Borders

Blork announces the November monkey: "Talk about awkward, annoying, or freaky things that have happened to you while crossing international boundaries." Because some days it's easier to let other people tell you what to blog about.

Overnight train, Krakow to Prague, the summer of 1994.

I find my assigned place. Only one other person in the compartment, asleep, reeking of alcohol and sprawled across my seat. I stretch myself out on the bench across from him and doze off.

The border crossing. I have the impression that we stop in the middle of nowhere, that the border is in fact between villages. In the dim light of the station outside I can make out officials scrambling off in different directions.

Silence. Dark. Nothing. I doze off.

Pounding on the compartment door. Gruff voices. Door slides open. I finally determine that I'm being told to remove my feet from the seat. The drunk is still asleep, feet on his seat, but they leave him alone. The officials march off down the corridor. Again, I doze off.

I'm being yelled at. I don't understand. I force my ears awake, but still I don't understand. He's speaking louder, but he's speaking Czech. A different man, also uniformed.

I ask in Polish if he can slow down. He rolls his eyes. I make out a demand for money. It's a fine, for having my feet on the seat. I pull out some Polish currency, but he tells me my money is no good. What kind of fool am I, travelling to Prague without any Czech currency? What snobs, those Poles, refusing to switch dialects. How rude.

Ah. I've been in Poland for over a month already. My accent is sounding pretty good. He thinks I'm Polish. Polish and Czech are mutually intelligible for the most part, at least to ears accustomed to navigating the Slavic dialects. Mine are not. He thinks I'm being difficult.

(I'm reminded of my visit to Portugal and the attitude of the Portuguese toward Spanish tourists, who would insist on speaking Spanish, very loudly, without even conceding an obrigada for a gracias.)

The official prods the drunk awake. He thinks the drunk is my boyfriend, and he should pay my fine. He's never even seen me before. The drunk speaks fluent Czech. He lives in Lithuania, but is going to visit his father in a small Czech village the official knows.

Finally, the matter of passports. I proffer my Canadian document — I think I see a glint of understanding in the official's eyes: "ignorant foreigner." Again he asks for money, but I have none (of the appropriate kind, anyway). Questions then about the dates of my visit, the dates on my visa, the issuing offices. There is much head-shaking and muttering. The drunk is glowering at me.

The official will have to consult with the other officers on how to manage the matter of my fine, though he admits that my papers seem to be in order. He takes my passport away with him down the hall for the longest 20 minutes of my life.

He brings back my passport with instructions. The terror ends, the tedium begins. Immediately upon my arrival in Prague, I'm to register with the Canadian embassy to make arrangements for the payment of my fine.

Ah, Prague! The first day is the matter of finding someplace to stay and figuring out how to navigate the city. I settle into an apartment, and find out where the Canadian embassy is. The second day I make my way to the embassy and spend 4 hours waiting. Four hours! I document my situation and meet with someone who assures me this will be easily sorted out — Czech authorities have not contacted them about me, but the embassy would pay my fine and bill me later, back in Canada, for reimbursement. The third day involved a trip to the Polish embassy for a visa to be able return to Poland, and arranging to stay longer than originally intended in the apartment, as so much time had already been eaten up.

I never did hear from anyone regarding that fine. I worked it out later that the amount worked out to the equivalent of about $15 Canadian. Experiencing Czech bureacracy like a character out of Kafka? Priceless.

My messy desk

Everywhere I turn there's the faint stench of vomit.

Being generally tired, cranky, busy, and uninspired today, I'm taking up Ann Douglas's suggestion to review the items on my desk. Helena (who vomited in her bed last night and then in our bed, and then all over me and the floor, and I expect the daycare is not too fond of toddlers who just keep vomiting) is home and currently napping, and though I doubt I will get organized, I may gain a little perspective.

A copy of The New Baby and Child Care Quick Reference Encyclopedia, splayed open at the entry on vomiting.

An old copy of the Canadian Association of Radiologists Journal.

A contract regarding the future copyediting of said journal, which I should review and probably sign.

Calculator, which I remember purchasing with my mother at Consumers' Distributing when I was in grade 7.

A big fat medical dictionary, which I use for work and which contains no helpful practical information regarding vomit.

