Picture yourself.

Picture motherhood.

http://picturemotherhood.blogspot.com/

I looked directly at Little Dude. He “mailed” one of my letters not too long ago. “Did you take my letter?”

“No,” was the quick answer but I didn’t grill him any further. Little Dude hasn’t learned to lie about taking my things, yet. And, the last and only time he did take one of my letters, he led me straight to his “mailbox”.

I then turned my attention on LittleR Dude. “Did you take my letter?”

“I put it with my treasures, mommy!” he admits.

Content with this explanation, we continued eating our breakfast.

A half an hour later, I followed my 2 1/2-year-old to the spot where he kept his treasures. He led me up the stairs to his brother’s room and opened the play kitchen oven.

“Huh?! It’s not here.” So to the bonus room above the garage we went. He opened a drawer and found what he was looking for.

“Here’s your letter, mommy!”

An honest mistake, I suppose.

“No. No. I’m looking for a paper letter in an envelope with a stamp on it,” I explained. LittleR Dude seemed confused and handed me the “Y” train.

Just then, Little Dude walked in the room, pointed to the top of the window and yells, “There’s your letter up there, mommy!”

Feeling a little defeated, I took my “Y” train, went back downstairs to finish my morning coffee.

“Are you having a pee?”
“No!”
“Are you having a pee?”
“NO!!

A second later, LittleR Dude scoots away from the middle of the tub.
“Ah. Ah. I don’t want to sit in the pee!”

Later. Both boys are finally in the bath together. The hubby looks at our 4-year-old.

“Are you having a pee?”
“Yeah.”

Alternate title for this post:
Pee. Rinse. Repeat.

So here I am. I feel an overwhelming need to share this with you. If you are a parent, I’m pretty sure you can relate. Today, I offer you a story of shit.

Yes, shit.

My hands feel tight. Scrubbed and rescrubbed numerous times after this afternoon’s encounter with shit.

I suppose I should commend my 4-year-old for trying to clean the mess up. Some people who frequent the family restrooms have a thing or two to learn from Little Dude. But holy, mother of god! Shit was everywhere.

I found Little Dude in the main floor bathroom with a piece of toilet paper in one hand. His other hand was holding the potty stool over the toilet bowl. The poor thing was trying to clean off a thick, watery clump of poop that was stuck to the stool. His shit-smeared underpants laid on top of his shorts on the floor.

My first thought? Ewwwwww!!!

Then I snapped back to my mommy role and asked Little Dude if he still had more poop to come out. He said, “Yes.” I sat him down on the toilet ignoring the yellowy mess covering his bum and streaming down one leg.

“You shouldn’t try to clean up your poopy mess yourself, buddy. Next time you have an accident, you need to ask mommy for help. OK?” I wanted to give him a hug but my hands were already covered with shit.

Rewind 15 minutes before the accident. Little Dude runs to the bathroom but comes out promptly saying, “My poop isn’t coming out fast.” He rejoins us at the lunch table.

Five minutes later. “Mommy, I have a tummy ache,” and he sits on my lap.

Two minutes later. “I’m feeling better,” and he goes in the familyroom to play.

A few more minutes later, he’s running towards the bathroom exclaiming, “I have to poo!!”

Moral of this story:

The next time my supposedly potty-trained pre-schooler claims his poop isn’t coming yet, I will put my lunch on hold and make sure he sits on the toilet until his poop is securely in the bowl. It will make for a little less shitty day for us all.

Sent from my Blackberry device

I loved yesterday because I got to experience some of my favourite things …

Sleeping in. Pancakes for breakfast. A trip to Chapters with the boys. A tall mocha. An hour and a half of alone time. The hubby’s special ribs for dinner. Catching up on my favourite TV shows.

Most of all, I loved waking up to the sound of my little guys’ voices (who were busy helping the hubby clean the family room) and being greeted with a loud chorus of “Happy Mother’s Day!” when I finally showed my bleary-eyed self downstairs. The boys were coached by the hubby, no doubt, but it was still lovely, lovely to hear.

No, yesterday wasn’t grand. But there is such loveliness in my everyday. My weekend day, made special every week by the hubby and the boys.

