tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64273954747374855772024-02-07T00:45:50.811-08:00Being Mama-tastic: my journey through motherhoodJessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-71135117246665600432015-08-08T11:30:00.000-07:002015-08-08T11:30:09.815-07:00Big mouth, smarty-pants: The three-nager emerges<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I get to spend a good chunk of my time
these days laughing my butt off. Ethan
is blooming into this little mouth on legs, full of interesting points of view,
jokes and clever little quips. Much of
my laughing comes out of sheer surprise at the ways he's spontaneously decided
to put words, phrases and concepts together in his own novel, unique way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I just have to share with you some of more
hilarious things he comes out with:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">1) New improved food names - Saying things
right is tough, and made up words are more fun anyways, we think. So his
unintentional renaming of foods is totally brilliant. Not cucumber, it's 'fewcumber'. Not marshmallow, it's 'arse-mallow'. There's also 'chino', short for cappuccino,
which refers to any warm, milky, preferably chocolate-based beverage. And
banana phone, which a a normal banana that we pretend to talk into, with a very
serious looking face, before cracking open.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">2) Onomatopoeia names - There are many
hilarious times when he goes about naming things like an Australian. The names don't sound right, but you have
pretty good idea about what he's referring to because it just sounds like a sort of description of that
thing. The other day, squirt gun in
hand, he says, 'Mama, I need to phew you....PHEW-phew! PHEW-PHEW!' He pretends to shoot me. Or that the 'Tig-tig-ah' is
the guitar. He says it such a melodious
way, it almost sound like strumming a tune. Or when he asks me to 'cheese' him, which means, 'Take my photo.'</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">3) Daddy- related things - The relationship
between daddy and boy is really a kind of playful power struggle wrapped in
fascination with a big dose of admiration.
Ethan kind of wants to be him, kind of wants to get the better of
him. Ethan's words for daddy's things
include: 'daddy's milk' (beer), 'daddy's rainbow' (the mouth guard Thom wears
at night to stop grinding his teeth), ‘daddy's doggy’ (the paw print tattoo on
Thomas wrist). There are also the
comparisons Ethan regularly makes about the similarities and differences
between him and daddy. The other morning
he crept into the bedroom. I spied him
out of one half open eye at Thom's side of the bed, inspecting daddy intently
before exclaiming at the top of his lungs, 'I have tiny fingers!' And then there are willies, a club that I am
seemingly excluded from, but is a topic of discussion for the fellas of the
house. I overhear him noting the
criteria of their exclusive club with, 'You have a winky, dad? I have a winky,
too!'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">4) The 'shut up and stop being so clever'
things - When he was my little bundle of baby fat, the hierarchy was clear
cut. We were the clever ones and he
didn't know much. Now, it is fairly
obvious that the old guard is fading and clever clogs is asserting his smarty
pants all over the place. It sucks to be
put in your place by a three year old, but that is apparently how it goes
sometimes. It goes like this: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Thom flicking through Instagram, 'Everyone
thinks they're a model now! I could be a bloody model!' Ethan, ‘You not.' Thom
looks at him open mouthed as Ethan chews a mouthful of cereal, then adds, 'I
am!' </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Or when we were informed by his nursery
that he was the ring leader in all the little boys covering themselves with
coloured marker drawings. As Thom was
washing him off, he explained that we don't draw on ourselves, to which Ethan
pointed at Thom's tattoos and astutely replied, 'But daddy do it.'</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">5) The world revolves around me things – It’s
great that he is allowed this brief window of time where everything can seem to
be about him. As challenging as that can
feel at times for the parent, it offers some hilarious times that leave me
tears. While strolling through the
grocery store, an announcement booms over our heads calling for all checkout
people. Ethan, looking shocked, yells
out, ‘Someone’s talking to me!’ Or when
I took him to London, stopping of at my office briefly for some lunch and a
potty break. He’s meeting my colleagues and
loving all the attention. One woman I
work with comes into the office and greets him with a smile, and he says, ‘You
come to say hi to Ethan, too!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">He is scarily sprouting new words and
phrases all the time. Getting far too
grown up for me to feel comfortable! I
ran into a friend from baby massage class in what seems like another universe
now. I remember us chatting away over
our little, delicate lumps of baby. It
seems now that in those times, their little personalities were hidden, like
their arms and legs under baby fat, waiting to emerge. It struck me, as I chatted with my friend the
other day, how different our little ones were now. Still our babies, but mostly only because we
knew that these chatty, opinionated little beings were physically the same as
those little lumps of baby fat we massaged somewhere in the seemingly distant
past. I sometimes miss that little ball
of cuddly baby, but he's so fun now, I really couldn't choose which stage is
better. It would be impossible to choose.</span></div>
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Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-66238225548994260022015-07-20T07:51:00.000-07:002015-07-21T13:32:52.784-07:00 Zombie apocalypse cometh<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I reserve the right to be a
crotchety old woman when my time comes, I have often snorted with indignant
disgust when those of the older generation criticise the state of youth in
society today. It seems logical to me
that the older generations leave the legacy that the younger ones have to
survive within by whatever means available to them. Complaining that that young people don't
share traditional values is really just pointing out that the older ones didn't
help shape a society where these values were important enough to continue
with. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Selfishness, stupidity, violence
and ignorance are not qualities transmitted through genes. Nor do they creep in via tap water or the
air we breathe. These are ways that have
been taught to children who come into the world innocent and biologically
primed to fit into the culture in which they find themselves. That is the primary survival strategy nature
has gifted babies - to observe the subtleties of other people and re-create
perfectly what they see, even a sort of exaggerated version of their
observations. If children are off the
rails and worse than before, it is only because they are the reflection of what
they see. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Deep down, we know this. Maybe we can't always admit it, but somewhere
it registers that we are the masters of our own destruction. We know that if things all go pear shaped for the
entire human race, we've all had a role to play. I think modern obsessions with vampires and
zombies are a sort of way of dealing with this frightening knowledge. Film, television shows keep churning out
programs with slightly different takes on the un-dead. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlLpMxCOyYHifHiw6U4DsffmUS0PJnAI-6v1kUlxHSj1ij5cE6iucu28xQHP0xTmjdtSKrLUovhFvxB2oNX3vBMVsqsTtDvgvZIXuOMnhNcU1duopNQu32lSJE3yR3KZIyGA0nkWdF1U/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlLpMxCOyYHifHiw6U4DsffmUS0PJnAI-6v1kUlxHSj1ij5cE6iucu28xQHP0xTmjdtSKrLUovhFvxB2oNX3vBMVsqsTtDvgvZIXuOMnhNcU1duopNQu32lSJE3yR3KZIyGA0nkWdF1U/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The vampires, are blood thirsty
killers, clever and beautiful but dangerous and incapable of real human
feeling. Zombies, on the other hand, are
mindless. Slaves to insatiable hunger
which leaves the whole world desolate. Self
destructive as well as dangerous, the uninfected people pitted against them
strive to maintain some semblance of humanity, even though they can see it is
futile against the tide of un-dead millions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What an apt metaphor summarising the current direction of the whole
human race. Things change so quickly,
and in a few short years the ways we live, communicate, eat, socialise
transform in unpredictable ways that reflect new technologies and modern
advances. These technological
developments seem amazing and helpful, but we are increasingly drawn away from
actual social interaction with the illusion of technology dependant social
interactions. Increasingly, within the therapy room, my colleagues and I deal with the aftermath of social media and the disconnected ways of being always connected. Fears over what others are thinking or doing are not just the kindling of our internal ruminations. We can easily check out if someone has just decided to not respond to our email or text. We know almost immediately if an ex has moved on. And bullies are bolder than I remember in my childhood, as they operate from the comfort and security of their computer screen. And the bullied are no longer safe once they shut the door behind them at home. Are we all becoming heart-less? Less humane and more selfish and destructive? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQ8lbLm3SLZP94Rl4UQVDROleVytHwaqDpaG4577f41qatnxxGqIa8ymI3EDkT7pUyk_k58CwMyG1XZueXK-pah_FXyNOB-I8HA52f8zLNeoUf-ox5cFJuTGuSyiLhpudA0Y-DVpYwds/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvQ8lbLm3SLZP94Rl4UQVDROleVytHwaqDpaG4577f41qatnxxGqIa8ymI3EDkT7pUyk_k58CwMyG1XZueXK-pah_FXyNOB-I8HA52f8zLNeoUf-ox5cFJuTGuSyiLhpudA0Y-DVpYwds/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Our friendships exist in electronic
realms. Our lives contained in a
handheld device. We spend untold hours
staring at it, asking it questions, determining our next moves with it,
creating ourselves and reaching out to our loved ones, all while not actually
touching the world we imagine ourselves to be engaged in. The little screens
offer a seductive diversion and become a habit, to the point of creating a
zombie out of each of us. We don't look
as human, as we trudge along, eyes downward cast, drooling over whatever has
our attention for that brief moment. It sounds terrible but these mobile
devices are not actually evil. And they are such a trap in that we
unintentionally end up zombie-fied when our actual intention to be connect to
others.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd2Vtu2FSDRwa01YTNcqWu-b_jLXaHfMQbEsVxwd4e38mfpJ4-v3HB4tkotoRAIPU7RgtF2X4EI1RzMzlrrY1sNT-GdQ8c4P8HiEtZKWPhNPXGT74FuTzCygUNGrfFBXjOe2tpzSZ_FU/s1600/6d645ec8961c885377c50eda5908f54e1b31985a6cb321289702c82790f4b94a_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdd2Vtu2FSDRwa01YTNcqWu-b_jLXaHfMQbEsVxwd4e38mfpJ4-v3HB4tkotoRAIPU7RgtF2X4EI1RzMzlrrY1sNT-GdQ8c4P8HiEtZKWPhNPXGT74FuTzCygUNGrfFBXjOe2tpzSZ_FU/s320/6d645ec8961c885377c50eda5908f54e1b31985a6cb321289702c82790f4b94a_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Century, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; text-align: start;">"Phone Wall," the campaign by </span><a href="http://www.ogilvy.com.cn/en/" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #2c9178; font-family: Georgia, Century, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Ogilvy & Mather China</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When I think of things in that way, I feels
helpless against the inevitable tide of the increasingly insular, disconnected
society we seem doomed to create for our children. But it also offers a wake up call from time
to time. For instance, when I catch
Ethan pretending a banana is a phone which he speaks into very a exasperated
and rushed manner. Or when Thom and I
catch ourselves staring blankly at our screens while he makes his dinosaurs and
hot wheels run up and down our legs.
It's a tragic sight and one that
I feel sincerely sorry about. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4MHmt5J46WbdAoyWxEBTrB9HbHoqZuOAl85lwil7art8yZmuQGcqZEAwUqPeDhbsXe51TyVnTofBVF3hf8-_A5A67r1qHFKkeTZfGwufQdhDF3vUe2H4Hx7Fs2FMU2pruiTAGvfpUSk/s1600/20141011_085822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv4MHmt5J46WbdAoyWxEBTrB9HbHoqZuOAl85lwil7art8yZmuQGcqZEAwUqPeDhbsXe51TyVnTofBVF3hf8-_A5A67r1qHFKkeTZfGwufQdhDF3vUe2H4Hx7Fs2FMU2pruiTAGvfpUSk/s320/20141011_085822.jpg" width="279" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For better
or worse, we are here, at this point in history with all these electronic
gizmos. But I don't want to leave my
child the legacy of disconnected relationships and impersonal electronic communication. I don't want him to miss out on the little
human things like reading someone's feelings in their eyes and talking face to
face. I don't want to teach him to bury
his face into his phone rather than face what's right in front of him. So that
means we will have to be different.
Different than we have been and different than the rest of the
zombies. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-1489014072056455582015-05-08T12:24:00.000-07:002015-05-08T12:33:29.028-07:00The Other Side of the Story<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have had writer's block. Frustrating times where I can’t seem to find
an interesting idea or coherent plan. I
stare at the screen. I surf the internet
for stuff I don’t need. I organize the
sock drawer. I procrastinate. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFYqBr4a-Phq7knEXq39t041Y0U9_cb0gXWzVl3HXbFWC-UIJ79DFa1tVkayHGWwwICw7EuO8QgGuoOBi8J1ZAs_XT0SFHLCq9WH_wZU8_JsTR443wm9VbdOBhcjJWJO9eHpcS6SHB2o/s1600/IMG_2345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfFYqBr4a-Phq7knEXq39t041Y0U9_cb0gXWzVl3HXbFWC-UIJ79DFa1tVkayHGWwwICw7EuO8QgGuoOBi8J1ZAs_XT0SFHLCq9WH_wZU8_JsTR443wm9VbdOBhcjJWJO9eHpcS6SHB2o/s320/IMG_2345.JPG" width="240" /></a><span lang="EN-US">But niggling in the back of my brain is a voice
reminding me of the reason for my block.
