Eggmus: A world I would love to live in

Epsilon hates french toast. He hates it with the full force of his fickle three year old psyche. Unfortunately, that is what I made for breakfast Saturday morning. 

An hour of dithering and tantrums chase me from the dining room, leaving my partner at the mercy of the ritual meal time maelstorms. No longer outnumbered by adults, Epsilon turns on his father. "You are a bad Daddy."

"I am." My partner replies calmly.

"Other children at nursery have good Daddies."

"How are they good daddies?" This could be interesting.

"They stay at home and the mommies drop the children off to school." All parents learn lessions in not laughing at their children in the face of their ridiculous statements. My partner paid more attention than I did on the day they went over this detail in parent training school. He remains silent long enough for Epsilon to continue "The daddies clean the house. That is why our house is always dirty."

I would love to be a fly on a wall in the inside of my child's brain. I am not. A part of me would love to live in a world where men stayed at home to take care of the family's needs, and were reprimanded for being bad (dare I say, upity) for entering the work force. 

My partner points out that there is a reason that Epsilon's model of the universe looks like a woman's fantasy of reversed inequality. In Epsilon's world, when we are both in town, I work from my partner's office, so we both take him into nursery. If we are both in town, and only one of us takes him into nursery, it means the other person is working from home. This usually implies that some portion of the work breaks are spent cleaning the house. He observes that he comes home to a cleaner house on days that one of his parents stays at home. He observes that most of his friends parents live together most of the time. He observes that usually only the mothers drop his friends off at school. Our smart little modeler and scientist puts together the data at hand and forms a picture of the world.

I do live in a feminist fantasy. Thank you, Epsilon, for pointing this out.

Words

Early in the morning, a male in my bed announced that I was sexypoo. I did not kick him out. I asked him if he meant if nicely, which he did, so I gave him a hug.

Then he called me a sexy peebin. He had not meant that kindly, so we talked about it.

Sex, for Epsilon, right now, is a game played by people with armpit hair. It is a game people can play nicely, or it is a game people can play meanly. When it is played meanly, it is a REALLY bad thing. (Yes, I will get in serious trouble next time he sees one of his friends' mothers who shaves in a sleeveless shirt.) But Epsilon understands playing games nicely and meanly much better than he can understand rape or sexualizing women's bodies or sexual abuse in relationships. He understands armpit hair better than he understands puberty, and it is less vague than "big people" (he's big, why can't he play sex?)

Explaining sex is easy. Explaining sexy is hard. It is different from other bad words he picks up. Four letter words are scattered about our house with undone dishes and unpicked up toys. Fuck and shit are words that you say when you are really unhappy about something, never say them to a person, only to a situation, and not outside the house, as that will upset people-- a long set of rules, but clear. 

Stupid is not a word one says under any circumstance, even about oneself. Rascal is not nice, but a word we don't make a big deal about. After all, Puff the Magic Dragon is a rascal. One only uses that word nicely, not meanly.

We watched Peter Pan a while ago. His daycare had a pirates and mermaids themed week, the movie seemed appropriate. Ujan has started calling people savages as a result. Peter Pan said it all the time, it must be a good word. We had a long sad conversation about once upon a time people in the country we live in called people who look like us savages, and the depravation of liberties that entailed, and the people who died trying to fight that. So far, there has been a 48 hour reprieve in the use of the word in the household. It will come back. We will have another conversation, but he is starting to understand.

Sexy? What do I do with that word? It is not a bad word in its own right. It is even possible that when one of this classmates picked up the origial phrase "you're a sexy girlfriend" somewhere, the child heard it in a non-offensive context. The child probably repeated it, was told that it is not a nice thing to say, misunderstood the adults admonition, and brought it to daycare as a singsung tease. "You're a sexy girlfriend. You're a sexy peebin. You're a sexy dirty sock."

Like a bout of flu, or orange paint in his hair, Epsilon infected my house with it in all innocence. I never thought I would ever allow anyone to call me sexy, but motherhood has changed a lot of things I thought were immutable axioms in my life. Sexy is not the same as sex, even though it sounds like they should be related. How does one explain desire to someone who still thinks it is funny to fondle my breasts? Sexy is not the same thing as pretty, unless one is trying to give a zeroth level approximation of the word to a preschooler. I viscerally recoil from the idea of him calling one of his female class mates sexy, in order to tell them that they are pretty, while I do not have the same reaction at the thought of him saying that to a male. HE is not objectifying the girl, any more than he is racially motivated when he describes a new playmate at school as black, before he manages to mention that the playmate is male, and weeks before he can tell me his name. At the age of three, he is still truly describing the world as he sees it, in the order of what is apparent to him.