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me and 8-day-old Little Dude

I had meant to write a different sort of Mother’s Day post, yesterday. I found this self-portrait, taken on the 8th day of being a mom, to go along with it but didn’t get beyond uploading the photo. The hubby’s invitation for some snuggle time in front of the tube after the boys finally settled down for the night was just too hard to pass up.

A belated happy mother’s day to all the moms out there.

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This week’s i ♥ faces theme is “celebrating moms”. I did not submit an entry but I encourage you to check out all the lovely mommy photos by clicking on the button below.

I’ve been inspired by the 50+ entries to date and have come up with my own “then and now” of Little Dude. It’s more cute than funny. Perhaps tomorrow, if the planets align properly, I will have one of LittleR Dude, too.

age: 2 months

age: 4 years

Go check out the other entries by clicking on the button below and give in to a good hearty belly laugh or two.

Shutter Sisters’ OWP word for May is everyday. For my boys, everyday involves some form of playing, as well as reading, which translates to a whole lot of toys and books strewn around everywhere. Everyday clutter that doesn’t necessarily get put away everyday. Everyday objects declaring to the world (or at least those people who dare visit our home) that there are young children living in this house.

I love this photo, not only because I’ve captured an intimate moment between the hubby and the boys, but because it shows how we live everyday. The train set above their heads … an evolving work-in-progress project for the boys. The baby quilt on the left … my attempt to keep the snotty noses and drool off the sofa. The crumpled change mat near the hubby’s feet and the white storage unit housing LittleR Dude’s diapers and wipes, as well as the boys’ books and toys.

The photo is simply us, everyday.

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I couldn’t help but also share this photo taken before the one above. I had just bought a book called The World’s Greatest Poem and the hubby decided to read it while lying down on the floor. Little Dude followed suit, plopping himself on top of the hubby. Then LittleR Dude, after a brief struggle, managed to lie on top of his older brother. This three-tiered human tower unfortunately didn’t last very long. Or rather, it took me awhile to compose myself before I remembered to get my camera. And, as life would have it, my speedlight flash batteries died a horrible death after only a couple of snaps. I managed to salvage this badly exposed shot of the trio.

The 1st photo was taken with my point & shoot.

To me, my boys look half-Asian, half-white. They’ve inherited my features, particularly, LittleR Dude. There should be no question that I played a big part in producing them just by looking at them. But, I also know that some people don’t see what I see. A few just can’t get beyond me being Filipina. And, let’s face it. I live in a neighbourhood/town where Filipina nannies abound.

So why did the moron who came to my door asking to speak to the “owner of the house” surprise me? It more than surprised me. I was livid. Even as I type this post, I can feel the loathing for that man rising up again.

People have come to the door before. I saw how their eyes travelled past me, searching for clues, their minds churning, wondering if I was the hired-help and trying to find the right words to begin the conversation. But most recover from their initial hesitation, especially after hearing me speak. Most assume that I am the owner and begin their pitch as usual. At worst, I would get asked, “Are you the owner of the house?” … until the moron came to my door a few days ago.

The moron took a second to assess me and concluded (even as my two boys were yelling, “Mommy, mommy. Who’s that?”) that I was not the owner of my house. And his visit took me back to place I had not been in a very long time.

Later that night, I thought about my childhood and about immigrating to Canada at age 9 … and hearing the “Chinese-Japanese-Dirty knees” chant for the first time. I didn’t get it, at first. It didn’t register right away that the chant was directed at me. I wasn’t Chinese or Japanese. And, anyway, every other kid I knew had dirty knees from playing. What was the big deal?

When I finally clued in to the racist nature of the chant, it cut deep, though I didn’t let it show. I walked away and didn’t respond. I had been teased by my own siblings for looking more Chinese than Filipina. They, my brothers mostly, teased me about my eyes being slanted. I had been honed early on to take the teasing in stride.

The night the moron came to my door, I remembered how I was continually mocked by the only other Asian kid in my elementary class … Gillian Wong. I didn’t understand why she was so mean to me then. We should have been friends, bonded by the mere fact that we looked alike … that we looked different from the rest of the class.