I know it, and I choose ignore it.
It’s that voice reminding me that there are things I really want to
write about, but am afraid of facing.
Afraid of seeing as black and white text and of it all leaving me to
travel over the electronic space to other people who will read it. Afraid that all that makes it more real. So I
don’t write it, but consequently I grind to a halt. The voice gets louder and I start to argue
back like a teenager, saying, ‘I KNOW! I’ll do it when I’m ready!’</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGAOwE9CHvIOspbLuRt2LCgiKm-PfWo0jjNeAM26dWVqF35-5Waaj1bmlBGBm_w6nfgTaysd8HwswNwcZiTiRbQ9EQcKPzM_S6gbWexyDr9Ekha9WDHItNbuHrsrORg6iQov7dSCl9fM/s1600/IMG_0909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPGAOwE9CHvIOspbLuRt2LCgiKm-PfWo0jjNeAM26dWVqF35-5Waaj1bmlBGBm_w6nfgTaysd8HwswNwcZiTiRbQ9EQcKPzM_S6gbWexyDr9Ekha9WDHItNbuHrsrORg6iQov7dSCl9fM/s320/IMG_0909.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Through all of this, a passage I remember
reading about group therapy in a book by Yalom keeps coming to mind. Something about, if the group isn't talking
about what’s important, then nothing gets talked about. He doesn't mean that nothing is said and
groups sit through their time in silence, but that they go about chattering worthless,
meaningless words. I admit that many,
many of my blogs are like that.
Chattering about nothing, trying to put a happy spin and find a sort of circuit
for completion. But life isn’t really
like that all the time. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So I sit here now to write about the other
side of the story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s been almost 3 and a half years since Ethan
came into my life. And 3 and half years
since his brother Noah died. I must
share with you that I cry most days.
Although it feels an improvement from crying every single day, I realize
it is a sign that this pain doesn’t really ever go away. And I wonder sometimes, if it’s becoming
somewhat of a friend of mine. A constant
companion. A sort of shadow against the
sunshine of everyday life. It’s so hard
to describe, but life is a wonderful, bursting bright ray of sunshine from the
moment I wake up to Ethan’s beautiful face, through the day of 3 year old ups-and-downs
and straight to the snugly bedtime kisses, I am amazed that such a sweet,
amazing person came into my life. And I
am happy to just be near him. Yet,
without taking away one ounce of his glittering wonderfulness, I feel depths of
sadness – just like shadows seem darker on the brightest of days. It’s almost as though when Ethan’s beauty
strikes me most, I also feel the most grief. For Noah, who should be here, and who would
have been just as beautiful a person as Ethan.
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjMjd9UpYIoXciZ66ND11yQn1BS5AzcN6flag4cQ3zRa1UpyeTX2C_uV9Kp5gvNk5iJQckCDvcaLtU79BXalWp6kHj2FJdinYJSbQEJOyfsKEA7iqqnfymDlsHlFOm47K3bhl-D7IGNE/s1600/IMG_2282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNjMjd9UpYIoXciZ66ND11yQn1BS5AzcN6flag4cQ3zRa1UpyeTX2C_uV9Kp5gvNk5iJQckCDvcaLtU79BXalWp6kHj2FJdinYJSbQEJOyfsKEA7iqqnfymDlsHlFOm47K3bhl-D7IGNE/s320/IMG_2282.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It screws with my mind a lot. I think maybe I didn’t deserve to be that
happy. I still imagine ways to get him
back. I still dream as though he’s
here. I’ve wanted to still be pregnant with
him, holding him inside – safe from harm – forever. And it takes my imagination to all the other terrible,
horrific things that I cannot provide protection from for Ethan. Illnesses, bullying, tragedies, sadness,
failures. Normal, everyday difficulties
people face, but I am also beset by paranoia that people will break in and kill
us, we might die from carbon monoxide poisoning in the night or that I’ll lose
him and Thom in a car crash. So deeply
has the unexpected, unjust loss of Noah punctuated my life, that I have turned
into a catastrophic worrier. I’m
practising with letting these ideas go and not letting fear get in the way of
life, but it is just that – a constant practice. Sometimes it goes well, and others not so
much. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Listening to that voice, and breaking my
writers block silence, is a step in that, I suppose. Thom also recently helped with another
step. I cannot have my babies safely
tucked inside for eternity, for obvious reasons, but also it would not be fair
to deny them their lives, no matter how short or how difficult they might
be. And even though I let them go, they
are part of me forever, inexplicably but certainly. To symbolize this and to bring some closure,
Thom carefully made ink from some of Noah’s ashes and tattooed me. It doesn’t change situations or my feelings,
but it reminds me that he is part of me, as much as my own cells and skin and
blood. It’s a symbol to last me forever –
or at least as long as I last. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US">So there it’s out there –real and raw. I hope that the electronic world and readers don’t find my sadness a turn off. And I hope that facing fear means less writer’s block. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAR4ekyVOvjzg4G5QGQL9UVSo6-_qjiqRDZsdSxP-4XjgIPLCn7bBoeARQoim4W4qK7_SAQGDq93mXEMCaZcqJARStaYxCW6rdfK3xyyJuP2z5alkOPtcVjm_r6vZ5hK6nH_x0nPPF7I/s1600/11210411_908345972520033_3138147044120338985_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAR4ekyVOvjzg4G5QGQL9UVSo6-_qjiqRDZsdSxP-4XjgIPLCn7bBoeARQoim4W4qK7_SAQGDq93mXEMCaZcqJARStaYxCW6rdfK3xyyJuP2z5alkOPtcVjm_r6vZ5hK6nH_x0nPPF7I/s320/11210411_908345972520033_3138147044120338985_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
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Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-9995832959477040002015-03-25T12:59:00.002-07:002015-03-25T12:59:40.491-07:00Let me explain you something: You don’t have to live up to the crazy ideal of ‘Yummy Mummy’<div class="MsoNormal">
I am admittedly reading too much feminist
literature at the moment. An upcoming
project on body image in female weightlifters has me surrounded by a pile of books from the 70's. It has me
thinking far too much and too deeply about the origin of our society's body
norms. But these now old women with no
bras have some pretty good points. We
women spend our entire youth learning the art of feminine wiles with the ultimate
aim of being attractive enough to bag a fella who's successful enough to keep
us housed and fed. And then you
breed, while hopefully maintaining enough of your looks to keep him hooked.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8C6T5Ebrqkfv1JAar2TKqFcsUVoEwjrtRevZHo2DHem_fVsUCc9T6bWLd9IyyMf0NT2TAO9cx7VVVvQb5sBbLwMXbPcgf_tgIBfBYzDrlZcrftJoI3CveFzlzxnwiZ68sk3yX-ktiU-Y/s1600/IMG_0400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8C6T5Ebrqkfv1JAar2TKqFcsUVoEwjrtRevZHo2DHem_fVsUCc9T6bWLd9IyyMf0NT2TAO9cx7VVVvQb5sBbLwMXbPcgf_tgIBfBYzDrlZcrftJoI3CveFzlzxnwiZ68sk3yX-ktiU-Y/s1600/IMG_0400.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Although it seems a pretty harsh way to
look at something that for many of us is our personal love story, it does offer
some perspective on the pressures faced by modern mums, and the dilemmas posed
by the modern social archetype of the Yummy Mummy. The books on my desk from the 80's mourn the
death of feminism and that from the 60's, in a brief 15-20 years, it was
dropped from political and social consciousness like an ugly prom date. And
indeed, most women I know wouldn't count themselves as feminists, even though
they'd be all up for equal pay. So
feminism got forgotten as soon as women were allowed to work and sexual harassment
became an actual crime, rather than just the normal way chicks got spoken to by
men. Now feminism is kind of like a
dirty word, as if pointing out any potential inequality still lurking between
the genders is just being a grumpy man-hater. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But the feminists nowadays, if there are
any left, would surely have something to say about the Yummy Mummy obsession in
modern media and society. It's not
enough to have got pregnant, endured the birth, the sleepless nights, the
contentious breastfeeding decisions, the relationship changes. Oh no, what's important is that you looked
good doing it. It’s not that there’s
anything wrong with the immaculately turned out mum. The one with perfectly toned tummy, despite
the three month old cooing away contentedly in her coordinated designer
buggy/car seat/nappy bag combo. Flowing,
freshly washed tresses of expensive looking highlights framing a surprisingly
glowing and well-rested complexion.
She's had the time to wash her jeans and that shirt looks downright
ironed! And all that before we even
start with the well turned out baby. Hot
damn, how does she do it? And what's
wrong with the rest of us? Trudging zombie-like to the corner shop with Rice
Krispies in our hair. Somebody else's
Rice Krispies. From yesterday's
breakfast. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4fWd4012JeOfGP9UW_K_mDiOL4apOBgsq460cgTGwRTFyAD8FCwFJFUsOVuVimV-gQongT02TjtxEIB7aPWxQCtK49tP3tEtMDqwPCZ8aUDEP4pm-vBr-WhXsoZzt4Y_N1MF6dfi1bo/s1600/IMG_1384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf4fWd4012JeOfGP9UW_K_mDiOL4apOBgsq460cgTGwRTFyAD8FCwFJFUsOVuVimV-gQongT02TjtxEIB7aPWxQCtK49tP3tEtMDqwPCZ8aUDEP4pm-vBr-WhXsoZzt4Y_N1MF6dfi1bo/s1600/IMG_1384.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And I guess the problem with the Yummy
Mummy is that it is a concept used against the rest of the Rice Krispie
encrusted ones; one that keeps us all chasing an impossible and ridiculous ideal. A kind of measuring
stick against which we all fall short. It’s
an unfair expectation, and one that places the value of a mum on her appearance
primarily. Her sexual appeal is still
the most important and defining factor in her value, over and above the other
million strengths, abilities and sacrifices she makes daily. It's a distraction from the important stuff,
like actually raising the kids. As with
the term MILF, which inelegantly implies that mothers fall neatly into two
categories - ones that you'd still do it with and ones you wouldn't. And as crude as it is, modern mothers would
rather be a MILF than not. But you can
hardly blame them as it's an image that we are bombarded with in the media -
how beautiful so-and-so looks and how fast she dropped the baby weight and how
bloody happy she is. Sorry, but I call
bullshit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">What can I say about the frumpy mum? The fat mum? The frazzled, haggard, one
trying to hold down whatever career a person can manage on three hours sleep
and un-brushed teeth while still having to be the spring of eternal patience
and love for little junior. The ones
that haven't lost the baby weight, can't be bothered to match their socks and
let their children wear whatever scabby bits of ill-fitting clothes are
clean. These kind are ignored, although
they are the real deal. They are less
represented in what we read and see and maybe even are kind of frowned upon, if
we're all honest with ourselves. Or at
least it’s pretty true that the ones who appear to have all together and look
good doing it are praised as the shining examples of womanhood. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJ9hKIyuq0GMeIn7i6jbmSUi9x5YVY3SDv7e-q4FL3cZgcymljeCirpDNdCKGn7xzaZPEAoIsnGGRa1NQZZSCT5H0rybhQ088Mmsj5D2IUfd3ZtY-lvf4OmY5VXtr3UVU_uGmYM1qCQg/s1600/IMG_1041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOJ9hKIyuq0GMeIn7i6jbmSUi9x5YVY3SDv7e-q4FL3cZgcymljeCirpDNdCKGn7xzaZPEAoIsnGGRa1NQZZSCT5H0rybhQ088Mmsj5D2IUfd3ZtY-lvf4OmY5VXtr3UVU_uGmYM1qCQg/s1600/IMG_1041.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It's not fair, and I'd even go so far as to
say that the label of Yummy Mummy is sexist.