Invoices from the Book-of-the-Month club, which I mean to follow up on, cuz they screwed up my order and haven't fixed it yet.

Manual for some world domination game J-F has been playing.

Two chewed up straws.

One tiny plastic purple teacup.

Photo of me on my second birthday, reminding me how much simpler life was 33 years ago, when if I vomited, someone else would clean up after me, and if someone else vomited, I likely didn't know a thing about it and could go about my day babbling to myself and eating cake.

PalmPilot, wearing a very thick coat of dust.

Three spiral-bound notebooks of different sizes, only one of which is mine, all mostly devoid of any real content (though mine does contain scant but very important notes regarding Sanskrit terminology), with nearly every page in the middle of the page bearing the stamp of Helena — a small but bold stroke, a hooked line, barely a squiggle, which she produces on declaring "I draw Mama. I draw Papa. Ilina! I draw bug!" et cetera. (I have yet to determine whether she means to draw a picture or write the word.)

Currently missing in action: my favourite pen.

Just plain missing from this picture: coffee! Where are my damn pop tarts?

Suspending disbelief

I noticed many students were completely lost. Not because they had trouble keeping up with the reading (a few did), but because they had trouble figuring out how to read a fantasy novel. It was a minority of my students that knew how to read a novel that mixed reality and fantasy, history and fiction, myth and the mundane. The handful of kids who had read other fantasy novels did fine... But the majority of students, kids who would have no trouble suspending their various disbeliefs for the most fantastic products of Hollywood, told me again and again that the book was nearly incomprehensible.

This comes from Matthew Cheney of The Mumpsimus, telling about teaching Neil Gaiman's American Gods in high school. He also talks about teaching science fiction in general.

(Via a post from Scribbling Woman that you should check out, and click on all the links cuz they're very cool.)

The above quote jumped out at me because I know people like this, people incapable of suspending disbelief, who just don't "get" it. The first such person I knew was my mother; I assumed this trait had something to do with age, a generational thing, maybe limited cultural experience. But there were others. Was it simply lack of exposure? Could they learn to grok?

I think the answer is no. Some people are just wired that way.

This is a trans-media phenomenon, although with the strong movie culture we have, it may be easier for some to fake literacy in this domain than in others — but on some essential level, they still don't get it.

Sometimes the trigger is a "technology" like time travel. It can be the presence of elves. Talking animals. Anything claiming to be set in the even not too distant future. Cartoons.

Some of these people will claim that this is not a shortcoming, simply their expression of personal preference for reality-based drama, but when pressed, greater philosophical differences in how we see the world emerge. Many people can fully appreciate fantastic elements and do prefer other modes, but there are many more non-grokkers than I ever thought possible.

Some minds encompass a vision of the future, grasp the impossible. Others cannot.

Has it always been this way? Do our brains adapt with each generation to be able to fathom the next big idea, the logical extensions of existing concepts? Is this evolution in progress?

Suspending disbelief

I noticed many students were completely lost. Not because they had trouble keeping up with the reading (a few did), but because they had trouble figuring out how to read a fantasy novel. It was a minority of my students that knew how to read a novel that mixed reality and fantasy, history and fiction, myth and the mundane. The handful of kids who had read other fantasy novels did fine... But the majority of students, kids who would have no trouble suspending their various disbeliefs for the most fantastic products of Hollywood, told me again and again that the book was nearly incomprehensible.

This comes from Matthew Cheney of The Mumpsimus, telling about teaching Neil Gaiman's American Gods in high school. He also talks about teaching science fiction in general.

(Via a post from Scribbling Woman that you should check out, and click on all the links cuz they're very cool.)

The above quote jumped out at me because I know people like this, people incapable of suspending disbelief, who just don't "get" it. The first such person I knew was my mother; I assumed this trait had something to do with age, a generational thing, maybe limited cultural experience. But there were others. Was it simply lack of exposure? Could they learn to grok?

I think the answer is no. Some people are just wired that way.

This is a trans-media phenomenon, although with the strong movie culture we have, it may be easier for some to fake literacy in this domain than in others — but on some essential level, they still don't get it.

Sometimes the trigger is a "technology" like time travel. It can be the presence of elves. Talking animals. Anything claiming to be set in the even not too distant future. Cartoons.