Still, sex and race are suh topics of power and abuse in this world, navigating this ground, teaching him to use the word sexy, fills me with unease.

Two bits of Eggmus

Categories. Epsilon is really struggling with categories.

"Hot dog means sausage?"
"No, a hot dog is a type of sausage, but there are other types of sausage."

Epsilon, in his continued love of all things scary, is trying to figure out the difference between Dragons, and Demons and Giants and Monsters.

"Dragon means monster?"
"Giant means monster?"
"What's a monster?"

My partner, brilliant man that he is, pulled out our Monster Manuals, and pointed out different monsters and what they are called.

Epsilon, my sweet little boy, of course, wanted him to read ALL of it. They compromised on reading the "nice dragon book" for bedtime.

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Whatever his confusion with categories, 3 year olds are really good at pattern recognition.

"Why do all the babies go out with their Mommies and not their Daddies?" Epsilon asked my partner when a string of women pushing baby carriages got onto the bus.

When my partner told me this, it struck me that I think I've seen one man pushing an under 2 in a stroller while not in the company of a woman in His Town. It's rare in My City, but not as shockingly rare. Biased sample, but it's what I have.

"Um, because sometimes they think they Daddies don't know how to be Daddies, so they go out with the Mommies instead," my partner stammered out.

Before this offends anyone, I should point out that "being a Daddy" in this context means what Epsilon knows his Daddy to be: The same as a mommy, but the nipples are harder to tweak. Also, Daddies are hairier and bigger.

As in the world of three year olds, questions tend to repeat themselves. We're trying to come up with a better answer for him next time he asks. We are open to suggestions.

The hard choices

It's snowing outside.

I should wear my princess boots. They'll keep me warm.

These are like Cinderella's boots!

But I'm Rapunzel. Rapunzel goes barefoot. I can't wear these boots!

But I'm a princess. So I should wear princess boots.

It's cold outside. If I don't wear boots, I'll be cold.

But Rapunzel doesn't wear shoes!


Sometimes, I feel sorry for Epsilon.

Post Thanksgiving eggmus

I thought I had a lot of posts to write after thanksgiving, but either they turned out to be too personal, or I turned out to be too sick/jetlagged/swamped.

But there's nothing like coming back online with stories about Epsilon.

Jetlag is lousy. Jetlagged kids in your bed are worse. 

1:30 am 

Epsilon: Daddy, I can't sleep.

Partner: I know. Keep trying.

E: (Kissing head) I love you. (Rolls over to try to sleep.)

1:34 am

E: (Kissing head) I love you. (Tries to find a comfortable position.)

1:37 am

E: (Kissing head) I love you. (Rolls over.)

1:39 am

E: (Kissing head) I love you Daddy. (Rolls over again.)

1:42 am

E: (Kissing head) Daddy, I love you. (Tosses and turns a bit.)

.....

(Repeat at approximately 3 minute intervals)

....

3:00 am

E: (Snoring)

Can't quite get upset at him for that one.

*******************************

Epsilon's always liked bright colorful socks. Recently, he's become a huge fan of pink. The definition of pretty is now "has pink in it somewhere".

Partner: See that big girl with the pretty shoes?

Epsilon: (Pulling off his galoshes) I know. I have pretty socks!

Big Girl (aged about 5): Are you a girl or a boy?

E: I'm a big boy. .... I'm a big girl.

BG: (Confused) Are you a girl or a boy?

E: I'm a big boy. .... I'm a big girl.

BG: (Frustrated) Are you a girl or a boy?

E: I'm a big boy. .... I'm a big girl.

BG: (To Partner) Is it a girl or a boy?

P: Does it matter?

E: I'm a big boy. .... I'm a big girl.

Sometimes I worry about him holding his head up high in this world of gender roles. Sometimes, I don't.

You know you live in a surveillance society when...

Epsilon started sing the other day

The cameras on the bus go
Camera, camera, camera (with flashing hands)
Camera, camera, camera
Camera, camera, camera .....

Big brother? Of course he's watching. Why wouldn't he be? 
What a different world.

Eggmus: Culinary edition

Weekends at His Town usually involve a cooking marathon, as we try to cook all the meals for the week that I will be away. Due to timings of various things last weekend, much of the cooking happened when Epsilon was still awake.

That was fine. He pulled out all the pots and pans onto the floor around him and started "cooking" as well. A while later, I see him next to the other cupboard, drinking out of a coffee mug.

"What are you drinking?"

"Wine!"

"What?"

He bends down, reopens the bottle of balsamic vinegar and pours himself another glass.