I'm not blaming men. After all,
we can decide what media to read, what to believe and choose to value ourselves
for more than our sexual appeal. It's
just that collectively, maybe even without realising it, we all expect a lot
from a mother. That she has it all, does
it all and manages to look good doing it.
For me, I'm giving myself permission to dry shampoo another day so I can
focus on what's important rather than whether or not it's attractive. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH4NaKeckxbKYlIoMmoxpyG_fKw48joBeL1CpiWgITS4xM2FJIja85-hoj2batLbRrRfIrvR9Tpwyt5D80uMedzmpXh09B2tHbsqzcgcPiaBextyyl7Arye_IjhD8aJBhON37CAllIHLY/s1600/144.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH4NaKeckxbKYlIoMmoxpyG_fKw48joBeL1CpiWgITS4xM2FJIja85-hoj2batLbRrRfIrvR9Tpwyt5D80uMedzmpXh09B2tHbsqzcgcPiaBextyyl7Arye_IjhD8aJBhON37CAllIHLY/s1600/144.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOwrDGiVxr45X19gU0yoz2R7K5Fl3BfTjEd_00ssbOjsJ0RA7oiVB0o-ZKkpC8h4NSR7gDmcvPRjPR_4wsjX7uRxvmlgBIoHSHTF7dQLBXGufn8mAtJZXqLwQb1UOs7L88xyf56g_Y8Y/s1600/20120830_171327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOwrDGiVxr45X19gU0yoz2R7K5Fl3BfTjEd_00ssbOjsJ0RA7oiVB0o-ZKkpC8h4NSR7gDmcvPRjPR_4wsjX7uRxvmlgBIoHSHTF7dQLBXGufn8mAtJZXqLwQb1UOs7L88xyf56g_Y8Y/s1600/20120830_171327.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-US"></span></div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-45983802118848982322015-01-22T11:12:00.001-08:002015-01-22T11:12:46.492-08:00Let me explain you something: Things that really don't fuss you about parenthood<div class="MsoNormal">
Before baby, the things parents do seemed unthinkable. I used to wonder how
someone could possibly tolerate wiping the bum of another human being for
years. Surely, they must hate that! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Very little sleep, spending all your money on
the sprog, being fat and pregnant - all things I expected to find difficult, or
just plain hate. But the reality is so
far from my imagination. Here's the
contenders for things that most surprised me about parenthood - the things I
thought I would hate but actually didn't mind too much:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">1) Welcome to Poo-tasia! - Are you someone
who is fascinated by poo? Could you discuss poo size, smell, shape, colour and
consistency on a daily basis? If not,
don't worry. It probably means you're
just not a parent yet. When you are, the
information gleaned from poo reading is invaluable. And far from being the pile of steaming stink
bomb you'd expect, somehow it becomes as normal and mundane as clipping your
own toe nails. I swear I don't even
smell them sometimes. I remember the
poos not in terms of which ones were grossest, but which ones were the
funniest. Thom and I have whiled
away many evenings discussing the contents of Ethan's nappy. Good times. On a related note: No one told us how much babies fart. Not little, innocent puffs, but huge, ripping
man farts. These also are not as much of
a concern as I would have imagined if someone had told me that a stranger is
about to move in and fart on me several times a day. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkD2VIHQtSVFn-nF1mYUj1wwlkAy9GwajBI1O5V8G7_mU5mpMeKquYj69l4xgFpFK8sWMzrdepWORORZZpjYD1bfhvhnmiitlSDrAC9A6KN03cdI7DfVPhRFxhO1xi9lKG-iTaHrD14g/s1600/IMG_1391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkD2VIHQtSVFn-nF1mYUj1wwlkAy9GwajBI1O5V8G7_mU5mpMeKquYj69l4xgFpFK8sWMzrdepWORORZZpjYD1bfhvhnmiitlSDrAC9A6KN03cdI7DfVPhRFxhO1xi9lKG-iTaHrD14g/s1600/IMG_1391.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">2) Money,who needs it anyways - Little junior is like a money sponge. I'm sure he's soaked it up somehow, but I'll
be dammed if I can figure out how such a little guy absorbed so much of our
cash. Babies are expensive, and that scares off lots of people. Fair enough, I think, because luxuries in life
with a baby in tow look more like a night in with a new DVD and less like a
long haul holiday. But, surprisingly, we
don’t mind nearly as much as I thought we would. Somehow, when we’ve blown our beer money on marbles,
crayons and lollipops, we don’t miss it.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsf6R_Sj7acjguK-ymaPJBQ7ICCSO4me2Gmp75s1dLwqC3DnVbi4IkxEARcTgwZh7jClcK0IDirC76umgojHYzDrahCtygNF1uAb3fZe83o30No38w-D1MEoSeKGFdbzqSzzCvMwhLGg/s1600/IMG_1683.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJsf6R_Sj7acjguK-ymaPJBQ7ICCSO4me2Gmp75s1dLwqC3DnVbi4IkxEARcTgwZh7jClcK0IDirC76umgojHYzDrahCtygNF1uAb3fZe83o30No38w-D1MEoSeKGFdbzqSzzCvMwhLGg/s1600/IMG_1683.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">3) Boogers, Snot and other mucus related
splats – Ever had an irresistible urge to sick your finger up someone’s nose to
clear a crusty green blob so they could breathe better? Despite choking back the puke as I
write, these urges sprang up within me like instincts of a cheetah to chase an
antelope. And without thinking, or
grossing myself out, boom! I’m picking someone else's nose. When their poor little noses are
blocked, they can’t sleep, they can’t eat and they are miserable. Somehow digging in there seems like the
natural thing to do, rather than the disgusting thing it actually is. We even had a plastic contraption of tubes
that was for sucking the ‘blockage’ out.
It had a filter to catch the green bastards. Sometimes they were so big that they would
land against the filter with a big ‘thud’.
I feel I’ve lost my mind to even have done this, but there it is.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mzzgDgBxEl_oNhrfUClg4PA6XBzI-xWuAWbhO8wLP9Tq9n0eqasUQwtoprFp9ogJ9m9rnMq74hdbhKrwoRElZi7C6H9HmmkzhMYD9kvHz25LCWq8JfSsHY7HmLf43bYgYgM15wGaTnA/s1600/10881639_10152887412686508_2427028656618935027_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mzzgDgBxEl_oNhrfUClg4PA6XBzI-xWuAWbhO8wLP9Tq9n0eqasUQwtoprFp9ogJ9m9rnMq74hdbhKrwoRElZi7C6H9HmmkzhMYD9kvHz25LCWq8JfSsHY7HmLf43bYgYgM15wGaTnA/s1600/10881639_10152887412686508_2427028656618935027_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">4) Saying goodbye to your old life - Janis
Joplin once sang, 'Time keeps moving on. Friends, they turn away.' Sounds sad,
but it's another one that didn't fuss me as much as I thought it would. So now a good night is defined as one with a lack of puking, rather than someone overdoing it so much that they vomit. And hangovers feel like so
much hassle that the wine tastes less appealing. And so what.
Your old friends don't call anymore and rather than feel upset, you start to see them for the
immature douche-bags they are. And it's all ok.
Life goes like that - we evolve and adjust and accept. I don't miss the high heel blisters, little
friendship dramas or over priced neon coloured shooters. That just seems all a little bit insane
compared to the crayon and play dough parties we enjoy now. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I surprise myself. Life is full of surprises, and I guess that's
what makes it wonderful. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-54356698768575034752014-12-10T09:59:00.000-08:002014-12-10T09:59:50.390-08:00Let me explain you something: Children crying<div class="MsoNormal">
There are certain times that you don’t need
the shrill crying of a child in your ear.
When you’re on a long haul flight.
When you’re having a root canal.
When you’re hiding from zombies and not wanting to give your location
away to the undead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the rest of the
time, I’d suggest you get over it.
Children cry. It's something
they're supposed to do. All that
unashamed emotional expression tells us that a kid is normal. It's the non crying, all too calm ones you
have to watch out for, like the little scheming, blonde mini-psychopaths in
children of the corn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Then again, babies also need to travel
across oceans sometimes, visit the dentist and escape zombies, too, so maybe
just get all the way over their crying.
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFWKxjxxe5aFBjOsBrObs10XhjbCytX6YacgwWhf4nK6f_IdiruBhodPXjKNCL4t3OJlf9DwWw-s0M885EaZ_CQQ1nvbWN9nVAdfwLnTCW2EdWFVI1clXR2rPb7eEnvjCHU9oqNIakPvQ/s1600/IMG_0057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFWKxjxxe5aFBjOsBrObs10XhjbCytX6YacgwWhf4nK6f_IdiruBhodPXjKNCL4t3OJlf9DwWw-s0M885EaZ_CQQ1nvbWN9nVAdfwLnTCW2EdWFVI1clXR2rPb7eEnvjCHU9oqNIakPvQ/s1600/IMG_0057.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As with my personal enlightenment about
aggressive buggy pushers (<a href="http://mamatastic.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/let-me-explain-you-something-aggressive.html" target="_blank">aggressive buggy barging</a>), I’ve walked a mile in the shoes of the judgemental,
eye brow raising, 'Can't you control them!' brigade. I've been on flights, with nothing to worry
about other than when the drinks trolley will make an appearance, feeling like
a jet-setting superstar, when you see a hunch-backed giant making its awkward
way down the aisle. As they get nearer,
you see that it’s not a hunchback, but a pretty normal albeit unkempt and
tired-looking person weighed down with bags and juice cups and teddy bears and
a little excited snot bucket of a child.
You look at the empty seats next to you in panic and you say a fervent
silent prayer, ‘Please, Lord, not next to me! Send the obese guy instead!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Yes, I confess my lack of compassion. I guess I had to learn through being on both sides of the fence. But I also admit that a child crying is a
horrible sound. It’s horrible because
it’s supposed to be horrible. A child’s
cry is meant to evoke action. And even
if that action is motivated by sheer selfish desperation for peace and quiet,
it’s effective. It's mother nature’s own
natural panic alarm.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DVgsPHzBaHMKE7R3xYN99USdU8HkfYlxUkWWT21QDxEPJICvnXCDvuypulGf2qJEn67NbXv9AdbJKW3C5TS33LSfLSkWQwFa5WrtFm3NjHTKEM6gYmxIueoYURqu9w8TFLx1sA9rWEQ/s1600/Pose+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DVgsPHzBaHMKE7R3xYN99USdU8HkfYlxUkWWT21QDxEPJICvnXCDvuypulGf2qJEn67NbXv9AdbJKW3C5TS33LSfLSkWQwFa5WrtFm3NjHTKEM6gYmxIueoYURqu9w8TFLx1sA9rWEQ/s1600/Pose+7.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But once you hear the cry of your own
child, it drives a pain so deep into your body that you feel convinced that
their unique cry is coded into your DNA.
Like somehow your bloods mingled so that their pain and discomfort is
felt in your flesh. It feels so
physically painful that you forgo food and sleep, offer them your painful,
beaten up boobs to feed on and deprive yourself of batteries for the TV remote
to get the magic lullaby sleep buddy working again. You'll do all manner of seemingly insane things,
but not just to stop the noise. You'll
feel genuinely driven to protect them from the pain, discomfort, hunger and
loneliness that makes them cry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Somewhere along they way, the cries change
from meaning I'm hungry, I'm sick, I'm cold, I'm dirty to things like I'm ticked
off that I can't wear lipstick, chuck myself off this wall, stay in the grocery
store, keep that dog. And that's when
people seem the most annoyed by the crying child. They are louder and more angry. And they are usually unreasonable. So child will be crying and the parents will
be doing those things that annoy onlookers even more than the crying. They will be ignoring, trying placate,
offering sweets, even just not caring.
Why don't they stop their child crying?
