I rented The Tree of Life last week. It’s a Terrence Malick film, and they are notoriously obscure and arty and weird and inaccessable, even to the actors who star in them. So it always feels very pretentious to me to say that one actually enjoyed a Terrence Malick film; however, I do like his movies in general, and I really loved The Tree of Life.

Not that I can fully recommend it – see above re: obscure, arty, and weird. I mean, there’s a 15 minute segment near the beginning that is just lovely, if inexplicable, shots of the cosmos and the solar system and giant waves here on Earth. Plus, there’s a small scene of dinosaurs, which is actually pretty cool, but odd.

(I may have fast forwarded through the cosmos shots. I admit nothing.)

What makes the movie magical, however, is the scenes of young family life in Texas in the 1950s. Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain play young parents to three boys, and these scenes are stunningly beautiful and nostalgic and perfectly dreamy.

It’s almost worth owning the movie for this one sequence in particular that traces the first few years of their oldest son’s life. We see his birth, a quiet event full of white sheets and starched nurses; a bassinet near a window with billowing white curtains; feet in tiny white leather shoes taking their first steps. The toddler boy sits on his mother’s lap as they learn the names of animals in a wooden Noah’s Ark set. We see him struggle to crawl up the stairs for the first time; later, his face is full of wonder and interest as he meets his new baby brother.

It’s touching and very, very true, and I just couldn’t believe how easy it was to forget all that. It’s only been five years since I had a baby, but I forget so much. I forget what it’s like to hear your baby babbling and then realizing they are actually telling you something meaningful. I forget the triumph of a little hand finally being able to reach something on the table. I forget the peace – and the total, total exhaustion – of 3 a.m, a rocking chair, and a fussing baby in your arms.

This past weekend we went to Montreal, and on the drive down we passed a minivan pulled over on the highway. The back hatch was open and inside, there was a preschooler sitting on a little potty. We used to do that, travel with a potty in the back seat for highway emergencies. It nestled in there between the playpen and the diaper bag and the box of toys and the suitcase containing three outfits per day, for all of us. Now we can go away for the weekend with a single suitcase and a cooler of car snacks.

Times change.

It’s okay, though. In fact, it’s so okay that I’m pretty cranky these days with Little Miss Sunshine, who just turned five years old but likes nothing better than to pretend to be a baby. “Can I be your baby?” she’ll say, and then she’ll get a wide-eyed, slack-jawed look on her face, say lots of “nyah nyah” and “bip bap.” You’re expected to carry her around, fix her a milk in a sippy cup (we have just one left from the old days), coo and fuss over her. You have to dress her and take her to the potty (“Pretend I am having a diaper change”) and deal with her refusal to talk or understand the things you say to her.

She’ll always be my baby. But really, does she have to be so…babyish?

I’m far enough removed from those baby days that I can look back with weepy-eyed nostalgia and remember the softness of a baby’s hair and the feel of a milk-drunk head passed out on your chest with nothing but dreamy happiness.

But I’m not so far removed that I don’t value the fact that I have an inch of freedom now, days that are just as busy and just as hard, but days when I shouldn’t by rights have to wipe anyone’s butt or wash the 50 different tiny parts of a sippy cup.

My tree of life has grown big, wide, strong. It’s fruit picking time.

So a while back I read a post on MamaPop about May-December Romances. It was inspired by the marriage of Sam Taylor-Wood and Aaron Johnson in Britain – she is 45, and he is 22. They’ve been dating since she was 40 and he was 17, and they now have two kids.

Squicky, or cute? Personally, I think squicky – it’s not just the pure difference in age, it’s the fact that she was his director when they met, which kind of sets up and odd power dynamic, and he was only 17, which, EW.

I am ashamed to admit that I have thought about this issue a LOT, considering there are people out there worried about the environment and world peace and the hunger crisis at home and abroad. But apparently my mind only wants to think about what type of age differences are appropriate for Hollywood stars, and this is a BURNING ISSUE that we must deal with. So be it.

Here is what I am thinking, in terms of guidelines:

If the younger person is less than 18, then the other person better be no more than 20, with no more than a three year age gap, or else I’m bringing out the brass knuckles.

If the younger person is age 18 through 25, then the older person can be up to 10 years older before my squick factor kicks in.

If the younger person is age 25 through 35, then the older person can be up to 15 years older before my squick factor kicks in.

If the younger person is older than 35, then I see them as free to make any adult decision they like, although more than a 35 year age difference really starts to look a little gold digger-ish, you know?

Also, it does not matter to me if the younger party is the woman or the man, but it does (apparently) matter to me if the older person is in a position of job-related power over the younger person.

