My official midnight brain talk on the subject is that this, my blog, is simply a forum (outlet) to discuss, well, whatever it is I want.  It has optional listener-ship (unlike the captive audience of my friends over a pint), a delete button (recall aforementioned pints, sometimes they’re not so good for the speaking), and it will keep me connected to my friends, family etc., by forcing me to reflect on my life by writing about it.  Enter reality: this my friends is a narcissist’s dream.  Do I really think you want to hear about my children, husband and utter hate-on for labiaplasty?  Why yes, yes I do. 

My name is Andrea.  I’m 30 years old, and I’m a Mother.  While I have ideas about what the future holds for me, I do not plan to be a doctor, lawyer, teacher, accountant, librarian, bartender, gardener or etsy retailer.  I may in fact continue being just a Mother.  My understanding is that once children enter school full-time, one is obliged to simply stop parenting altogether as they are being cared for all day (9-3:15 is a workday even Oompa-Loompas couldn’t have dreamed of).  Of my two children, exactly zero of them is old enough to actually be in grade one, and for that reason I have been spared some of the greatest inquisitions about how I spend my time, because alas, my children are still young enough to have a full-time Mother.  The clock is ticking however as my oldest, let’s call her Kate (her name), will enter grade one next September.   There will still be one hanger-on, but once you’ve had two babies everyone knows that one is basically none.  Finally, I’ll be able to do something with my life.

Yup, two kids.  Kate and Simon.  They are a girl and a boy, not a boy and a girl.  The latest trend in baby-naming sometimes leads one to make assumptions one ought not, so I thought I should clear things up.  It turns out that both names are just what they seem; phonetic, gender specific, un-shortened, and inexpensive to have engraved. 

Kate is nearly six and entirely female in all the stupid stereotypical ways I swore my daughter would never be.  While Kate asserts that her favourite colour is “rainbow”, her one true love will always be pink.  She is terrifically emotional,  concerned with accessorizing, and uncompromisingly compassionate. 

Like his big sister, Simon got the memo and toes the line on conformity.  At three Simon is all boy, boy, boy.  He likes “things that go” and things that cut bigger things into smaller things.  In this vein my sister (yes, there are more of us), gave him a chainsaw for his birthday (it’s plastic, relax).  Simon immediately went outside, attempted to cut down a tree in our backyard, came back in the house pissed off, threw it on the floor declaring it “broken.”  Attempts to explain the pretend-but-fun nature of a toy that does the exact opposite of its real counterpart were met with exactly the same way an adult would react if given money but told it doesn’t actually buy anything.  Simon basically told us to fuck off.  

With a first born who takes imagination to new heights, I still grasped hopefully at the notion there was still some fun to be had with this new (albeit inferior) toy.  It was touch-and-go for a while, and after a week of ignoring it completely, followed by a brief courtship characterised by intimate holding and stroking then throwing it away because it didn’t do as it was told (men), Simon and the chainsaw jumped the shark:  with complete nonchalance he turns it on (two buttons, highly complicated) and says “this is my chainsaw, I will cut Kate, she will die.”  Gobsmacked.  That’s what I was.  I stood frozen, horrified, bewildered.  I muttered something about “you don’t say words like that, you must never joke about hurting your sister” but I know it meant nothing.  As I stumbled for words (shocking, I know), Simon stood there laughing, holding the chainsaw above his head, revving the fake, can’t-chop-a-tree-down motor.  At least the kid’s got imagination?

That’s my DNA folks, wrapped up all tight and tiny in a three year old chainsaw massacre-er, and a dramatic, equitable colour-loving almost-six year old.  They’re really beautiful people.

I am sometimes described by my friends as having done it the “right” way.  This usually happens when their young-looking Mother-of-two friend is being introduced to family who express concerned looks about how I got myself into this situation.  I have come to learn that by “right” it means I’m married, and I had my children after I got married. On purpose.  I have little to say on the matter of its “right-ness” but it is in fact the truth, which means there is one more member of our nuclear family (the world’s most ridiculous, expectation-ridden, family crippling institution) to introduce: Marc.  Marc is a lawyer because he didn’t want to be an engineer.  I know, boo hoo.  He used to work in private practise and I never saw him.  Then we had a baby and the baby and I never saw him.  Then we had another baby, and the toddler, the new baby and I never saw  him.  It sucked.  Now he works for a company and he’s the only lawyer.  There’s a drink cart on Fridays (good for him) and office Christmas parties with one lawyer instead of only lawyers are waaaay more fun (good for me ).  Marc wears jeans everyday and rides his bike to work.  He’s growing an ironic beard and even wears Clarks.  All he needs is a corduroy blazer and hats in summer, and my little nerd will be a full-on hipster. 

Marc is kind and patient, but he’s a man, so he’s also stupid a lot of the time.  He leaves his toothpaste-y toothbrush sitting on the side of the sink in the bathroom and it sometimes makes me want to divorce him.  For serious.  Mostly he tries his best to listen and do things my (the right) way, and he’s one damn fine father.  I also always get the remote, so that cancels out some of his stupid-ness (but not the time he told me I didn’t mop under the bed.  There’s mileage on that I’m not ready to relinquish).

There you have it gentle readers, my maiden voyage complete.  If I can write 1000 words about nothing, just wait until something happens.

N.B. Yes I know there’s no formatting or fancy banner.  I don’t know what pingbacks or trackbacks are, or why the time on this draft says 3:41 pm instead of 10:42 am.  I hope when I figure some of that out, the rest will fall into place.