Because they can't. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9uIL5WqNCnx0_zLxCQAiEaRLfJoSA4EOI6CSnmWz3Bm6bwbS8ogaRJnh-bApVZgTYQo62JAbvErdSdPY-22ebVdG9Hwu90FT9mFre7IbgCnKPzm0ZsbFQI5gbpJ5zfv_bGrVqkPHLko/s1600/1381276_10152895713967664_8839143254926166248_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9uIL5WqNCnx0_zLxCQAiEaRLfJoSA4EOI6CSnmWz3Bm6bwbS8ogaRJnh-bApVZgTYQo62JAbvErdSdPY-22ebVdG9Hwu90FT9mFre7IbgCnKPzm0ZsbFQI5gbpJ5zfv_bGrVqkPHLko/s1600/1381276_10152895713967664_8839143254926166248_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Life with a two year old is all about that little person you love more than anything, but whose
delicate emotional balance is as changeable as their diaper and as predictable
as the lottery. You still have to do
all the daily things you need to do, but you'll have the additional job of
keeping them calm, happy and as inoffensive as possible to the rest of polite
society. So sometimes when you see a parent
and crying child, and they are just calmly ordering their latte or strolling through
the grocery store with a screaming, red-eyed demon child, you’d assume they are
stupid, deaf or insane. Nope, they’re probably in their 'happy place' where patience springs eternal. Or they're just pleased that this isn't as bad as little Junior can get.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We’ve all cried and screamed at some point in
our lives. And we probably would still until we learned how much it can get on the nerves of strangers. These parents aren't immune to the sound of crying. They just know that their time for crying is over and their little people are
having their time now. </span></div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-64375078325297055902014-11-30T06:40:00.000-08:002014-11-30T12:07:21.732-08:00Let me explain you something: Aggressive buggy barging<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When I moved to the UK in my 20’s I was
struck by how much more walking they do over here. And I was also struck by buggies. Strollers, as I would have called them back
then. Strollers being pushed by terrifying,
frazzled women hunched over their buggies, loaded down with shopping bags. They had the look of a demon in their eyes
and pushed their buggies with the ferocity of a linebacker at the Super Bowl. Get in their way and you’re losing a
toe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy88f0LDAQD2PMAV1K4hzAY2qqvP3XwzAYEmAMRuzApZBKwOgQ59DwkC-dIeAm36R-9yUkjhRv8V3sY8Xa726I2l6ZvxZR2rOpZYzCm-vsZSuEs2Kj3Z1ooH8KiKEWxN7jwYPE19Y3g3Q/s1600/IMG_0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy88f0LDAQD2PMAV1K4hzAY2qqvP3XwzAYEmAMRuzApZBKwOgQ59DwkC-dIeAm36R-9yUkjhRv8V3sY8Xa726I2l6ZvxZR2rOpZYzCm-vsZSuEs2Kj3Z1ooH8KiKEWxN7jwYPE19Y3g3Q/s1600/IMG_0058.JPG" height="320" width="240"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘What’s the matter with these rude people?’
I’d wonder, ’As if having a kid gives them the right!’ I was self righteous and oh-so incredibly
stupid. I know this now because I am the
frazzled shell of a woman ploughing down those who fail to jump out of the
way. And let me tell you what exactly is
wrong with people like me and what gives me the right: pushing that buggy is bloody hard! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So for anyone out there who’s lost a toe to
the woman pushing the buggy, let me explain some things to you. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">1) It might be 10 am, but she’s been trying
to get out the door with that damn buggy since before you were awake. – It may be unbelievable that someone who’s
been awake since 6am hasn't even managed to do her hair and forgot to brush her
teeth. She’s been making sure the baby’s
fed, cleaned, re-cleaned and probably re-re-cleaned. Then she has to gather nappies, wipes,
bottles or snacks, toys, extra clothes. It’ll
have been a miracle if she remembers her purse, let alone her lip gloss. And those are the easy days when there are no
tantrums, teething or baby colds – those days are harder. She’s trucking that buggy that way because she’s
exhausted and lugging more baggage than Rihanna. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">2) She’s in a bigger hurry than you –
Everyone has somewhere important to go, but going out with a baby is like being
sent out to the shops with a time bomb.
That bundle of joy has no audible ticking, nor is there any red wire we
can cut to diffuse it, but he is defiantly set to blow at a specific time. Mums get good at sensing it in the air. They know that if lil’ junior doesn't get fed
or napped or changed or home by a certain time, there will be hell to pay. If you don’t make your bus, you’ll be a bit
bummed, write a tweet about how it sucks and get on with waiting for the next
one. If that mum with the wild-eyed
crazy determined stare on doesn't make the bus, she’s sat with a screaming baby
in the bus shelter for the next half hour.
Your glares will let her know it’s no fun for you, but trust me, it’s
far worse for her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5cjOnRlMPfBvAHmfsBjwadxNSfG9E-xRrR-rz5tRoe_XC_swSqXDGIcBHZkVMuFmqVXyU4I-WDRs04eOOfL4dUo22N_t_ObAzQMB3ihqPAdRcIU27QWllXq3P78pCY387AcNC31OBuBw/s1600/IMG_0468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5cjOnRlMPfBvAHmfsBjwadxNSfG9E-xRrR-rz5tRoe_XC_swSqXDGIcBHZkVMuFmqVXyU4I-WDRs04eOOfL4dUo22N_t_ObAzQMB3ihqPAdRcIU27QWllXq3P78pCY387AcNC31OBuBw/s1600/IMG_0468.JPG" height="320" width="239"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">3) She doesn't care about the point you’re
trying to prove – She’s just pushed buggy, baby and all 50kg of necessary baby
stuff up a hill, over broken pavement and through puddles. She’s dressed like a hobo, and her hobo rags
are covered in baby puke and little crusty bits of baby snot. She’s had 2-3 hours sleep. She’s not had sex in 3 months. She’s remembered the rain cover for the baby
buggy, but not her own umbrella. So when
you meet her on the narrow pavement and stay on the side where you are, even though
she’s trucking along towards you, she’s not going to move. It’s not that she’s being a bitch. It’s not a game of chicken to her. She really can’t maneouver that buggy as well
as you want her to, so be warned. Move
it, or say bye-bye big toe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">4) She’s been dealing with hundreds of
pavement hogs already today – She’s also been dealing with doors that aren't
big enough for the buggy, shops that are impassable because of steps at the
entrance, feeling like a frumpy mess and even feeling guilty that everyone is
pissed off that her buggy is in the way.
She really doesn't want to ruin your day. She really doesn't think she and her child
are more important than you. She’s just
trying to make her way through another day filled with obstacles – physical and
metaphorical. She may not have noticed
you there amongst all that, or she may have hoped that your common decency
would have had you step to one side. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I know I've been the one on the other side, failing to appreciate the plight of the buggy mum. Sorry to all those I didn't get right out of the way for - I should have given you all a medal! Or at least a hug.</span></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtDq0ouvomKFLuthKotzeBAdRtVSA_G7JBSf8c1isOnYy6f298aeiEVV7DESKmGk35jnNMRNpIdxm861WlJpZ6acbK-JU0_OfGuHEc9-RRHbq9KLxkhZPSx7qRXM_NunJRbMBXDIBK7I/s1600/IMG_0961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtDq0ouvomKFLuthKotzeBAdRtVSA_G7JBSf8c1isOnYy6f298aeiEVV7DESKmGk35jnNMRNpIdxm861WlJpZ6acbK-JU0_OfGuHEc9-RRHbq9KLxkhZPSx7qRXM_NunJRbMBXDIBK7I/s1600/IMG_0961.JPG" height="320" width="239"></a></div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-55901044833309907022014-08-14T10:40:00.001-07:002014-08-14T11:22:24.347-07:00Potty training: Adventures in wee puddles<div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The changing table sits in the corner of the living room - an overflowing, all-purpose trap for all things diaper and cleaning related. Wipes, towels, clothing changes and random bits of baby equipment fill its shelves. It was a life saver in the early days, but is beginning to out live its nesessitiy. And it's charm. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Ethan has been able to request nappy changes when needed for a few months and has even taken to climbing to the top the changing table on his own. We can all tell it's time for the next stage. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div>We bought the potty, made a big thing about how cool it was, but he could smell us out. You could almost see his little cogs turning, thinking, 'So now you want me to do something new, do you? Well, we'll see.' Ethan has never been one to do things in demand. It's all on his schedule. There was a long period where we knew he could walk, he knew he could walk, but he just didn't want to, almost as response to our wide-eyed, you-can-do-it encouragement. But in the end, he did it when he was ready. Not a moment sooner.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuwF5HQ-IDuGufQvfEMOAhaoe6JNvr-TfCZWvb6Gtfix-jB464NDL03DFSxdbXHL_TDAspLyaS6GXE7wwcqdOzPmPsAZkoidG7PLvHnFjipjCVyxDmM8MB0ogFxAaDqUKTRDW5plt7I8c/s640/blogger-image--773709159.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuwF5HQ-IDuGufQvfEMOAhaoe6JNvr-TfCZWvb6Gtfix-jB464NDL03DFSxdbXHL_TDAspLyaS6GXE7wwcqdOzPmPsAZkoidG7PLvHnFjipjCVyxDmM8MB0ogFxAaDqUKTRDW5plt7I8c/s640/blogger-image--773709159.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>And the same seems to be unfolding with potty training. Every attempt to talk about the potty has been met with a sort of 'Yeah, whatever!' as he trundles off towards something else. But I know the key to all attention - M&Ms! So we made a big deal of it - going to buy the big boy pants, placing the M&Ms in sight but out of reach like a colourful, enticing temptation. We put a his favourite shows on the iPad, whipped that nappy off and waited. </div><div><br></div><div>We waited for 2 hours. He drank juice. He drank milk. He sat on the potty intermittently, but preferred to roll his full bladder around on the sofa and other soft furnishings. Turns out, that boy can hold it. Finally, the smallest trickle of wee made it into the potty, and at a time when he just happened to be perching on it. Hurray! Lots of M&Ms and snuggles! I put his new tiger-print big boy undies on him and said that if he had to do another wee, we could use the potty instead of a nappy. He nodded, but looked a little stunned.</div><div><br></div><div>I went to the kitchen for a moment, feeling like super mom, but I had no idea a little guy could have such a massive bladder. As I returned to the living room, he was awkwardly trying to sit back on the potty, as he peed with full hurricane force through his new tiger pants. Still I was proud of him aiming for the potty, so even more M&Ms which he stuffed in as fast he could. </div><div><br></div><div>Still fairly pleased, I set about mopping up the wee puddles. Wondering what kind of cleaner one uses for these things and if they make a special one for potty training, like the cleaners for dog messes. But the seal had been broken, and I was only in the eye of the wee hurricane. He sat himself on the floor - in another pair of new dry pants - and an even larger puddle starts to spread from under him. I must say, I really underestimated the amount of wee those nappies must hold. I used up almost a whole roll of kitchen towels!</div><div><br></div><div>But we are off to a start. We revisit the potty most days and expect he will just decide when he's ready to make the change. Even the M&Ms don't fool him, he's on to us and our tactics. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the last bit of babyhood before we pack that changing table away and reclaim the living room. Truth is, I don't know whether to smile or cry.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6fTDA4O2FAZ9hn6JF0en75RciTSUXO_u5GdSjMauKCCdRuakkMauLLqFdE5KgLQ9zRVyfSIlTOX8frqs0NsGNQ3ZtERiYo1gtxL-FxVMHXtD8ZMJXSrK4aF-VAA6gB5LsA3XYao2JYk/s640/blogger-image-1511648306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6fTDA4O2FAZ9hn6JF0en75RciTSUXO_u5GdSjMauKCCdRuakkMauLLqFdE5KgLQ9zRVyfSIlTOX8frqs0NsGNQ3ZtERiYo1gtxL-FxVMHXtD8ZMJXSrK4aF-VAA6gB5LsA3XYao2JYk/s640/blogger-image-1511648306.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>. <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9K1zug2-Rf4HQ31imPYdn1QeBrC0N2sj3vzZ8YwjEFK71hWdFQM3GHmqzcSIA-qWpuIRVwXAFXUjWV9i6co14nhyphenhyphenuKHdMeWxTihLNisuqAZ7PxlOIfiNNebrnPrnaX-8l0WmD2zYgVLA/s640/blogger-image--119170767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9K1zug2-Rf4HQ31imPYdn1QeBrC0N2sj3vzZ8YwjEFK71hWdFQM3GHmqzcSIA-qWpuIRVwXAFXUjWV9i6co14nhyphenhyphenuKHdMeWxTihLNisuqAZ7PxlOIfiNNebrnPrnaX-8l0WmD2zYgVLA/s640/blogger-image--119170767.jpg"></a></div></div>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-72616297457457834662014-06-25T12:51:00.001-07:002014-06-25T12:51:12.572-07:00Transatlantic Two Year OldI'm a good long haul flyer. I can fall asleep before take off, stay hydrated and turn up feeling ready for anything. Now that I am a mommy, everything is naturally more complicated. And it is not a question of whether I'm good at it, but how well I can manage the embodiment of hurricane force tantrums at 30,000 feet.<br />
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<br />Ethan and I are now in the states, visiting my parents and I am amazed to say that I have survived a solo transatlantic flight with a two year old. My husband couldn't make it with us, but we decided it would still be a good time for Ethan to see his grandparents. <br />
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In the days leading up to the flight, I panicked a little. On an everyday shopping trip on a hot day before the flight, I gave Ethan an ice cream. He didn't eat it, just held it, until it melted all over his hands and dripped down his legs. I took it away, and he threw a massive tantrum complete with flailing arms smacking my face and full body convulsions. He seemed to want to chuck himself headfirst onto the ground. As people stared, I held back my impulse to blurt out, 'Just eat the damn ice cream!'<br />
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Ethan was deaf to anything I had to say, anyways. Many tears later and covered in sticky melted ice cream juice, I thought, 'how am I ever going to manage this flight alone?'<br />