Some of these people will claim that this is not a shortcoming, simply their expression of personal preference for reality-based drama, but when pressed, greater philosophical differences in how we see the world emerge. Many people can fully appreciate fantastic elements and do prefer other modes, but there are many more non-grokkers than I ever thought possible.

Some minds encompass a vision of the future, grasp the impossible. Others cannot.

Has it always been this way? Do our brains adapt with each generation to be able to fathom the next big idea, the logical extensions of existing concepts? Is this evolution in progress?

What do you want to do with your life?

43 things.

A plague of inanities

We thought we had banished disease and pestilence from our house, but once again some horrible plague is visited upon our heads.

J-F this evening has taken ill. In the middle of the Bridget Jones movie.

So, Mark Darcy or Daniel Cleaver? I may never know.

It'd been a lovely time until then. We'd taken the Metro downtown — no toddler babbling away in the backseat. What reckless, romantic abandon! Ah, the simple joy of making fun of the woman wearing legwarmers.

Our exit from the theatre didn't go unnoticed. J-F really did look ghastly. On our way out the movie folk were nice enough to give us passes so we could catch the show another time. I promptly lost them. Along with the cash I'd made J-F hand over so I would have it at the ready to pay for the cab. Some lucky stranger will take in a fine film and enjoy a few beers afterward in our stead — I hope it's someone nice.

Thursday, Helena had come home from daycare in fine spirits but not interested in supper. Shortly before bedtime, the spontaneous vomiting happened. Three sets of pyjamas later (and two changes of clothes for me), she seemed good as new. Helena is having a grand time with her grandmother this weekend.

We've faced bugs and infections together before, but there's something about throwing up — the violence of it, and the physical evidence — that invokes terror and pity more extremely. And confusion.

The baby books address vomiting as part of illness, but not in any hands-on way. Do I hold her? Let her be? Everybody deals with being sick in their own way, I know, and we'll just have to figure it out as we go. Still, I felt unprepared. Practically speaking, how do you minimize the mess of it? Helena has never vomited before; needless to say, she didn't know what was coming, nor that it's customary to make for the toilet bowl or some other receptacle. Amazingly, once her face and hands were wiped dry she didn't seem bothered at all.

We went to Ikea earlier today. Easels are on sale this weekend and I just had to get one for my baby, even if it does make me feel like we're a Sim family.

The Globe and Mail's ninth annual Great Canadian Literary Quiz has been launched. It's not all that Canadian, and it's really hard. I can answer about a quarter of the questions without doing any research. I have to wonder who would go to all the trouble just for the sake of winning some Globe and Mail merchandise. Quizzes aren't any fun if they're that hard.

Some people are good at being sad

I'm familiar with Michael Rosen's work by reputation — We're Going on a Bear Hunt is considered a children's classic — even if his books aren't to be found on the shelves in our home.

The Guardian offers a poignant sketch of the author on the publication of his latest work, Michael Rosen's Sad Book, which tells the story of Rosen's grief at the death of his 18-year-old son (from meningitis).

Illustrated by Quentin Blake, the cover feels... lonely.

It's all very sad. I suspect this book could be very helpful to children in experiencing grief and understanding death. I hope I never have reason to turn those pages.

This is the part where I go off on a weird tangent:
I don't really understand books like this. I wonder if they ever find their audience. First, I don't think we give kids enough credit for understanding the world around them and their relationship to it. Second, those kids whose parents would use such a book likely are in loving, nurturing environments and would have little need for such a book. Or the parents use the book to keep an emotional distance form their children, in which case the kids gonna need more than a little ol' book to make a difference. So who buys these books? Are they meant to hide in libraries, where sad children will stumble across them just when they need them to find some enlightenment?

A book like this, intended for an audience, if done poorly really would be better not published at all. I hope this one's as honest as it sounds.

More questions

Science fact or science fiction?

Is it better to suffer a caffeine withdrawal headache or nausea (from drinking the coffee to quash the headache)?

Can you tell I have work I should be doing?

Another reason to hate Disney

Salon looks at the Disney Princess brand.

"Well, that's the magic of Disney: It's addictive. It's like crack for 5-year-olds."

Of course, the princess myth is longstanding. Transformation has always been at its core, whether from rags to riches, ugly duckling to swan, or girlhood to womanhood.

