S*#@&ing For Scotland.

So I promised you a swearing parrot and I like to keep my promises.

Scotland - land of ancient castles and deep, inky black lochs (with monsters).
A land steeped in history and tradition (and bagpipes.)
Scotland where the men wear skirts and dance the Gay Gordons with pride and a manliness that rivals Russell Crowe in Gladiator.

I am very proud of my homeland. It is stunningly beautiful. The people are incomparable. Funny, kind and generous.
We do however tend to swear like sailors.
Now obviously that's a generalization.
There probably is some sweet old lady in the Outer Hebrides that has never uttered a swear word.
The rest of us - Sweary Marys.

So, it should come as no surprise that when we visited the zoo - a parrot swore at us.
In keeping with the stereotype he even added comic timing.
As I was reading a little placard on the cage that said:

"Our parrots are rescued, we apologize if their language is offensive to some."

The parrot screeched "BOLLOCKS!"

If you need to Google that - go right ahead and come back.

The eight year old was all over it.

"What is bollocks mummy?"

"What ARE bollocks darling."

"OK - what ARE bollocks?"

"Well, it's just a word we don't use."

"I won't use it - what does it mean?"

As I have mentioned my childhood involved modesty, I am still discovering the real names for some of my own body parts.
So in true parenting style - I have gone the other way. I am determined that all body parts will be accurately named and located by my children before they turn ten.

As I begin my explanation to the eight year old we wander over to the pigpen. There lying on the ground is an enormous boar pig. Perfect. There sticking out between his legs are the perfect explanation.

"Those are bollocks but is a slang word, not a polite word, we don't use it."

"OK mom."

She skips on.
I am filled with pride. I handled that so well.
Then I come around the fence and see the teats.

"What are those mom?"

"Oh bollocks."

My eight year old now knows what the word hermaphrodite means and she also believes that there is a hermaphrodite pig in a zoo in Scotland.

What Amy's Death Means To Me.

The world news is overwhelming. So much grief and sadness.
I am confused about something - what motivates people to turn to social media with so much vitriol?

I was bombarded with FB posts and Tweets saying very ugly things about Amy Winehouse.
There was a common theme in the stuff I read - she was rich so she didn't deserve sympathy for her problems.
Or, that there was real tragedy in the world so why was the media focusing on one person.

I think Norway and The Sudan are unfathomable which is why we can more easily relate to one person's death.
We are more likely to know an addict than a mass murder or famine victim.
Maybe.

I think the human heart has room to grieve for more than one thing at a time.
We don't have to choose. I also think music deeply touches people so they felt a connection.
Maybe.

If I tweet about The Sudan is it implied that I don't care about the people of Norway?
For the record I have lost sleep over famine when I have food abundance that can only be described as hedonistic.
The weight of sadness I feel for the parents of those Norweigian teens is not something I am able to be eloquent about.
It is a horror I need to shut my mind to.
So I pray and hope for the people of Norway privately.

As for Amy Winehouse her death does feel personal to me. Why?
Because I have children who are living in a time when fame, wealth and celebrity are lauded, encouraged, exalted.
We live in a culture that lists rock star as a profession. What happened to singer or musician?
Why movie star and not actor?

We are watching famous young people self destruct on a regular basis. We are buying magazines to follow their every misstep.
We are dressing our children like them, buying their movies, CD's or merchandise then we are first on the bandwagon to critisize them when they overuse alcohol or drugs to cope with their often sudden and overwhelming fame.
Is the heavy media attention towards this one woman an act of guilt? Do we feel a little complicity?
Maybe.

The death of Amy Winehouse is not simply the self imposed death of a rich girl. It is a wake up call.

I can't control extremists or the weather in Africa.
I can teach my children that singing is a wonderful thing but that fame might not be.
I can teach that drugs will not resolve anything you may try to cover with them.
I can watch the news and MTV when my children are asleep.
I can support media outlets that report news, not glamorize it.
I can teach tolerance.
I can also remember that death at 27 is too early and that a family are grieving.

Knickerbocker Glory

They say you can never go home. Well obviously that's a metaphor because I did just physically go home. The sentiment, however, was hammered into me many times on our trip.

When I was about eight I got croup. It's unusual to get it at that age and so in my usual style I did it bigger and better than the average child.
The first attack happened in the middle of the night and after the Doctor made an emergency house call (socialized medicine people - it's not just a pipe dream) an ambulance was called.
I remember thinking, not that it was hard to breath but that I wished my friends could see me whisked away in an ambulance with the lights flashing.
(More evidence that drama queens are born and not made.)

At the hospital a very jolly nurse gave me the breathing treatment and soothed me through the whole thing by telling me how brave I was. She told my Dad that I was so brave, I deserved a treat. She suggested a Knickerbocker Glory.
Just the word still brings a smile to my face.
When I told her I had never had one, she gave my Dad strict instructions to take me to a certain ice cream parlour as soon as I was well enough.

He did. A Knickerbocker Glory is an ice cream sundae. I can still picture the tall thick glass filled with fruit, ice cream and chocolate and strawberry sauces. It was heaven.
I had had banana splits but this was my dream dessert.

I had told the eight year old this story many times, usually when she's had croup. Perhaps because she turned eight this year and we were heading 'home' she asked if I would take her for the famous treat when we got to Scotland. I was thrilled.
It's the kind of thing parents live for. Repeating a happy childhood memory with your own child - it's magical.