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<br />That evening, I told Thom that I was worried. His advice -Man up. And after being a bit miffed about it, I decided he was right. I am the mom. I'm not going to be pushed around by the two year old in tantrum mode. In fact, if I wanted to make sure he didn't actually crack his head open mid-tantrum, I needed to wo-Man up!<br />
<br />I had many more carry on's than I would in the old days - filled with snacks, toys, extra clothes and kilos of nappies and baby wipes. I felt like a commando approaching a potentially deadly mission. The day started before the sun came up and tiredness alone could have turned my little cherub into a screaming banshee in a moment. I had to be sharp and ready to improvise. Being soft would not do.<br />
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As soon as we waved goodbye to dad, I took a deep breath, got down to look Ethan in the eyes and said, 'Now, I want you to be good and listen to mama. We are going on the plane.' He nodded, maybe a little surprised, but did exactly that, even to the point of letting the security people frisk him (we set off the metal detector) and holding his baby-chino very carefully with two hands as we waited at Starbucks for our gate to be announced. <br />
<br />I was impressed by what I could see. He was a pretty switched on, grown up boy in the seat next to me. But he is a two year old after all, and probably entitled to his fair share of tantrums. The funniest ones, in hindsight, were after looking out the window as the plane took off, saying 'done' and that he wanted to go in the car now. He was not pleased that we had to stay where we were for what is an eternity in two year old time. And also in those seemingly endless minutes when the pilot demands everyone stay seated with seatbelts on after landing, Ethan yelled 'Go? 1, 2, 3...Go!' And then when it was time to leave the plane, he decided he wanted to stay and fell to the floor at the exit screaming that he wanted to stay on the plane, as all the other weary passengers were piling up behind us. <br />
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<br />It wasn't all about being tough, though I learned. It is also about a good dose of keeping him engaged when he's bored and relaxed when he's upset. Finding ways to have fun when you're cramped into two small seats for 9 hours takes creativity and lots of energy. So different from my long haul sleeps of my pre-child life. Finding and enjoying the sweetness in him was essential. Things like when he yelled, 'Weeee!' after some bumpy turbulence and yelling 'Crash!' just before the landing. Gotta love that funny child outlook!<br /><br />. Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-3293634261142473972014-05-23T07:53:00.001-07:002014-05-23T07:53:41.596-07:00What in the heck is 'Gammato', Part 2<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I think I will be sad when Ethan talks in
the same language as us and leaves his own little expressions behind. In his first few months he used make a little
chirping squirrel sound, now gone. Then
it was endless 'da-da', then 'uh-oh', now also changed and used in only
appropriate times, like when he sees dad or spills something, rather than the
constantly repeated syllables they once were. In a strange way it seems to suddenly hit me that he is far from that little baby he once was.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">He understands more of us than we do of him
these days. I say, 'Don't touch that!'
or 'Wait for me, please.' or 'Be patient, just a minute.' and he knows what I
mean. I think the words he has picked up
tell us a little something about what ignites his young imagination. Cars, colours, numbers, cooking utensils,
dirt - are all things he has words for.
Numbers especially get him very excited.
So much so, that we have to limit the times of day he can watch one of
favourite kids shows, the NumberJacks. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">They are like little number-shaped superheros
that live a sofa and come out to help kids solve counting and maths related
problems. Sounds innocent enough, but it
sets him off. He is so excited by it
that if he sees it too late in the day, bath time becomes a real battle and he
jumps around in bed for a while before finally going to sleep. But he loves it,
so now and again we give in.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">The other day the Number Jacks were helping
to solve a problem where people were counting wrong. Ethan was chiming along, repeating his
favourite numbers. 'Five! Eight!
Twenty-nine!' The went to a bakery and a
woman was piling endless cream filled cakes and buns onto a tray. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Gammato!' Ethan yelled out. Thom and I looked at each other,
puzzled. What is this Gammato? Is it a cake instead of a tomato? I asked Ethan, what is a gammato? </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">'Yes', he answered , matter of factly. We are none the wiser. But it makes me a little sad that one day he
will be able to tell us exactly what he means and Gammto will be gone. </span></div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-32674017518326507042014-04-01T11:09:00.000-07:002014-04-01T11:09:12.231-07:00What in the heck is 'Gamato'?Thom is rushing Ethan around the grocery store the other day. As he scurries down the aisles, Ethan is pointing his little finger everywhere, exclaiming, 'Dinosaur. Rawr!'<br />
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Thom couldn't see any dinosaurs, and after a while asked, 'Where?'<br />
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Ethan turned his finger around to reveal a tiny dinosaur sticker on the end of his pointer.<br />
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And so it goes, as the little man soaks up language like sponge and then surprise us with it later. He still has a language all his own, and it frustrates him when we don't get it. <br />
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For several weeks, he would turn to us and say, 'Gamato' with such certainty and be wildly upset when we couldn't figure out what it was. At first we offered tomato, but that wasn't it. It reached the height of desperation one evening with Thom peering into the fridge with Ethan on his hip, pointing to various food items to find out what was Gamato. Every item got a big 'No!' from Ethan.<br />
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We would spend evenings stewing on it. Discussing it and mulling it over into the night. <br />
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Finally, the other day we BBQed and I was cutting up a tomato to add to dinner. Ethan pipes up: 'Gamato!' Our jaws drop. We only offered him tomato about 300 times when he'd pleaded for Gamato before. <br />
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I held one up to him. 'Is this Gamato?'<br />
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'Yes', he stated matter a factly, reaching for it. We sat down to dinner. And you know, he didn't eat a single one. <br />
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<br />Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-60060302289081945462014-02-24T07:45:00.000-08:002014-02-24T07:45:00.920-08:00A boy and an iPad: a love storyTake a look around you and it can seem that every member of the human race has their eyeballs glued to a little handheld screen. Smartphone, iPad, whatever - we're hooked. I gave my husband an iPhone for Christmas 3 years ago and haven't seen his eyes since. <div>
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So baby comes along and from day one, we're all shoving these little gizmos in his face to snap his photo, playing with them while he's taking ages to feed and talking on them when he wants attention. It's really no wonder he's fascinated. Plus, these touch screens and apps are super simple and easy, he takes to it like a fish in water. </div>
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We try to keep it rationed out and educational, but despite us stocking up on drawing apps, ABC apps, telling time apps, learning words apps, it still usually degenerates into something to keep his little hands busy while he his eyes turn square and he catches flies through too much mouth-breathing. It's just s reflection of us all as we all like to believe that our smartphone use is important and useful when actually it's just a seductive time-waster usually. </div>
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The other night, we were playing the telling time app. If you tell the time correctly 3 times, you get a star. 5 stars and you get a fish that swims in your own little aquarium that you can feed with virtual fish food. Fun. Problem is Ethan is of course too young to understand the clock. He likes to parrot back the numbers '2, 1, 8' and copy words, but he wouldn't stand a chance of getting a full fish tank on his own. </div>
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Enter Daddy. Thom often helps him move the hands of the clock and tries to get more stars and fish. This evening, as Ethan's attention begins to wane from telling time, he climbs over to me for a story and a snuggle and some good fort-making by the sofa with a blanket. Thom is on a roll though and keeps playing the app. Whizzing through without the interruption of Ethan's sticky little fingers, Thom gets one fish, showing Ethan who is delighted. Ethan gives the fish some fish food and returns to our playtime. Minutes later, Dad has another one. The another. Each time, Ethan takes a break from our fort or story to have a look. </div>
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But then the greed sets in. After about the 4th fish, Ethan, dizzy with delight, shouts,'More! More!' That was all Thom needed and he went off, telling the time like, well, like a grown-up and stocking up on fish. I noted that even though Ethan was busy playing and forgetting about the iPad, Thom fed every new fish before going back to tell the time some more. </div>
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Then, bath time arrived and Ethan cried and screamed to be dragged away from his virtual fish tank. Thom had to placate him with the promise of 'one more fish, and then tubby'. I'm not sure if that was for Ethan or himself. Those damn fish are a little more than addictive.</div>
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Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-58023121774824625172014-01-21T01:46:00.001-08:002014-01-21T11:14:55.255-08:00Parenting, John Wayne style As I sit here on a quiet train carriage on my way into london, I love having a 2 year old. He's funny and there's no pretense in him. If he wants it, if he likes it, he lets me know. It's refreshing, simple and sweet to see him becoming more grown up everyday.<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLz3_Gg4PHE7xKNGrrL8eYuFxI5g_etUsS37l7Kp3ZunQxzC8GEXSE5F6GmMITB9xkSm5rDkJ6T2g689SvIfQEJXQeGpgK-oCqS0NuoWA6Jk7Q_ZBZ8b7kXNdQwhZlWBf4-XalPSgp8Y/s640/blogger-image--908953130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLz3_Gg4PHE7xKNGrrL8eYuFxI5g_etUsS37l7Kp3ZunQxzC8GEXSE5F6GmMITB9xkSm5rDkJ6T2g689SvIfQEJXQeGpgK-oCqS0NuoWA6Jk7Q_ZBZ8b7kXNdQwhZlWBf4-XalPSgp8Y/s640/blogger-image--908953130.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>But I admit that if you catch me dealing with him mid-tantrum, I'll be cursing the two-year-old logic of 'gimme what I want, no not that, now I'm losing it'. In quiet times I can reflect on the frustration that must build up in him as he gets more independent but is still so reliant on us. As he can express so much more, and yet we can struggle to understand him. It's enough to piss off anyone. </div><div><br></div><div>And in our adult minds, we imagine that we can reason with him. 'Just a minute and we'll get some juice.' But two year old mind doesn't understand waiting. It wants juice 5 minutes ago! And then he's screaming so loudly that anything we say is lost in the noise. </div><div><br></div><div>After a fortuitous incident, I discovered that Wild West rules might work better than negotiation. And I have pretty much resolved to deal with tantrums in the manner John Wayne would deal with a raucous bar brawl. Talk low, talk slow and don't talk much. It gives him less to argue with. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm also inclined to find something that could serve the same function as John Wayne's six shooter firing into the air. That always punctuated the madness with silence, getting every gun slinger's undivided attention. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIvftI1SZHwplv3voevWeWWy19XUKUBrGSaktSMlJo9NdX8-JS3QEif3mVR2oeKQ3iyvWHHwx1i13499n7Br27re1JfqcAGhEUFD2pABk3S-FptQAFZ2bWpnpgQGGt0Ljf4TtTNhZI9Kk/s640/blogger-image-1621479316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIvftI1SZHwplv3voevWeWWy19XUKUBrGSaktSMlJo9NdX8-JS3QEif3mVR2oeKQ3iyvWHHwx1i13499n7Br27re1JfqcAGhEUFD2pABk3S-FptQAFZ2bWpnpgQGGt0Ljf4TtTNhZI9Kk/s640/blogger-image-1621479316.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>We recently had some family over for lunch on Ethan's birthday. There was a bottle of bubbly in the fridge for ages and this seemed as good a reason as any to crack it open. Lunch was set and Ethan was getting worked up over the selection on his plate, saying 'No!' and trying to wriggle out of his chair. Thom was trying to placate him and I was anticipating a stressful stand off. But just as he was about to launch into nonsensical scream-mode, the cork popped off the champagne and flew like bullet into the ceiling. Ethan instantly stopped. The room was silent and the spiral into tantrum land was halted. We all had a wonderful lunch. </div><div><br></div><div>Now I'm on the lookout for one of those loud popping toy guns. There's a new sherif in town!</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD1knRtqzywsBVQtgZiixk14x2LCwHHHZCc7yweUMxgBkeCKRYyxP8TR1P3om1fMUTonbqhHOI8Ehilbqw0rEoWrTkmGTBtFRWBb7pNf6hvuBY3wnq5Q3UhypJEOzWSsgaqPFyX9RFKD0/s640/blogger-image--1241942190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD1knRtqzywsBVQtgZiixk14x2LCwHHHZCc7yweUMxgBkeCKRYyxP8TR1P3om1fMUTonbqhHOI8Ehilbqw0rEoWrTkmGTBtFRWBb7pNf6hvuBY3wnq5Q3UhypJEOzWSsgaqPFyX9RFKD0/s640/blogger-image--1241942190.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-61526500993839764332013-12-31T04:02:00.001-08:002013-12-31T04:02:28.362-08:00Two years on....<div class="MsoNormal">
My baby is grown. He is a little boy. Running,
chatting, sprouting an ever
bigger personality. It’s a wonderful
time, but my mind has not caught up.