There's nothing wrong with princesses per se. (My favourite childhood book was A Little Princess.)

But Disney grants this transformation with the magic of costumes and accessories, shortchanging girls on the lessons and realizations historically embedded in the road to princessdom. The liberation of the princess, I might add, was from some real, if metaphorical, hardship — not the mere suffering of inadequate consumerism.

Helena is rather girly. I don't know where she gets it. I don't think it's by example, but I suppose enough of our life together over the last 2 years has centred on food preparation, cleaning up our immediate environments, and getting ourselves dressed that I shouldn't be surprised in her interest in mimicking these behaviours. Helena cares for her dolls (and stuffed bears, and kittens — but the dolls have her favour) the way I've cared for her.

The other day I found her prancing about in my clunky shoes, "wearing" a skirt of mine she'd pulled out of a drawer hiked up to her armpits, one of her hats on her head, purse slung over her shoulder, and wielding a balloon in one hand, a wet wipe poised to clean the door handle in the other.

Pretend play is a wonderful means of creative expression and inspires the imagination. I encourage her play to be balanced in regards to traditional stereotypical roles according to gender.

Helena will always be our little princess. She can explore through play what it is to rule her kingdom — some power, some luxury. She will have to do so without our contributions to Disney's coffers.

Stories you haven't read before

What do the Little Mermaid, Little Red Riding Hood, Babar, and Tintin have in common? As familiar to Americans as childhood itself, these characters all originally appeared in foreign languages, translated into English.

Words Without Borders celebrates international children's literature by offering up seven never-before-translated tales from around the world.

An old tale told by a wise woman

Mara and Dann: An Adventure, by Doris Lessing.

(Read a very short excerpt.)

I found myself thinking about Mara often between readings. Even when I was being sick, holding back my hair and pitying myself, I thought to myself, Get a grip. What would Mara think? Think of all she's been through — you think this is misery? Poor Mara...

One review lists some of their adventures.

Lessing's prose is dispassionate. This simplicity and matter-of-fact attitude enhance the story's fairy-tale quality. Lessing herself in the preface admits that this story is the reworking of a very old tale, found not only in Europe but in most cultures of the world. It is eerily familiar, yet we are compelled to know what happens next.

As foreign as this landscape is to us (we who sit in front of our computers while it rains outside, considering whether to order out for supper) it is likely not as distant as it seems — a friend of a friend, family, a neighbour knew some hardship in their childhood, came from a war-torn country, has known famine or drought, at least witnessed the devastation of the third world. That world is not so far away, but for an accident of geography.

(I'm reminded of my own family's tales, separations during wartime, and awed by the forces that always drew them back together. They are steeped in stories and intrigue that remain secret, for what they shared cannot be shared. How do you share the unspeakable?)

Neither Lessing nor her characters are ever preachy, though they have many lessons to teach us if we listen carefully. We are treated to a museum description of the ancients:

These were peoples who had no interest in the results of their actions... They spoiled everything they touched. There was probably something wrong with their brains. There are many historians who believe that these ancients richly deserved the punishment of the Ice.

but then the subject is dropped.

Another review identifies some of the issues that rise to the surface without bubbling over.

Lessing's prose here is deceptively simple. There are no grand pronouncements, no outright disquisitions on imperialism, postcolonialism, incest (Mara and Dann struggle with their romantic attachment to each other), ecosystemic disaster, the second sex, the failure of communism or the persistence of slavery in Africa today, but they, and much more, are implied, embedded in Lessing's spare portrait of a world in which everything and nothing about nature and culture has changed radically. If there is a theme, or aphorism, to be gleaned from Lessing's storybook view into the distant future, it is not the familiar conviction that "This, too, shall pass," but, after Nietzsche, the bitter conclusion that "This, too, will happen again ... and again, and again."

Mara grew up playing a game: What Did You See? In the evenings, one of her parents would ask her the question. A guardian later took up the task of Mara's education in this manner, until Mara learned to ask it of herself. Early on Mara recognized that the game evolved from what she saw to what she was thinking, and what made her think that. There was no end to what she knew, and the answers were within her.

Another review notes Lessing's technique:

The journey is viewed almost exclusively through Mara's eyes, and the storytelling mode has been carefully chosen to match, not only her expanding ability to relate word to concept, but her awareness besides of a physical background in which there is simply not enough language available to convey or lend nuance to sensory experience.

