The Darkest Day

I consider December 21st to be the real New Year's Eve- as the Darkest Day, the rest of the year only gets brighter until summer solstice. So in light of this, I present to you: The Bad Stuff. The dark, the cynical, the difficult, the tragic. Don't worry, tomorrow's post is all about bunnies and flowers. In no particular order:

1. Scat. No, get your smutty little mind out of the gutter, I'm talkin' bout the annoying non-verbal diarrea that is so beloved by the jazz community (please picture a white twenty-something college student making jazz hands here). I particularly hate scat when "performed" by white people. I think I object to it so much because there is a whole group of white jazz afficionados who have managed to completely erase the African American roots of the music, and turned it into their own, soul-less creation. So my fellow honkies: no more buh-duh-DOY-dah-doy-duh-deet-deet-deet for you. It makes me wince.

2. Global warming. You are not only on notice, but you have put me on notice. What's up with that?

3. Thoughtful people. Thank god I am not a close personal friend of Julie's, because beyond having to put up with the wicked sense of humour and the terrific insight (and I mean really, screw that), I'd be faced with the following unfortunate scene every Christmas:

Julie: Merry Christmas Compa! I made you these twenty-six different kinds of perfectly-executed yet impossibly difficult cookies, whilst my adorable tow-headed toddler was underfoot. Whee! Want some Ritalin?
Compa: And I, uh, stuck some cloves in an orange for you. With my son. You can put it in a drawer, with your socks and underwear. You might have to do a little sweep of your drawer for clove bits every so often, cause it, uh, seems to shed. Or something. Never mind. [Takes orange and runs away, sobbing.]

4. Stephen Harper. Seems a fairly obvious one for a Canadian, but for those of you south of the border, our own "Dear Leader" has all but distroyed the primary women's advocacy instituiton in the country, determined that poor and unemployed people don't need access to computers, axed the national child care program cause, p'shaw, who needs child care? Total losers, that's who. TOTAL LOSERS LIKE ME, STEPHEN. May 2007 be your last year in power.

5. Tragedy & Hard Times. That's right, I don't like either of 'em. So please go over and give one Ms. Akeeyu Buttmansion some love, cause she's had a hell of a 2006.

Thank you, and don't forget to come back tomorrow for Good News Saturday. With skipping! And fairies! And sing-along songs!

True Colours

Papi Bello: I go be a doctor I grow up.
Compa: Cool! What kind of doctor?
Papi Bello: A yellow and green one.
_____________________________

New post coming soon on our penultimate homestudy session. Promise.

I read it for the articles

So around noon today, as I was going home to obsessively clean my kitchen because THE SW IS COMING TOMORROW FOR MORE HOMESTUDY GOODNESS BUT WE AREN'T THINKING ABOUT THAT, I got into my car, and noticed that there was some sort of plastic wrapped catalogue or something tucked beneath my wiper.

That's odd, I thought, I haven't been witness to that sort of marketing campaign before. I wonder what the catalogue is for. So I get out of my car, pick up the package, and realize it's a catalogue wrapped in a Radio Shack bag. Radio Shack doesn't exist any more.

Intrigued, I turn over the bag to find that it has been secured shut with blue duct tape. Upon opening it (I mean come on, people, how could you not?) I discovered that it was no catalogue- rather, it was a pre-owned Penth0use magazine.

Because you know, my powder-blue eco-friendly subcompact with a child seat in the back?
It was just crying out for one.

Gender & Adoption

Cross-posted at Canada Adopts:

Okay, never one to shy away from controversy, I thought I'd post something I noticed when perusing the parent registry (btw, congratulations Sheila & Patrick on your new addition!).

I did a count of how many successful adoptive parents adopted boys & how many adopted girls, and was a bit surprised to find it was 2-1: 31 boys were placed (including a set of twins) and 15 girls were placed (not including an adorable toddler girl placed through CAS).

So here is my question: does our culture somehow view boys as better able to handle an adoptive placement? Do birth mothers (and I KNOW I am treading into murky waters here, as no two birth mothers are alike) want to somehow protect girls by parenting them, or protect boys by placing them? Is the (common, but not universal) lack of a male role model at play in decisions to place boys?

I know when North Americans talk about international adoption, we are quick to point out that, for example, birth monthers in countries such as Korea and Guatemala overwhelmingly place boys, whereas birth mothers in countries such as India and China overwhelmingly place girls. But I don't know to what extent we have examined this phenomenon in our own culture.

To be clear: I hope this conversation remains respectful towards birth parents. I feel that decisions to place one gender more frequently than another are reflective of how the society at large views gender, and should NOT be a moral condemnation of the birth parent.

That said: discuss!

And party ev-er-y day!

I may have mentioned before that I am not a fan of babyish speech affectations, generally speaking. In fact, the Leon's commercial above ranks as my Least Favourite Commercial of All Time (I mean, come on, when she gets to the word "you", she looks like she may gag on her own tongue from all the incredulity).

It is with great trepidation, therefore, that I must announce that my son did the Cutest Thing Evar this afternoon, whilst playing with his toy synthesizer.

He started bopping his head to the music, and said, like an old wizened seventies dude: "wock an' woll!"

To be clear to those fearful I may be softening my position on this issue: it's only cute and funny when my kid does it. When your kid does it, it's still nauseating.

46 Months

46 Months

Papi Bello,

It has been interesting to watch you as you develop your own religion in this loosely agnostic household: It is confirmed that Santa is your God. Whenever you want to trace letters, it is always Santa’s name you want to spell. You didn’t get the whole “Santa gives presents” thing for quite a while; when I asked you what you thought Santa would bring you, you said, “yeah, let’s get a present for Santa!” When I said that Santa gives presents to kids, you said “Santa get a train, for E!” (your friend). When I asked what you though he would bring you, you said “Me? Maybe… a toys.”

Somehow, despite having a father who dotes on you because of the simple joy that he can, you have not developed a sense of materialistic entitlement.

You revere Santa, and what last year was a “Ho Ho Tree” is now a “Santa Tree”. When we go on walks through the mall, you sigh in contentment and point out each wreath, tree, and decoration, observing contentedly: “Look, Mommy! More Christmas. Santa must be very happy.” In your imagination, it is as though each bit of tinsel or ribbon were an offering unto Him, the great God of beneficience that is Santa.

And speaking as the one who will likely fill your stocking and wrap the presents that come from Him, I will say that He is very, very happy indeed.

Love,
Mama