I still see him as my little cuddly bundle. It's only when I see 6 month-olds that I realise how far away we are from baby-hood. He can still be my sweet baby, crawling up
into my lap for snuggles from mom at those times when he needs a little
recharge. The he's up and off, going
about his grown up business.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPk1MMf8Q8KAM9TH7gjOuvJwL1eXKitoIBaElDhCh6FWW_7BZQygGGo5PaH_kQ6MHNMWQe2SpHhoUQtJRdEfw5Vm0wZdmOmobOVLtjxoAUMRz-Jr055cxhKq-Mu2AyqTeD8BVWrv1YFA/s1600/1525004_10152187605727664_791473147_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPPk1MMf8Q8KAM9TH7gjOuvJwL1eXKitoIBaElDhCh6FWW_7BZQygGGo5PaH_kQ6MHNMWQe2SpHhoUQtJRdEfw5Vm0wZdmOmobOVLtjxoAUMRz-Jr055cxhKq-Mu2AyqTeD8BVWrv1YFA/s320/1525004_10152187605727664_791473147_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUVGuawzylLWqYs-KiDkA5jv5KUVxfu2zTkGyvmy_I1-BocPiuv0ZWNQr5CJz-YjYBKXJj0cbkWM7_TypQwZHRxvSZ6GicEGWscaEpBJnUkUpEqHmkqdWbOhsRmNWDty32sm28lyzIFA/s1600/IMAG1082-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioUVGuawzylLWqYs-KiDkA5jv5KUVxfu2zTkGyvmy_I1-BocPiuv0ZWNQr5CJz-YjYBKXJj0cbkWM7_TypQwZHRxvSZ6GicEGWscaEpBJnUkUpEqHmkqdWbOhsRmNWDty32sm28lyzIFA/s320/IMAG1082-1.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As I look back, I've learned a lot. Also, I can't think of what life is about, if
not this little family that we have.
What did I ever do before? I
wonder even, what was important to me before? It's like looking back into
another existence, another lifetime.
I've learned about children, obviously, but I've learned more about
people, life, relationships and myself. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Seeing this tender life come up, I'm constantly reminded that the most
important thing - the only important thing! - in life is love. How much time I wasted worrying about the pregnancy, how to feed him, what stuff we would provide him. Now that I have had a chance to get to know
him, to see what a child really needs, I worry less about the periphery
stuff. I want to give him whatever he
wants, if I can. But I know the most
valuable thing I can give is love.
Whatever life has dealt us and whatever it will bring, love is what he
will measure his life by.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And two years on, Noah is still in my
heart. I feel like I want to share that
I still cry, almost daily. Sometimes
just a silent tear or two whenever his memory feels near to me. I don't fight it. I see it as part of my special role as his
mother. I will cry for him forever,
missing him with every fibre of my body, like a pain. I possibly miss him more as I see Ethan's
personality grow. I wonder. I 'what
if'. I get angry. I cry for his pain. But that's the role I accept out of the love
I have for him. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Yesterday, after some celebrations,
presents and cake, Thom and I found a quiet moment to light a candle and think
about that day two years ago. Two years
ago, when we met our two little boys. We
just sat in the silence, watching the candle flame flicker, holding hands and letting the joy and sadness sweep
through us for a while. Wishing it could
have been different and yet thankful.
Complete in happiness and broken in painful grief. Two years on, and it amazes me how there can be
two such different feelings at the same time; how I can hold such sadness and
such joy. </span></div>
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Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-55738289827649916372013-12-20T17:17:00.001-08:002013-12-21T11:04:43.517-08:00Addicted to the sweet stuff<div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Number one guaranteed way to turn my little sweetness into a sour pickle? Introduce sugar. What an evil substance! I'm impressed by just how addictive it is seeing how Ethan handles it. His relationship with food so far has been pretty healthy. </span></div><div><br></div><div>Now we are staying at my parent's for Christmas. Nothing makes Christmas like candy and cookies, right? Although he's had cookies before, he's getting near to two and seemingly decided that he's big enough to call the shots now. This coupled with a different environment and lots of people coo-ing around him, and we have created a sugar monster! </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61ogzMrelXcrnHbJClP091Wudj-eyRtwI9uAcixb8dnDtPUZCHdthWtR-cQFqEf0MgXCE44dWTjZ7ruczOddfq12-HoC93XmBzLVkpZdMVPkwOZjtr6L0MRY2WAb-CyBvofq13IePF9c/s640/blogger-image--1122794463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61ogzMrelXcrnHbJClP091Wudj-eyRtwI9uAcixb8dnDtPUZCHdthWtR-cQFqEf0MgXCE44dWTjZ7ruczOddfq12-HoC93XmBzLVkpZdMVPkwOZjtr6L0MRY2WAb-CyBvofq13IePF9c/s640/blogger-image--1122794463.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>He's waking in the morning, still rubbing his little sleepy eyes, asking for cookies. Uh-oh, I was worried. Is this the downhill journey to childhood obesity? A couple weeks of being just a little more relaxed and liberal with the sweet stuff has him hooked! And not just hooked, but angry, too, like a mini gorilla cut off from the banana supply. Thankfully, I had the opportunity to chat with other Moms who've been down this road before. One told me how after a stay at the grandparent's, her little girl came home demanding frosting on her English muffin in the morning. But these habits can be broken, she assured me.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3D3wJ7YfO5XM6471yumC2FPxADBVA8ucauZcTdnuYyyiymqPo7UHmmVLStWFcfEiZC8WifxH1RDW64Ln0WBgO_x7gShg7R0oDaCnIwgXIkMvEhxTDz6D8MrQEHdWQLkclIwn7HBA2Oxg/s640/blogger-image-53823230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3D3wJ7YfO5XM6471yumC2FPxADBVA8ucauZcTdnuYyyiymqPo7UHmmVLStWFcfEiZC8WifxH1RDW64Ln0WBgO_x7gShg7R0oDaCnIwgXIkMvEhxTDz6D8MrQEHdWQLkclIwn7HBA2Oxg/s640/blogger-image-53823230.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Besides, I can hardly be too rough on him. We are all eating more sugar as we lead up to Christmas. And the effect is undeniable. A slip up one day leads to cravings for even more the next day. The more we have it, the more we want it. It's a horrible cycle, especially as I sit here now aware that my jeans are just a teeny bit tighter. There's just no one to tell me off anymore. I'd probably throw a fit if they did, too!</div><div><br></div><div>It's a time for loosening up a bit, and that's ok. He still monstered through spinach and egg today and had chicken and rice for dinner. All is not lost and it's yet another chance to learn from experience. I guess we all get a little cross and upset when our sugar cravings are blocked. But we can learn to choose well, somehow. We will all survive. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIeK2yBx1iv-_lVNAxlauznWlDhNUC5CQbrK3sIoBMbWtUXK4UVrH158Pems3Qki01PwbL0n-9a2UqnPPIkEfK0ulN3SQ7SQCJAzBfz2u-NppE7QQm3D_aNxkJlAEk-kPijS3buTv7b4/s640/blogger-image--1926005035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIeK2yBx1iv-_lVNAxlauznWlDhNUC5CQbrK3sIoBMbWtUXK4UVrH158Pems3Qki01PwbL0n-9a2UqnPPIkEfK0ulN3SQ7SQCJAzBfz2u-NppE7QQm3D_aNxkJlAEk-kPijS3buTv7b4/s640/blogger-image--1926005035.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-81444756976646696232013-11-05T11:08:00.000-08:002013-11-05T11:08:08.311-08:00HugJust about the cutest thing Ethan learned to say over the last few weeks: Hug. We borrowed a book from the library about a little panda looking for the perfect hug. Like a lot of the things Ethan soaks in, he didn't seem all that into the hug book at first. But one morning about a week later, he wandered after me into the kitchen. Sleepy eyed and still in pj's. He held up his arms and said, 'Hug.'<br />
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Not only is it heartbreakingly cute, but it was also a welcome replacement to the frustrated whinge he had been using to get picked up. As he's got bigger, he wraps his little arms around, no longer a passive recipient, but an active component of the hug.</div>
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But as with all things in Ethan-world, leave it a week and he'll have evolved, learned, progressed. He soon dialled that 'hug' got him off the floor and closer to the things he finds interesting in a much more predictable way than his wordless whine. Light switches, computers, shiny knives, hot pans on the stove could all be within reach with a simple 'hug'. </div>
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So we had to be a bit heartless sometimes. When I'm cooking and Ethan comes along , arms up, chanting 'hug, hug!' I have to say, 'In a minute...' He doesn't like that and resorts to the wordless whine. It feels mean, but hug requests while I'm cooking have almost invariably led to him using me as a scaffold to reach out and see how hot the stuff in the frying pan is. I'm left thinking, Hey, where's that hug?!</div>
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So he's employed another word for use when the hug isn't getting him closer to the action - Walk. Which means 'let me down so I can go to where you won't let me'. The other day in the grocery store, he wanted to touch everything, throw eggs on the ground and dig into old ladies' handbags. Proper naughty. He wanted to grab at something high up and demanded, 'Hug!' I picked him up, pushing the trolley along with my free hand. He was not pleased that this 'hug' wasn't actually getting him any closer to the object of his desire. </div>
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'Walk! Walk!' He cried. I carried on, the shop was almost done and this little man was about to turn monster. He got more and more upset, struggling against me to get away, until in sheer desperation he turned towards total strangers to help him get to what he wanted. 'Hug!' he yelled at an old woman walking past us in the aisle. I giggled nervously, hopping the woman wouldn't think he's being kidnapped. Clever little guy, it was almost enough to get me to give in and let him run riot amongst the old ladies and canned goods. I can tell I'm going to have keep on my toes with this hug monster!</div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-64281603290213791422013-10-18T14:11:00.001-07:002013-10-18T14:11:27.318-07:00Wriggly-man's adventures in CakeMy little wriggly-man loves a bit of cake. I baked him a carrot cake for his first birthday. He was unsure how to tackle it, even though the sweet taste had him interested. Now, almost a year on, 'cake' is a favourite word and a catalyst for either happy giggles or violent tantrums. Emotions run high in terms of cake. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_VniHcyjjiFqVC7Jma_cdh8vdvl6NtR0fBrd0d9zHoyABrK4d-ukQ5nNLPgCKXfo-Tz9x7nJZiYURCIw4IkcFTPRmbIDIgZd1ei2JhJ5oss9pI36sfUfhc-3oSvTxgQ8DiNcfF7Nq1E/s640/blogger-image--335309963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl_VniHcyjjiFqVC7Jma_cdh8vdvl6NtR0fBrd0d9zHoyABrK4d-ukQ5nNLPgCKXfo-Tz9x7nJZiYURCIw4IkcFTPRmbIDIgZd1ei2JhJ5oss9pI36sfUfhc-3oSvTxgQ8DiNcfF7Nq1E/s640/blogger-image--335309963.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>This morning, he woke early, settling into a snuggle with me and a drink of milk as he woke up. Suddenly rejuvenated, he sprung up and clomped off towards the kitchen. He cast a look back at me over his shoulder and said, 'Cake.' He nodded his head in agreement with his own brilliant suggestion. Unfortunately, there was no cake to be had and I decided that the day might be off to a better start with some eggs. He didn't agree and cried, but we compromised with a hug.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvZYnwTF1jfPCH-dVXPrnvbxad901Xt1FqFz3WwLILNVzUoBYBmYhpVV2nPkaewfSf6Rn8Rq7QOAcxM_RLwxlMqeQSFrP4BAHMcLUeND5ySPZD2tEgiNHAEO0W0P5YbtvmD_6_SmO0ko/s640/blogger-image--1703478574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIvZYnwTF1jfPCH-dVXPrnvbxad901Xt1FqFz3WwLILNVzUoBYBmYhpVV2nPkaewfSf6Rn8Rq7QOAcxM_RLwxlMqeQSFrP4BAHMcLUeND5ySPZD2tEgiNHAEO0W0P5YbtvmD_6_SmO0ko/s640/blogger-image--1703478574.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>He loves cake so much that it turns him from a lovely sweet boy into a monster. When he goes to nursery, we are always told how good he is, except when cake is at stake. We were informed that he threw a massive, inconsolable fit the other day when he spotted a trolley with cake but had to finish lunch first. I would have hidden it from sight, and have even taken to spelling out the letters of the word rather than saying it and risk a tantrum. I guess learning to see cake and hear about cake without eating cake is a valuable life lesson. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhks6ipgsS7aK9qRoEOOgJY9YeWULtgJANOPbtR4OCmjiENwrFhq1jeJRvX4KHjjzLQofkgcmSzX6b2hGqF9ZzQHNk5hhX4CfwD-MvmORCgxU29v0E1aCf-jIITvOGH-9ynwRIi8ZoXmuQ/s640/blogger-image-1217080751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhks6ipgsS7aK9qRoEOOgJY9YeWULtgJANOPbtR4OCmjiENwrFhq1jeJRvX4KHjjzLQofkgcmSzX6b2hGqF9ZzQHNk5hhX4CfwD-MvmORCgxU29v0E1aCf-jIITvOGH-9ynwRIi8ZoXmuQ/s640/blogger-image-1217080751.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>So I am attempting to balance the tendencies of my mini cake fiend with some good nutrition and restraint. But I do love his little glee-ful face when he's munching into a piece of cake. Crumbs tumbling down his drool-drenched chin, exclaiming, 'Nice!' as he crams it in. So I've come in from work and knocked up a carrot cake at quarter to ten tonight. I guess its because I love him as much as he loves cake. Probably more. </div>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-24671611283068410042013-10-16T06:31:00.000-07:002013-10-20T05:47:52.531-07:00Bend, don't break: essential flexibility for mamas'Nothing in the world<br>