The result is a perverse chemistry typical of Lessing at her exasperating best.

Doris Lessing official web site.
Wikipedia entry.
Interview: New York Times (1982).
Interview: Salon (1997).
Interview: in which she speculates that Dickens might've been good in bed (2004).

A wholly remarkable woman! A wonderful book!

V. good

Bridget Jones galore.

Another year older

Birthday celebrations for Helena and myself were boisterous and lazy, respectively. As it should be.


Helena on her second birthday. 


Isabella on her second birthday. 

Sadly, the weekend was sandwiched by some unpleasantness.

Friday, I went into an unreasonable panic about the price of more presents J-F brought home for Helena. This little girl has had an awful lot of money spent on her in the last month or so — coats, shoes, a couple outfits, some new toys when she was sick, some new toys for travelling, and then birthday presents. For the first time, the "everyday" costs of having a child hit me, and hard.

Add to this the guilt I feel for recently spending a small fortune on children's books, which I intend to bestow on her at a rate of one every 1 or 2 months or so over the coming year.

In addition, as if on cue, Friday night Helena was actively defiant regarding bedtime for the first time. This was not a matter of crying out as I left her room; she flatly refused to be caught and put in her crib. Maternal angst and the feeling of gross incompetence set in for a good couple hours.

But we thoroughly enjoyed spoiling her on her day.

My birthday was barely over when the retching began. I suspect the tiramisu I had at bedtime was slightly off. Tired as I am, it's only remaining upright and concentrated that helps quell the nausea.

Celebrate

Today is World Toilet Day!

"The world deserves better toilets."

Flush accordingly.

And this kicks off our birthday extravaganza weekend.

Helena's birthday is tomorrow, but the daycare is having a celebration for her this afternoon at snack time. J-F and I have been invited to join them.

Tomorrow afternoon we'll head over to J-F's mom's place for further festivities. Who knows what's in store?

Sunday is my turn. Though I was originally a little turned off by the idea having our birthdays one day after the other, I see now how it encourages prolonged merrymaking and indulgences — a good thing. Even materialism is relinquishing its hold on me to quality time spent with family and friends (and the one thing I really, really want: being allowed to sleep in till I'm finished).

But I refuse to share a cake. I insist on separate cakes.

Unanswered questions

I was away from the Internet for the U.S. election, and though initially relieved to not be part of any virtual frenzy over the results, it turns out there's some political debris I need to shake out of my head. Bear with me.

Why have I not heard anything in the mainstream media about voting irregularites? For example:

Some voting machines in Broward County, Florida, started counting backward once they reached 32,000. An electronic voting machine in Ohio added 3,893 votes to President Bush's tally in a district that had only 800 voters. Four thousand five hundred and thirty early electronic votes in Carteret County, North Carolina, were lost. Votes were also lost in Palm Beach County, Florida, and in Tampa. . . It was noted that anomalous voting patterns in Florida (where a disproportionate number of Democrats apparently voted for George W. Bush) were all confined to counties where optical-scanning machines are used to read paper ballots. Such votes are tabulated by Windows-based PCs that are vulnerable to tampering.

Why does any of this even bother me so much — I'm Canadian!?!

So what was that bulge?

Why did the media not make a big fuss over the weird reference to Dred Scott?

Just because the election's over doesn't mean we no longer want answers.

Do Amish people vote? or is the concept in conflict with their way of life? What if their county has instituted electronic voting? Check out the official Amish website.

On (loosely) related matters:

Howard Dean has a bone to pick with the news media:

"The media is a failing institution in this country," Dean said. "They are not maintaining their responsibility to maintain democracy."

The solution to restoring an ethical media, Dean said, is to ensure diversity and cap corporate ownership of media outlets. He said he supports government regulation of media ownership.

"[The media] are incapable of regulating themselves," Dean said. "What's at stake is our democracy. If you think that American democracy can survive without an ethical media, then you are wrong."