Eggmus: Cthulhu

Epsilon likes calamari. So, of course, over appetizers, my partner tells him about

a giant calamari-like Old One who sleeps at the bottom of a mountain that lies at the bottom of the sea, and eats ships and other passers by.

Ever since, Epsilon has been wiggling his fingers at his father, and declaring "Mean Cthulhu, you lunch!" However, when the play wanders in my direction, he says "Nice Cthulhu" and gives me a tentacled kiss.

Now, if he's cranky and needs comforting, he'll calm down to stories involving diggers and princesses that Cthulhu will alternately eat or play with.

Eggmus: Ratings Agencies

This is not so much a "cute lovable thing Epsilon did" as it is a "stupid lovable thing Epsilon's parents did." But it may still deserve the Eggmus rating.

Chez Barefoot is still reeling from a set of flues that are washing over us from daycare. We gave up last night, picked Epsilon up from daycare, along with some sushi and chocolate cake, and put a movie on the computer screen.

We chose "Neverending Story," without noticing that it was PG, not G. Epsilon loved it: flying with Falcor, riding the horses, the "steam roller" riding rock biter. When Benjamin couldn't figure out that it was he who needed to save Fantasia, Epsilon started jumping up and down yelling "I help! I help!"

"Wow" I think. "He's actually followed most of this story. At the age of 2. I'm impressed."

And then it's bedtime. He won't be left alone. "Eyes. Light. BOOM!" Shit, the first of the southern oracle gates. "Naughty boys. Dumpster." Yeesh! the bullies.

Finally, my partner has to curl up with him, with one arm free to block any lasers from the southern oracle sphinxes from getting to the sleeping Epsilon. And if the bullies come by? Father and son will call the police, and make sure Epsilon does not end up in a dumpster.

We are still sick today. Maybe we'll try Shrek tonight. That's rated G, right?

 

Eggmus: Organic

Epsilon is snacking on a carrot in the playground. He drops it in the sand box, picks it up, makes an effort to brush it off before sticking it in his mouth again and running off to the wood chipped area.

"It's a good thing we don't really care about feeding him only organic food," my partner says.

A few minutes later, the inevitable happens, and the carrot falls in the woodchips.

"That's better," my partner says.

Eggmus: Textbooks

In an attempt to get organized, I've started keeping my lecture notes in 1 inch white binders. On a weekend afternoon, it is not unusual to find me writing in one such binder.

The other day, Epsilon found one of the 1 inch white binders given to me by HR at the start of this position. He grabbed a pen, opened the binder and started writing.

When asked what he was doing, he announced "Textbook!"

He may be the first to author a textbook in our family yet.

Camping trip

Spring break found my mother, Epsilon and I taking advantage of our ability to leave in the middle of the week to go camping. As Epsilon napped, my mother and I discussed how my father was becoming more adventurous these last few years, and why he never wanted to take family trips like this when we were growing up. My father has his reasons for not liking to camp, though my mother and I disagree on what they may be.

After an afternoon of playing in the rocks, walking and playing hide and seek, we gather around a fire and wait for the stars to come out. I tell Epsilon the story of Prometheus, discuss why there is no moon tonight and why Epsilon need not worry about falling back to earth should he visit the stars.

My mother starts singing. Epsilon curls up in my lap and I realize the rock I'm sitting on doubles as a rocking chair. My mind wanders to a childhood where my father and mother take turns singing songs from their childhood while my brother and I roast marshmallows in the woods. We sing along to our favourite songs. I imagine having the courage to bring these foreign camp fire songs to fire circles in college. Epsilon's hand turns my face to meet his. He requests a song. My mother and I take up the tune. Within a line, Epsilon joins in with a close approximation of the words. Our little trio repeats the verses to the hills.

Eggmus: Marketing

If it weren't for child labor laws, I might consider passing around Epsilon's CV to marketing departments. Here are a few gems:

The neighborhood coffee shop with communal toys for kids: Sweet Milk and Trains

My bookmark light: Shadow Maker

I'm biased but this is pretty good.

The train themed advent calendar: Chocolate Train Book

Maybe not.

Eggmus: Stories

There is a railroad crossing on my partner's current route home from work. This means that every once in a while, Epsilon gets a story from him about what happened at the crossing.

Yesterday's story involved broken crossing gates, waiting cars deciding whether or not to turn their engine's off, trains going too slowly and similar mayhem. The retelling of this riveting tale involved bringing out toy cars and trains and a comb for the gate. Then telling the story with Epsilon dozens of times, and watching him retell the story incorporating other instances from his memory that involved broken down or stuck cars. Finally, the retelling involved taking out the video camera so that my partner could see the effect that his walk home has had.

Sometimes, things just work.

Wait, what's an issue again?