Is as soft and yielding as water.<br>
Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,<br>
nothing can surpass it.<br>
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The soft overcomes the hard;<br>
the gentle overcomes the rigid.<br>
Everyone knows this is true,<br>
but few can put it into practice.'<br>
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-Tao Te Ching (translation by Stephen Mitchell)<br>
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I read this an eternity ago in Philosophy 101, first year at university. I didn't really get it. Now, it seems every aspect of my life attests to this truth - motherhood included. <br>
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Whether I am trying to balance work and quality Ethan-time. Or balance being a mother and being myself. Or getting fitter and stronger versus resting. I find that the more flexible I can become, the better it all is. When I get demanding of myself and my circumstances - what I think I 'should' be - I break. When I can be flexible, rolling with the punches and staying supple, good things come more easily.<br>
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Week on week, I ask myself 'Am I getting enough time with Ethan?' and 'Am I working enough?'. Often the answer to both is 'no', so I have to find ways around. Ways to meet the demands of the day without being so self-critical or disappointed that there is just really not enough time to everything I need or want to do.<br>
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Same principle goes for my body and fitness. If I constantly drive myself and don't balance with rest and mobility, I will eventually break. Strength only takes you so far without flexibility.<br>
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I am learning to constantly re-adjust, allowing myself to return to the drawing board as much as needed to find the right balance. Like water, I have to flow with the terrain rather than butt heads with it. <br>
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<br>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-89820314179205809852013-08-28T03:06:00.001-07:002013-08-28T23:27:49.505-07:00Fresh eyesSince Ethan started picking up words, we are busy figuring out if he is asking for that something or just chatting about it. At first, we were too quick to assume that he was just babbling away, but we've realised that often he's seen something we haven't. A few weeks ago at tesco, I was loading him into a trolley. He's chatting away, 'Bird. Bird. Bird.' I shot a glance around the parking lot, looking for a pigeon or magpie loitering. But he's pointing upwards. Does he see one in the trees? But then I see, in the direction of his tiny pointed finger, a small picture of a pigeon on the trolley shed. Eagle eyes. <div><br></div><div>And so, we've started to question him less and less when he gets out the pointy finger and starts declaring 'Puppy!' 'Star!' 'Bubble!' Or whatever catches his eye. He notices the smallest details on shirts and pictures. Things that we've never noticed before or would have missed. </div><div><br></div><div>It's very sweet, his fascination with the things he's learning about. For instance, this evening, I rushed in after a late running train delayed me, for a quick baby handover as Thom shot off to the tattoo studio. Ethan was showing me his keys, when he stopped cold and stared at my ears. He spotted some earrings he'd not seen before. He gently reached out and touched them, saying, 'Oh, wow!' And then carried on playing. </div><div><br></div><div>It's a great thing to see. Humbling as we realise how profound an effect the small things have on his world. And also to see how much we miss in the things around us. Our perspective is limited. Age and experience teach us that we can ignore much of what goes on around us and we miss lots of wonderful stuff. The kinds of stuff that has Ethan exclaiming, 'oh wow!'.</div><div><br></div><div>I want to be able to reclaim a bit of that fresh perceptive. Where everyday things like keys and wooden spoons are appreciated as the musical instruments they can be. Where nothing is quite so wonderful as a juicy blueberry, a singing bird or a vacant slide at the park. </div><div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sUo1lbO7fGw_ejMBTIUyLMF0q7VurGsAmS_zXmdg2PelIXy5Hk0qPLF7hjl148EwkThrMtDmPHGkj-Dlu4bJKgqXzpnxtUYEwKxEy_GZqZi0ObTpWWR3S77XdYDOxWYGVhFQk5Nx5lU/s640/blogger-image--672681988.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1sUo1lbO7fGw_ejMBTIUyLMF0q7VurGsAmS_zXmdg2PelIXy5Hk0qPLF7hjl148EwkThrMtDmPHGkj-Dlu4bJKgqXzpnxtUYEwKxEy_GZqZi0ObTpWWR3S77XdYDOxWYGVhFQk5Nx5lU/s640/blogger-image--672681988.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I also think about how dismissive people can be of the child's perspective, confusing a lack of knowledge with stupidity. As though a child's perspective doesn't count because they don't get it. I'm becoming convinced that sometimes children get it, and we hardened, blinkered adults are the ones missing the point. Ethan doesn't know about the practicalities of life, like rent and pensions and petrol prices. But he does understand the important stuff, like hugs and imagination and beauty in little things. I want a bit more of that myself.</div></div>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-44932125129768523512013-07-07T05:28:00.001-07:002013-07-07T05:28:48.902-07:00Brainy BabySo you've endured 9 months of pregnancy, trying to do it all perfectly for baby to be born healthy. But once that is done and history, the next big concern is are they smart enough. As Ethan gets older, we become convinced that he's way smarter than any child should be at his age. We are blatantly dealing with a child genius here.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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But not every child can grow up to be smart, right? Or else where do all the un-genius, normal adults come from. It's just that when you've spent the last 18 months watching a helpless cuddle ball of baby turn into someone who knows his Gruffalo from his Elmo, you can't help but think, 'Amazing!'</div>
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My parents also thought they were dealing with a genius child. But then I went to school and they were shocked to discover that I could't read or spell to save my life. Unless the task required to save my life was spelling everything completely mirror-image backwards. In any case, I was in a lower reading stream and they couldn't understand why. </div>
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I didn't know of their surprise at my below averageness until much later in life. A bit of family folklore about how amazed they were that their first child was not a genius. To me, I was happy to be at school, didn't know or care about reading streams and had lots of fun feeling smart. </div>
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Although, to this day, my reading and spelling stink. I've found ways around it to do what I like with words. Just today, glancing past Thom's Derwent drawing pencils, I always see 'DrewEnt' which makes it all the more difficult, as all I can think is 'Drew It'. As I write, I have to check the spelling from the box, so uncertain I can spell it. My brain works in funny ways, but I thank the 'baby genius complex' my parents suffered from for my current talents and confidence. </div>
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Ill placed as is might have been, having them think me smart allowed me to try things out, and not feel held back by whatever inabilities school might have shown up. And to say, actually what school says may not be all that important. And so with Ethan, I think, I will stay entrenched in the firm belief that he is actually my amazing baby genius.</div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-32415743079656388822013-06-30T13:00:00.001-07:002013-06-30T13:00:54.967-07:00Word up, Dude: The little man speaksWatching Scooby Do with a teething little man yesterday morning. Just up from his nap, he was grumpy and leaning into me, with one wary eye at the TV screen. Scooby Do scrambles into frame and Ethan exclaims, 'Oh dude!'.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">tubby time is a favourite time for the word 'duck'</td></tr>
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And so recent news from the mamatastic world is words. We realise now how much Thom uses 'oh dude' and exclamation for exciting events. Could be worse, and I suppose we have taken it as a warning to initiate language clean up procedures. </div>
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Some days he seems to pick up and throw back every one syllable word he hears. Shoe, duck, this, rock, bear. He also seems to store some away, like a secretive sponge, to use later. </div>
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And then there are all the actions he copies. When I'm in the kitchen, he likes to get into the cupboards with the pots and pans. He pretends to stir and taste, just like a proper chef.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">copying mama's antics at CrossFit</td></tr>
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The other day, he seemed really hungry. He had double lunch portions at nursery and later ate all his dinner and some of mine. After story time, I asked him if he wanted a biscuit. He peeked up and said, 'Cake!' (We had been given some lovely cake the week before and he set about the house in a knee-shuffle, cake in hand, chanting 'cake, cake, cake, cake', leaving a trail of crumbs behind). </div>
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I said, 'How about biscuit?'</div>
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'Bis-cake!' he said, beaming with anticipation. And then, something happened that I am going to claim as a first sentence.</div>
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'Peas, bis-cake!' he pleaded, making the baby-sign for 'please'. How could I resist? He was given a whole shortbread, when normally I would give half, just because it was good moment. By the time we reached cupboard where the biscuits are kept, he was using two hands to ask for the biscuit.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Mmmm, cake!'</td></tr>
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Dad was also excited to hear about the bis-cake. The next day I was in London seeing clients all day, leaving Dad to see just what a big talker his little man had become. I noticed that all but one bis-cake was gone when I returned. </div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-28352992272752927352013-05-17T04:16:00.001-07:002013-05-17T04:16:24.478-07:00With hope, odds don't matter - one mum's amazing story of overcoming against all oddsSome time ago, I posted Heather Von St James' story of surviving mesothelioma. Mesothelioma is an aggressive cancer related to asbestos exposure. Heather was a new mum, with a newborn, and had to battle this disease along with all the pressures that a new mum also has to tackle. She was given a grim diagnosis and there was little expectation that she would be able to live long enough to be a mother to your new baby. <div>
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But Heather did what strong women do. She took on the impossible challenge ahead of her and found strength inside that exceeded everyone's expectations. We all could use inspiration to find our own inner strength, so have a look at this brief video about Heather's journey. </div>
Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-66565247921446591632013-04-23T05:43:00.001-07:002013-04-23T08:44:55.144-07:00Better than average baby daysI'm in a happy place. For months it seems I've had cold hands and feet. Now suddenly, the sun is shinning and the world is waking up. I love the warmer weather and the older I get the more I consider seriously the notion of moving somewhere the weather is more like this all the time. <br />