Hunter S Thompson talks about George W Bush (link via Splinters):

"I remember Bush as a kind of a butt-boy for the smart people. This was in the late 1970s, when he was in his drunken-fool period. He couldn't handle
liquor. He knew who I was, at that time, because I had a reputation as a writer. I knew he was part of the Bush dynasty. But he was nothing, he offered nothing, and he promised nothing. He had no humour. He was insignificant in every way and consequently I didn't pay much attention to him. But when he passed out in my bathtub," Thompson adds, "then I noticed him. I'd been in another room, talking to the bright people. I had to have him taken away."

Maud Newton's all in an articulate lather about science textbooks and how the politics of the powers that be skew the facts, prime examples being regarding evolution and birth control.

Through Blog Explosion I've encountered many blogs by people who voted for Bush. Though in theory I agree with their admonishments to the reading public to rate their blogs objectively and not give a poor rating simply for disagreeing with their views, I am really sick of hearing the why-can't-we-all-be-nice-to-each-other I'm-entitled-my-opinion non-argument. We're not looking at fabric swatches here. Do they not realize something a little more fundamental is at stake? I have deleted blogs from my bookmarks based on how they voted. This scares me a little, cuz I've learned things about bloggers that I realize I don't know about some of my closest friends — what if I were to find out they thought differently than I? What kind of monster have I turned into?

It just makes me so mad.

The biggest question of all:

Hugh Grant or Colin Firth?

"Tungle!"

When I picked up Helena yesterday, we decided to hang out, go for coffee, kill time, wait for J-F so we could all go home together.

Luckily, I thought, the nearby shopping complex had constructed a fairly elaborate Santa's village, with a slide, some bouncy amusement, and a colouring and activities station.

Helena was the source of much delight, for me and many passersby, with her misdirected oohing and aahing — at all the triangle shapes she could find in the floor tiles!

Look what I bought!

I'm seriously upset over the change to instant hot chocolate pouches. Really. It now requires scissors to open them. How on Earth am I supposed to find scissors when I'm in the throes of a chocolate craving?! I can understand making the Neo Citran pouches child-resistant, but hot chocolate! C'mon. Did someone sue Carnation because tearing open all the little packets made it too easy to gorge on that sinful powder and it made them fat?

Yesterday's shopping expedition was a success.

I found a not-too-ugly shower curtain at the dollar store, for which I paid a whole dollar (plus tax). It's almost too short, but it should keep us in business till I can get myself over to the shower curtain district.

I decided I really wasn't up to shopping for picture-perfect toddler clothes; I searched Helena's closet instead and found the perfect dress (which you can glimpse below), too big when last we had appropriately cool weather. It has "jaff, anid jaff, flaouw!" (that's "giraffe, another giraffe, and a flower!" for those of you who don't speak Helena's language). I crossed my fingers that it would fit just right (and it does), but this left the matter of shoes...

I found a lovely pair at a local shop. I'm convinced this was a smart purchase, even though it's not the patent leather J-F had in mind and my mother insists they are dangerous (contrary to the marketing claims of "skid-resistant"). There will be occasion enough to wear these around other people's houses at dinners and for picture-taking events over the coming year. Besides, Helena's thrilled with them.

To cap off the shopping experience, I stumbled across the perfect presents for Helena's birthday this weekend:

Another doll — Helena loves all her dolls so much, but I think she has enough love for one more. Something about this doll (the eyes? the colour combination?) makes me feel very much at peace. Weird, really, to respond to a doll that way — I shouldn't think about that too much. I'll bet you didn't know: "the length of the doll's body (neck to toes) should be no longer than the child's arm from elbow to finger tips."

And to inspire her musical genius: the Saxoflute! Made in Italy. I was greatly relieved to note that "Child labour has not been employed to manufacture this toy."

Ooh! I'm so excited!

I should get ready to go retrieve the little one from daycare. Wednesday's my day cuz J-F's on course. At least this time he remembered to leave the stroller there. There's something really uncomfortable about pushing an empty stroller around town and on public transit, even if collapsed. I remember regularly seeing a woman push her empty stroller through the park in the summer, and I thought for sure she must be crazy. I just can't help giving empty-stroller pushers funny looks. Where is your baby?

Wave to the camera. 

Shopping list

The winners of the 2004 Governor General's Literary Awards for children's literature have been announced:

"It’s important for children to find a book that they can have a unique and private connection with, just as they do with a special friend," said the Governor General. "The book becomes a child’s secret garden or undercover adventure. This year’s prize-winning books encourage such marvelous friendships to grow."