Many years later, I realized that she must have seen me differently. I was the immigrant Asian … the one with “dirty knees” that the childhood rhyme was mocking. I represented the group of people that she had probably been battling to disassociate herself from. She did not see herself as being one of those people. Eventually, I learned to ignore her ridicule and steered clear from her and her elite group of white friends. I made my own friends.

In high school, my tongue became sharper. I remember walking home after school. There was a girl walking ahead of me. When I got closer, she stopped, turned around and asked if I had come to Canada “on a boat”. I don’t think she was trying to be funny or hurtful. It was a simple question to her. She just wanted to know. But that didn’t matter to me. I felt immediate hate for this girl. “You’re ignorant. We came by plane,” I barked back and even added, “We rode First Class!” (a lie) and kept on walking without waiting for a response.

These memories … my early experiences of intolerance and ignorance … are what the moron took me back to when he came to the door.

I like to think I’ve come a long way from the sorry-looking immigrant girl with black as black hair, scrapes on her knees and no-name, hand-me-down clothes. Most people would never guess that English wasn’t my first language, now.

When the moron who lives across the street came to my door asking to speak to the owner of the house not once but twice, I was enraged. It has been decades since high school. His ignorance shocked me. I wasn’t expecting it.

Lucky for us both, my old self-preservation strategies kicked in. I kept the conversation polite but brief. In all honesty, I think I remained calm mostly because my kids were also at the door. Who knows? We might have had a different conversation had I been alone. It was also way past the boys’ bath/bedtime and I felt a greater need to keep the conversation short than to provide neighbour-to-neighbour etiquette training to the crazy moron. But mostly, I think I just couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t think the moron really meant to insult me but his words … his ignorance … anger me still. He will never be welcomed in our home. But why?

I always knew that one day I would be mistaken for the nanny. He only proved that I was right.

1975 passport photo

Dear Moron fr across the street: If it wasn’t bad enough that you rang the doorbell at 8:30pm interrupting bath/bedtime, but, honestly, what f***ing planet are you on to ask, “Um. Can I talk to the owner of the house?” Did the half-Asian boys next to me yelling, “Mommy, mommy. Who’s that?” not clue you in? And, f**k no! You can’t come in to see what the landscapers are doing in the back. Stupid ass, moron!!!!

Sometimes, I wish I could just be this frank with people in person. I’m still stunned from this evening’s encounter with my new neighbour. The hubby is out-of-town and I only have the blogosphere (and Facebook) to rant to so here goes.

Yes, it began as I said above. The doorbell rang. My boys were shouting “Mommy, mommy. Who’s that?” as I opened the door. A short man in his late 30s-40s stood there. Who knows? Maybe he was even 50 something. I can’t tell how old morons are these days.

The moron stood there looking at me and the boys.

“Yes?”
“Um. Can I talk to the owner of the house?”
“Pardon me?” I asked in disbelief.
“Are the owners of the house in?”
[OMG. The moron actually repeated his question.]
“I AM the owner of the house.”
“Oh, I was just wondering what’s going on?”
[Construction equipment is scattered on the front lawn and landscapers are finishing up in the back.]
“You mean with the construction?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you from the neighbourhood?”
“Yes, I live just across the street,” he said pointing.
“What’s your name?”
“Moron“
“Well, Moron. We’re just doing some work in the back.”
[Awkward silence]
“Well, I’m just about to give the boys a bath …”
“Yeah, I was just wondering what’s going on with all this.”
“We’re just redoing the backyard.”
[Another awkward silence. I'm eyeing the panic button on my security system. Beginning to think this guy is nuts.]
“Do you have a complaint?”
“No, not at all. I’m just wondering what’s going on.”
“We’re redoing the WHOLE backyard.”
“Can I have a look?” he said making a motion to enter the house.
“No! I’m just about to start bath for the boys. Maybe, you can come back on the weekend [when my husband is home, dirtbag]. During the day.”

I don’t remember what else was said. I may have been in too much of a hurry to lock the door and put the security system back on.

Crazy, stupid ass, moron!

The hubby is out-of-town again so I turn to photography (and coffee) to take me to a happy place.

Ahhhh. I feel better.