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As I write, I am in the well placed corner of the decking, where the sun's heat seems to collect. iPad in hand and baby monitor clipped to my bikini. Clothes at the ready because with just a step out of my personal corner of paradise I'm met with a breeze that feels like the last bits of winter are still clearing away. Plus, when Ethan peeps awake it'll be a quick transition from carefree sun goddess to mum-of-the-sandpit. <br />
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The sandpit resides in my paradise corner, warm and sheltered for when Ethan indulges in his new favourite thing, SAND! When Thom and I first moved into the house, we wondered how we could get rid of it. The plastic box didn't match our backyard vibe. Kinda clashed with the garden candles and fairy lights against the long, bbq scented evenings with cold glasses of Chardonnay. Now, not only does it completely coordinate with our current decorating scheme of primary colours and plastic, but also our previous laziness has become Ethan's greatest source of fun. <br />
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It has been a happy time watching him fall in love with the outdoors as the weather warms. Suddenly, it seems for him, there is bigger world beyond the doors of the house and he's eager to get into it.<br />
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He approached the sand pit with his characteristic cautiousness, gently feeling the sand between his fingers and looking over the shoulder all the while to check with us. His boldness grew to climbing in, filling containers, emptying as much sand out as he could, rubbing a little on his cheeks and especially covering mum in piles and piles of sand. <br />
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We make an afternoon of it when the weather permits, like today, bringing out with us snacks and drinks, sunscreen and blankets. He crams slightly sandy tomatoes and strawberries in his mouth, while I fight a losing battle of trying to keep the sand out of his eye, ears and nose. He cries when we take him inside for dinner and often looks out the window, pointing and speaking to us with words we don't yet understand. So I park his highchair by the open kitchen door so he can hear the birds and watch the flowers while he eats his dinner. And with that he is content. Sunshine just makes for better than average days all 'round. <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQmBM1jVIBXqwgi38lJpiIhSStI0GFRz8begGyNT9zRRGWE9XpLh5Fvw4B8FRGsVUqJ-wxUYGVyop5x_H0i0xS8XJo4DpZnkPgb19_-SI2LSp1xA2UA-7mfaz086ihuG39aUVDM5SeS0/s640/blogger-image--1989044027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitQmBM1jVIBXqwgi38lJpiIhSStI0GFRz8begGyNT9zRRGWE9XpLh5Fvw4B8FRGsVUqJ-wxUYGVyop5x_H0i0xS8XJo4DpZnkPgb19_-SI2LSp1xA2UA-7mfaz086ihuG39aUVDM5SeS0/s640/blogger-image--1989044027.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-rgqNsfyjb-3NU8QaK0EFLuB8KvyVO_ZZKgjE1QxOTZbaMRa7VLHGC6juMxu6fCnaCtr6EiQmRBf3A3Leymx-VgN_PvTUjBP9l3fWanTUJO2tDn7Me1hMO1WkENdBWdozGS8DYRWW00E/s640/blogger-image--836520242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-rgqNsfyjb-3NU8QaK0EFLuB8KvyVO_ZZKgjE1QxOTZbaMRa7VLHGC6juMxu6fCnaCtr6EiQmRBf3A3Leymx-VgN_PvTUjBP9l3fWanTUJO2tDn7Me1hMO1WkENdBWdozGS8DYRWW00E/s640/blogger-image--836520242.jpg" /></a></div> <br/><br/><div class="separator"style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRvWbbX3zfVfbtZXef31_KgS8FTteLme8tqZnCugx4mq5ouDqjmSB_OwXKYp-5iLrnRtf7eBcRI5IPCtJOJxi7W-aSlk6L0cE1gZjboJb0um6gmBIYPPi6up-g1IVfna9m4DIu6-t1Yw/s640/blogger-image-1273498564.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRvWbbX3zfVfbtZXef31_KgS8FTteLme8tqZnCugx4mq5ouDqjmSB_OwXKYp-5iLrnRtf7eBcRI5IPCtJOJxi7W-aSlk6L0cE1gZjboJb0um6gmBIYPPi6up-g1IVfna9m4DIu6-t1Yw/s640/blogger-image-1273498564.jpg" /></a></div>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-6212653254310954322013-04-10T11:18:00.000-07:002013-04-10T11:19:07.426-07:00Reflections on Sweat and Sequins: The Miami ProIt seems like a long time ago now that my friend, Aga, and I first spoke about doing a body building bikini competition. For such a long time, it was something in the future. Now that it's over the feeling is surreal. <br />
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I think we both needed a goal. For our own reasons, something to work towards and challenge us. I was still trying to shift baby weight and had just been introduced to what would become a consuming passion, CrossFit. It seemed like something to keep me training, eating right and on track. And it was a strange kind of challenge. A kind of slow, daily grind of a challenge to persist in the workouts, the dietary commitments and stay focused on this date in the future when it would hopefully all come together in a brief stroll across a stage. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZv2YjKVrCmWPniJAOfaa8WOJ0XJo9-DB0AJ-eqhVWuDQG-FPxBq7Si-MvbqOB6MI2BzCuz3gH6Ly0YK0tDxUZffHpg34KRw5FPkjidKZcYrVmPuK1A2f2ohMgTssWQa2zBH75pwshoEs/s1600/IMG_1329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZv2YjKVrCmWPniJAOfaa8WOJ0XJo9-DB0AJ-eqhVWuDQG-FPxBq7Si-MvbqOB6MI2BzCuz3gH6Ly0YK0tDxUZffHpg34KRw5FPkjidKZcYrVmPuK1A2f2ohMgTssWQa2zBH75pwshoEs/s320/IMG_1329.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sunday was the day. The evening before, Aga and I met up at hotel near the arena, went to be covered in very brown tan and tried to keep each other calm. By 11 am the next day, we were make-up-ed, hair-sprayed and waiting to be registered. There were over 200 other toned and tanned people there. After we were given our numbers, all 200 of us clambered for some space backstage to prepare and settle in for the inevitable hours of waiting. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbq5H1yxIMdeAXKaqNtC5wCW3RsPpaQV5Gv9ay0uQCVduQ3F0V1SJkdTKRxlfeqgEHLSdqa7ekA3ePwp8rDCqXpyR4W7wLWYkKL0JlTB6WAH92qAHNjAlb7z9cERD-zn4MR2WZ9LqnR8/s1600/902601_10151324260415703_1707950472_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbq5H1yxIMdeAXKaqNtC5wCW3RsPpaQV5Gv9ay0uQCVduQ3F0V1SJkdTKRxlfeqgEHLSdqa7ekA3ePwp8rDCqXpyR4W7wLWYkKL0JlTB6WAH92qAHNjAlb7z9cERD-zn4MR2WZ9LqnR8/s320/902601_10151324260415703_1707950472_o.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
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Backstage was a strange world. Amongst the splashes of fake tan still being applied, competitors did press ups, practised poses and texted their friends in the audience. Aga and I tried to relax, but I think was probably just gawking at all the muscles, glitter and chaos. Groups of women passed around bottles of Jack Daniels and wine. Other guys and girls acted like they were on something different - chattering away like spacey energizer bunnies and not making much sense. Some very large moody muscle men glowered in the corner, spreading their giant quads across the tiny sofas, leaving no room for anyone else to perch. People planned their McDonalds orders for the way home or pre-ordered pizzas to be delivered when the show ended. Though it sounds naive of us, this was not the fitness wonderland Aga and I had imagined. <br />
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But, none the less, we were there. We got our abs and we were feeling fitter than we ever have before. That was all we wanted, I suppose. The pageantry of the day was just like a giant tribute to our hard work. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkr4yW3o1d_9VVZQv8fzh_399aGA4m-h1QDDsqvvxpGDhplg-xyTgLYLZtFOxbrbBM8lSuP3Q2zp-XdakoRPajVrn8FUR5wvevQHma2T4G6NLkf7T-SthXSjKIq0h1ERsiezG8V7O_kts/s1600/IMG_1381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkr4yW3o1d_9VVZQv8fzh_399aGA4m-h1QDDsqvvxpGDhplg-xyTgLYLZtFOxbrbBM8lSuP3Q2zp-XdakoRPajVrn8FUR5wvevQHma2T4G6NLkf7T-SthXSjKIq0h1ERsiezG8V7O_kts/s320/IMG_1381.JPG" width="320" /></a>Then somehow, there I was at the edge of the stage, in a bikini that barely had me covered, waiting to walk out and face the crowd. I was a bag of nerves and it showed. But I did it. Aga did, too. Neither of us have any shiny trophies to show for it, but it certainly is an experience I am glad to have had. <br />
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The next day, and now, there's an emptiness without the goal that loomed over me for so long. In some ways, I find myself being surprised that I am the same. Getting the bikini competition hasn't changed my life. I am still the same person, with the same problems and the same insecurities as before. Monday morning, I woke up to the 6am baby-alarm-clock and got on with the day. What it has given me is proof that I can do what I put my mind to; I can overcome the things that will inevitably get in the way and, damn it, I can do it. The question is, what next?<br />
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<br />Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6427395474737485577.post-13954499422800592042013-03-15T07:08:00.001-07:002013-03-15T07:08:18.140-07:00Family fun and paleo shakes<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">A fab little suggestion for healthy, family fun this weekend from Kendra Thornton, worldwide traveller, writer and mom:</span></span></div>
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<b><u><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Shamrock Shake – A Fabulous Treat to Share with
your Family this St. Patrick’s Day!</span></u></b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">There's nothing like a
vacation to relax the mind while you recharge the senses. I stayed at the
magnificent Fontainebleau on Collins Avenue, amongst some of the <a href="http://www.gogobot.com/miami--hotels">top hotels in Miami</a>, and
relished my ocean front view. Sunbathing, shopping and of course, eating and
drinking beautiful things was renewing me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshX_AkuLWJrgBM4HYXRgfK-FgV1aCdt_BqIBlaXSOz5rFzys0Ov-93DnOSvscb43Zg2DfAfScbf52rXX7Gu4DwlZDt6vWr7qVcraZ5iX28YhuGpRdrZyPcOuEVloJae67A_aiehYIEeA/s1600/Shamrock+Shake+Smoothie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjshX_AkuLWJrgBM4HYXRgfK-FgV1aCdt_BqIBlaXSOz5rFzys0Ov-93DnOSvscb43Zg2DfAfScbf52rXX7Gu4DwlZDt6vWr7qVcraZ5iX28YhuGpRdrZyPcOuEVloJae67A_aiehYIEeA/s320/Shamrock+Shake+Smoothie.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I love trying new
flavors when I travel, and the tropical trips always reveal astonishing
surprises. One of my favorite things that I tasted was a pale green shake
advertised as healthy. It was creamy, light, rich and refreshing all at
once – reminiscent of the ice cream based Shamrock Shakes we all know, but much
more depth of flavor. I had to discover the recipe so that I could bring
it back home to share with my friends and family in Chicago.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Miami bodies are
famously fit. So how could the locals be drinking shakes and still get
into their tiny swimsuits? I was impressed to discover the shake was a “Paleo”
recipe, with no dairy, and only the very best super-foods the earth has to
offer. The recipe for this shake is filled with healthy rich flavors and
can be easily adapted to any palate or preference.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">For your very own <i><u>“Signature Shamrock Shake - Healthy,
Paleo Version”</u></i> gather the following ingredients:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">-1 can coconut milk (you
could substitute 1 ¼ cups of any other type of milk here – I especially like
almond milk)</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">-1 ripe avocado, peeled
and seed removed</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">-2 ½ – 3 Tablespoons of
pure raw honey (or other sweetener of your choice)</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">-1 cup of ice</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">-1 Tablespoon pure
vanilla extract</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">-1 teaspoon pure
peppermint extract</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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</span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">(This recipe yields about 4 cups)</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Directions:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Put all of these
ingredients into the blender and blend until smooth. Garnish with a
coconut wedge, mint sprig or tiny tropical umbrella. Enjoy!</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">The pale green color
from the avocado is a decadent and natural treat, but if you would like a more
festive dark green color, simply add a few drops of green food coloring.
Your friends will be transported to their own ocean front haven while
enjoying the benefits of the Paleo health food trend. Enjoy and Happy St.
Patrick’s Day!</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--[endif]--></span>Jessica Johns-Greenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17724410098598119576noreply@blogger.com0