I'm not familiar with the work of any of the prizewinners. The images by winners in the illustration category are stunning (English and French).

I've missed a Canadian book week for children, and such a week is ongoing in the United States ("Since 1919, educators, librarians, booksellers, and families have celebrated Children's Book Week during the week before Thanksgiving.").

Maybe it's because Helena's not yet school age, or because I frequent bookshops more than I do libraries, that I've let news of such events pass me by. But then, I celebrate books all year round; I expect Helena will incorporate them into her daily life; we don't need a special week for books.

Helena was up crying and tantrum-y from 10 to about 1 last night. There goes my plan to get to bed early. I'm crossing my fingers this behaviour will disappear within a few days, that she simply needs to readjust to sleeping by herself in her own bed, that the normalcy and routine of daycare, meals, and sleep will prevail.

I checked on her a few times to re-tuck her in. After I suggested she might need a diaper change, she spent an hour screaming "poo poo." When I double-checked the thermostat and commented, "You don't find it cold in here, do you?" she switched to "Cold. Cold!" Later it was a whimpering "dark."

I'm getting better at ignoring her cries, and for longer stretches, but it's emotionally exhausting.

Thankfully, the manuscript I was expecting to work on this week has been delayed.

I must go shopping. Imperative.

After doing 4 loads of laundry yesterday, I was inspired to give the shower curtain a rinse. I destroyed it. Shredded to pieces. The grommetted seam held together, so I thought we should at least hang what's left for temporary coverage — it turns out this jagged swath of blue palm trees, maybe 3 feet at its widest, no longer serves any function whatsoever, except as a reminder of the lovely time I had visiting my sister in D.C. some 2 and a half years ago when she purchased said shower curtain for me at a Pottery Barn. Sigh.

Tomorrow's picture day at the daycare. J-F and I have slightly different ideas about how to dress our child for the event. J-F wants "pretty," leaning toward fancy; I'm all for nice and normal. (Helena's not a big fan of tights, but then I always thought they were rather ridiculous on small girls and have some recollection of how grossly uncomfortable they were, so maybe I'm projecting a little without allowing her to fully explore and enjoy her wardrobe.) J-F also really loves plaid (though I've never seen him wear any) and thinks that's kind of dressy, whereas I don't care for it. So I may have to go buy Helena a compromise outfit. And shoes. The only shoes she has are sneakers and galoshes, and neither will do.

Also, I should do something about my intense craving for Pop Tarts.

I am in fact dreading any shopping excursion I make today, the only up side being the opportunity to wear the fabulous (and sexy) coat my mother bought me as an early birthday present and the outrageously comfortable shoes I'd treated myself to.

The Booboisie

"As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart's desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron."
H.L. Mencken (1880 — 1956)

So many bugs

Bugs as precise medical terminology:

1. Helena's "bug," fever, emergency hospital visit, and recovery that delayed our trip from the gitgo.

2. The lingering of that same bug, which in subsequent days manifest in a suspect auricular discharge that, in combination with Helena's travel-inspired crankiness, led to a walk-in clinic visit for fear that Helena may have developed an ear infection. The doctor reassured me that is was simple some vestige of whatever bug she'd had.

3. My mom's "bug," which, in combination with the then yet to be diagnosed pneumonia, led to dangerously high fever and an emergency room visit the night before our scheduled departure. Mom was admitted for a few days, the doctors and nurses commenting, "That's some nasty bug you've got."

We missed our train. J-F came to collect us by car, though we stuck around a few extra days to take care of some stuff around the house.

Bugs as entertainment:

4. The ladybug Helena dressed up as for Halloween. Cute as a bug! I'll post a picture after I get my analog film developed and scan something. (I really should get me a proper digital camera — the Handycam is less handy and more cumbersome when you're trying to travel light.) We visited only a handful of neighbouring houses, more for the opportunity for my mother to show off her granddaughter than for the pleasure of trick-or-treating, Helena not yet having acquired the taste for the ritual or the candy (though the lollipop intrigues her). Helena seemed to prefer staying home and answering the door ("ding-dong") to the neighbourhood kids, furiously waving bye-bye to everybody.