The first thorn was the fact the original ice cream parlour had closed. Undaunted I found another old fashioned one.
We headed there the day after we landed. We had big grins on our faces as we ordered. We told the waitress an abbreviated version of the story and she seemed tickled for us.
The three year old declined the giant sundae and opted for a single scoop of "pink" (strawberry) with the parlour's trade mark bear wafer. It came first, It was very cute, Bear shaped cookies in ice cream - you can't go wrong.

Then with some fanfare came the long anticipated Knickerbocker Glory. The eight year old was grinning from ear to ear.
We all tucked into to our chosen treats. We took photos. It was a golden moment.
Then I saw the eight year old's face. She was trying desperately not too cry. My girl is not normally reticent with her emotions.
The struggle on her face was completely heartbreaking.

"What's wrong sweetie?"

I could cry as I type, she said:

"I'm ruining your special moment."

"It's OK lovey, what's wrong?"

"I don't, sob, like it, sob."

A memory, thirty something years in the making, shattered.

I laughed with the absurdity of it. How could I not have seen how much expectation I put on this poor kid?
Of course she didn't like it. It's not the kind of thing she likes. She never chooses sauces and I'm not sure she's ever eaten canned fruit.

The problem was quickly solved by a single scoop with a bear wafer.

So, what did I learn? What's important to you probably won't be important to your kids, sure OK I get it, but really what I learned is that when you're eight - a cute bear wafer triumphs every time.

BlogHer Voices of the Year.

Christy at A Lil' Welsh Rarebit nominated me for this and yesterday I found out I was chosen.

I am a 2011 BlogHer Voice of the Year for humor!

I feel like the little engine that could.
If you're a parent you know that it is a highly underpaid and often thankless job.
Prior to parenthood and blogging I worked in healthcare. I'm not used to industry kudos.
I get to go to a award reception at BlogHer next month in San Diego.

The chosen post was Modest Mom - it seems a little bit of humiliation goes a long way!

Thanks so much to Christy and to all of you who read my little blog!

Sky High.

Travel. It was never meant for three year olds.
Either I didn't get that memo or I am hopelessly optimistic (some might say stubborn.)

We just flew back from England. It is ten and a half hours in what can only be described as a tin can.
First of all, three year olds don't like to sit still for more than say thirty seconds at a time.
One particular three year old that happened to be sitting next to me, doesn't like to wear a seat belt.
Nor does she care to sit calmly in a seat, not kick the back of the seat in front, not play endlessly with the tray catch or rock back into the seat causing the seat back to bounce.
There are not enough apologies in the world for this scenario.

Then came nap time.
I have been flying with children for eight years. I feel like I know what I'm doing.
I brought jammies. We changed. I brought her blankie. We snuggled.
She was just dozing off when the flight attendant came by...

"OH LOVELY - SHE'S GOING TO SLEEP FOR YOU." she YELLED.

Well not now......

Fifteen minutes later, we are back to sleepy.
Guess who swings by to check in and see if a tub of ice cream will help the three year old go to sleep?
So now we have established that this flight attendant doesn't have children.

Just in case anyone is in any doubt.
NO. ICE CREAM WILL NOT HELP A THREE YEAR GO TO SLEEP.
Thanks for asking.
Next time try asking quietly to my ear and don't bring the tub with you and show it to the three year old.

So, we have ice cream.
Don't judge me for my lack of ability to call the shots. There was a seven month old asleep in the bassinet approximately 10 inches from our seats.
It had taken the parents of the seven month old about an hour to get her to sleep.
I need to keep tantruming to a minimum.

Finally, sugar high over, I get the three year old to sleep.
Enter a previously unnoticed passenger from across the aisle.

"THEY ARE SO LOVELY WHEN THEY ARE ASLEEP, AREN'T THEY?!"

"Yes, yes they are. Now, move along lady."

"HOW OLD IS SHE?"

"Three - go away."

"Awww IT'S A GREAT AGE ISN'T IT?"

"Yes it is - go away."

"IS SHE A GOOD SLEEPER?"

"Yes - except for when complete strangers come and yell right next to her ear - go away."

So we all know that I smiled sweetly and answered politely while hoping I was conveying my hope that she would shut up and go away - through my eyes. I don't think there's an Oscar in my future.
For the three hours that she slept, I was on a hair trigger.
I gave stink eye to anyone who came within two paces.
I shushed the crew as they passed out drinks, snacks and duty free.
I should have watched a movie or read my book but with a plane full of baby wakers I had to stay vigilant.

Travel. So relaxing.

It's All About ME

So, although I haven't posted in weeks which is terribly lazy - I have a request.
A VERY sweet reader nominated me for a Best of SF Blog Award.
Here's the thing - it's my home turf and now that I have been nominated (unsolicited) I WANT TO WIN.

If you have a spare 5 secs go here:

www.circleofmoms.com

It's really easy to vote - no registration.

The current winner only has 35 votes - we can do that can't we?

Your humble ego maniac mommy blogger.
xo

AWOL

I am in Scotland, where my soul resides so it's good to be in full connection with it.
I haven't had internet access so sorry to be so awol.
The upside is I have many fabulous stories to share, including swearing parrots -
which I will share when I can.

Hope to be here soon....