came I was done but all he wanted to do was cuddle and be held, all I wanted to do was crash on the couch and watch some mindless television.

By four months we had begun The CIO Method.

Yes, Ferberization, The Ferber Method… Cry It Out.

In less than 2 weeks, Carter was sleeping through the night and is still a great sleeper, minus some nights of bad dreams and needing to pee, of course.

Hudson is a completely different story which I could kind of sense from day one. He’s emotional, craves touch and very mellow. He’s very much a sensitive soul.

This has brought on Attachment Parenting – the holding, the wearing (only sometimes though since I don’t really enjoy it), the tenderness, the constant cuddles and the co-sleeping.

(We did and do use Attachment Parenting with Carter just not to the extreme I’ve noticed with Hudson.)

What could you hate about that you’re wondering?

Well, I don’t really hate; in fact, I kinda like the loving, cuddly happy baby part, but the co-sleeping? I could totally do without.

I am in no way knocking those who do, nor those who have a family bed. It’s just not my cup of tea is all: I like my space when I’m sleeping and having a baby in the bed freaks the shit out of me to be frank. We tried the bassinet beside the bed thing and it wasn’t working; it’s come to the point where I’ve put the guest bed in the nursery and moved in with Hudson where we sleep together.

(Sounds so wrong. Hi, I’m 12.)

But I don’t sleep well because I am afraid of rolling and smothering baby forgetting that he’s in the bed with me (which has nearly happened already!).

For the most part, it’s working alright I just miss being in my bed with my blanket stealing, kicking and snoring husband.

Weird. I know.

I’m ready for Hudson to be in his own bed and me in mine, but I need help getting there.

I know how to do the crying it out thing, that’s not the trouble. But what I don’t know what to do about is teaching the baby to cry it out with a toddler sleeping in the room adjacent to the nursery. Carter’s a decent sleeper, but I know if he heard his brother losing his shit next door, he’d be up in a shot.

Enlighten me with your assvice.

(Guess it’s not really assvice when I ask for it, is it?)

But! I don’t want to hear about how he’s too young to cry it out and how mean it is, because it’s not and it works and we’re happy with it and I’m hating co-sleeping: I’d rather my baby cry then be rolled on.

Now play nice.