5. The rubber spider in Helena's trick-or-treat take. A wonderful toy — you can hug it, kiss it, share your meals with it, pet it, pretend to eat it, wear it on your head or foot to illicit a (fake) reaction from family members ("Eww, a bug!), throw it in the general direction of people to freak them out. It's inspired the drama queen in her — she screams and feigns terror, brushing the bug out of her hair or off her foot and running away.

6. The fridge magnets (no, not "maggots" as I originally mistyped) — two ladybugs, of course. Take them off the fridge door, put them back on the fridge door, take them off again, put them back, take them off, carry them around in plastic cup, hide them in the cupboard, find them the next day, put them back on the fridge. Ah, the joy.

7. The book I was reading: The Bug, by Ellen Ullman.

From The New York Times new and notable paperbacks:

Reinventing the story of Frankenstein and his sentient monster as an allegory for the birth of the computer, this first novel takes place in Silicon Valley in 1984, when its heroine, a Ph.D. in the "linguistics of poetics," becomes enamored with an elusive computer bug called "the Jester" that threatens to bring down her company. The result is a "thrilling and intellectually fearless" tale that "remains true to the idea-rich gothic melodrama of Shelley's novel," Benjamin Anastas wrote in these pages in 2003.

I don't know about "thrilling." It wasn't quite the dark techno-mystery I expected, but rather psychological and philosophical, which I generally prefer. I was completely drawn in, not least because I could relate: I studied linguistics! I've worked as a QA tester! I listen to Einsturzende Neubauten!

For the only time during the trip I regretted not having Internet access, to be able to research, for example, the history of the computer mouse.

Next time I travel though, I will choose reading material less ominously titled.

Then there are the things that really bugged me, too numerous and vague to actually number.

Like sleeping with Helena. I hate that. She's a restless sleeper to begin with, and though I would ordinarily sleep through tornadoes and earthquakes, happy to rest on bare concrete, I stir at her merest whimper, so we keep waking each other up. But I admit that when she spontaneously wraps her arms around my head, saying "Mama" like she's genuinely pleased to see me, kissing my hair, it kind of makes up for it.

Like how my mom jumps when the phone rings, or how she's unable to do nothing for a day. Like her insistence on rehashing the errors of my blog ways (someday I must demonstrate to her the vastness of the Internet and the unreliability and foolishness of most of its content to prove how insignificant this blog is), and her weird need for the validation of her siblings.

Like all sorts of things regarding my brother. Like how he pronounces Helena "huh-LAY-na" — I hate that. So now you know: it's he-le-na, like Helen with an "a," with a slight stress on the second syllable, so that it sounds right in Polish or French.

But believe it or not, Helena is making me a better daughter, and a better person all round, I think.

A visiting uncle asked if Helena was named for my grandmother to which I replied, "Yes, of course." My mother was surprised, thinking I chose the name for its history and meaning, which is also true. And it's petty of me to have never clarified the point to my mother. In my view, all these components are inextricable from each other. If I despised my grandmother, I wouldn't be able to hear the name without that colour of feeling, no matter how euphonious. Likewise the name would never have made the shortlist were it not inspired by her and the desire to link to family history, but it would never have been pursued if the name was truly horrid. Besides, the woman deserves to be honoured and remembered, dammit. To me, a name is all meanings and connotations at once, and I've been frustrated that my mother doesn't get that — how does one begin to explain... Oddly (though I shouldn't be surprised) this admission that I named my baby for my grandmother seems to make a difference to her.

Sheesh! Two weeks without blogging and boy do I start to ramble!

I'm amazed by the extent to which I acted as interpreter for Helena — I have discovered the key to her secret language. I'm sure of it. Though people still marvel, "Did she really say that?" by which they're implying I put words in her mouth, but I'm not. Really. I know her sounds now. It makes sense. She makes sense. She has language!

The creative genius that is my little girl:

My mother had purchased pipecleaners, intending that we fashion antennae for Helena's Halloween ladybug costume (we settled for ponytails atop her head). Helena comes upon them one morning and hands me a crushed one. I ask her what she thinks it looks like. Flower. I go about further defining this pipecleaner flower. Another one. Giraffe. I give Helena a fresh pipecleaner, suggesting she "make" something. She proudly hands me her gently twisted creation: "Nnnick." Snake!