I've been trying all morning to compose a post about this new Catholic Contraception controversy. I'm tired (mostly for other reasons) and angry*, and failing to come up with something witty. So I'll just put up some links.


NPR had a nice piece on the history and legal issues surrounding women's right to the pill.

Rachel Maddow is, as usual, brilliant. Amish bus driver?

Obama's going to be announcing a change in his proposal in less than an hour. I don't understand the details of the change fully, but it'll be interesting.



*I'd taken it for granted that access to good contraception was a right won for me by my foremothers. I never thought this would actually be an issue again in my day, in the privileged parts of the country I live in.

Me: We have a lot of work to do.
Epsilon: No. Someone else work.

Eggmus: On Housekeeping

Its a bright sunny morning, so I pull up the blinds in Epsilon's bedroom and we romp around the room for while.

After a bit, he suddenly stops, points to the motes of dust dancing the in rays of sunlight over the dust bunnies on the floor and declairs "SNOW!"

No, my sweet, I just need to find a broom.

Eggmus: Singing tree train

A while ago, we had a bad storm. When it first started, Epsilon woke up to the sound of tree debris hitting the roof and windows. He was concerned about what what going on. Epsilon doesn't scare during thunderstorms, but this didn't sound like anything he knew.

I tried putting him back to sleep by explaining that it was only wind, that it was only throwing small twigs at the house, and that he was safe. This, unfortunately, did not calm him. He wanted to see the wind.

Oops.

We bundled up to go to the porch to see the trees "dancing".

"Trees sing 'Pa pa pa?' "

"No sweety, they are just dancing."

We eventually came back inside and restarted the bedtime routine, when there was a very loud crashing sound. After a few tears of fear for his father's safety (who was heating milk near the crash) Epsilon looked at the the tree limb and debris just deposited on the living room floor and excitedly squealed

"Choo choo train BOOM!"

Eggmus: The Trashy Parent

Sometimes I feel like I'm a garbage parent. Like when I look up from my work, and realize that Epsilon had to be picked up from daycare an hour ago. Fortunately, at times like these, I have a partner who is more on the ball.

At other times, I know that the bar for being a trashy parent is set far higher than anything I can ever attain. For example.

Epsilon: Carl (a daycare friend) bite.
Me: Really? What did Karen (day care provider) say?
E: No. Garbage truck say no. No. No. Epsilon bite Carl.
Me: And then what happened?
E: Garbage truck say no. Naughty Epsilon.

There's a variation on this conversation where the garbage truck kisses Epsilon and makes it better.
And there's this one:

Epsilon: Clock bath?
Me: No, we can't give the clock to the bath. It will break.
Epsilon: Fix it?
Me: No, I won't be able to fix it.
Epsilon: Garbage truck fix it.

Eggmus: Epsilon Space

I'm making scrambled eggs with the gallon of milk sitting open on the counter next to me. Epsilon is playing with the cap. Suddenly I hear the sound of plastic falling.

"Damn. I think. He's dropped it in the recycling."

I feed Epsilon breakfast and ask my partner to look for the cap. He upturns the recycling and then practically cleans the kitchen while searching. No milk cap.

"Maybe he can get into spaces that we old folks can't. There's got to be an explanation for this. It must be an alternate universe called Epsilon Space.

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Okay if you don't understand why this is funny, and think I'm just on a weird, not very good sci-fi riff, you are almost right. For context, read Isis.

Eggmus: Occupy Thomas the Tank Engine

Thomas the Tank Engine has taken over Chez Barefoot. Epsilon was sick a bit ago, so we let him watch Thomas on Netflix and You Tube. Now he points to the computer every morning, demanding "Thomas Tank!"

We went to Occupy Near Me this weekend. As a courtesy to my train obsessed toddler, we took the subway to the tent village. A plastic Thomas came with.

Our normal weekends of teaching Epsilon to share have gotten boring. It was time to talk about sharing elsewhere.

We hung around the tent village for a while, got to know people. Epsilon is bored. He wants to go back to the subway.

The day's rally starts around naptime. We go anyway. Between identifying that there is a group of drummers in the crowd and finding them, my partner taps me on the shoulder and points to the stroller. Epsilon's asleep.

Oh no! I think. I should stop chanting with the hundreds of people in the street.
What if he wakes up?

At some point Epsilon's sleeping hands finally loose their grip on Thomas, which skitters through the street.  I am left chasing after a plastic blue box on wheels, made in China, that is now an ankle breaking hazard. This isn't what I remember protests marches being. Is it me?

Epsilon woke up after the march, and wants to go back to the subway. I might think he's missed the point of the day. But he'd argue otherwise.