So by the application of these rules:

Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise – got together when she was 27, he was 44; squicky (but close).

Calista Flockhart and Harrison Cruise – got together when she was 36, he was 59; not squicky (but also, close).

Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas – got together when she was 29, he was 54; squicky

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt – got together when she was 30, he was 42; not squicky

Beyonce and Jay-Z – got together when she was 21, he was 33; sadly, squicky, although by the time they were married they’d moved out of squick territory and I think we can all agree that they are now cute as 10 buttons

Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher – got together when he was 26, she was 42; squicky (but surprisingly, just barely)

Amber Tamblyn and David Cross – got together when she was 26, he was 45; squicky

Penny Lancaster and Rod Stewart – got together when she was 33, he was 59; squicky (also, it’s Rod Stewart, so it’s possibly just ALWAYS squicky)

Annette Bening and Warren Beatty – no one cares now, but when they started dating she was 33 and he was 54, so that’s squicky

AnnaLynne McCord and Dominic Purcell – got together when she was 24, he was 41, so squicky (she’s closer in age to his 8 year old daughters – maybe that should be an addendum rule; if the younger person is closer in age to the older person’s children, then AUTOMATIC SQUICKY).

Anyone else you want to apply the theory to?

The kids and I have been watching The Powerpuff Girls on Retro Teletoon on Saturdays. I loved that show when I was just out of university. Mojo Jojo is HI-larious. When the movie came out, my friend Ruth and I even went to see it in the theatre, without an Excuse Child in tow. The Powepuff Girls are EPIC.

The kids like the show too, but I’m getting kind of worried letting them watch it. It’s not the show itself, it’s the commercials.

Now, I admit that our kids watch a fair bit of TV. But through happy accident, they’ve mostly been sheltered from the world of advertising. They’ve been happy up until now to watch naturally commercial-free stuff, stuff on Treehouse and CBC and Disney Junior and Family. When they do see commercials, it’s usually on sporting events that they’re watching with Sir Monkeypants, so they see ads for cars, soft drinks, and cellular phones. Sometimes I’ll put on a game show while I’m cooking and there will be ads for a zillion different drugs, Medicare-covered electric wheelchairs, and incontinence products. Lately the Captain has started watching the odd episode of The Clone Wars, which has kid-targeted ads for things like Hot Wheels and Beyblades, and that has led to some good conversations about marketing and money management and goal setting.

But the Powerpuff Girls. Ugh. The programmers there really know their audience. All of the ads are targeted squarely at aging women. I guess their research showed that I’m not the only 40-something mom who is sharing the show with their kids.

So what do marketers want to sell to moms? Sure, there was the odd ad for hair dye and wrinkle cream. But 90% of the advertising is for one thing: weight loss. It’s long, two-minute segments from Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, and Dr. Bernstein, over and over.

I didn’t think too much of it at first. I’m at a healthy weight and I don’t fuss too much about my diet. My kids are all super duper skinny. It’s not unhealthy, it’s just genetics – both Sir Monkeypants are I were short, scrawny kids, always in the front right corner of every class photo at school. The Captain is 9, and still isn’t close to breaking 50 pounds. Gal Smiley will be 8 in a couple of months, and only hit the weight level to move to a booster seat six months ago. They definitely, definitely do not need to worry about having too much fat.

But the message of the commercials got through, and now they are worried about it. They ask all kinds of questions about what it means to be fat, whether their food has any fat in it, if they themselves are fat. And no amount of reassurance from us will erase all the doubt that they need to be watching their weight, or else they will end up unhappy and ugly.

And of couse, it’s the girls who have taken it most to heart. Is it because the people in the commercials are women? Or because they just worry more about their appearance? I don’t know, but they’re thinking about it. A lot. It’s a little scary.

It’s a struggle for every parent to give their child good self-esteem. To find way to make them really believe that they are beautiful, smart, special, loved. The last thing I need is to be working against direct messages coming from the television, which always seems to speak The Truth to the kids.

So maybe we will invest in some Powerpuff Girls DVDs, but I think that’s the end of our Retro Teletoon adventures. It’s funny, the show itself is kind of about girl empowerment, but the ads are working in direct opposition to that message. I feel like I’ve got enough work on my hands as it is to sort out this mess, too.

Yesterday, Little Miss Sunshine turned five. I feel like I should cue some wah-wah trumpets here and lament the passing away of my baby days, but really, I was okay with it. She’s anxious to grow up and gets frustrated when she can’t run as fast or jump as high as her brother and sister, and I want her to move forward, too. In many ways, she’s still our baby – I don’t remember the Captain or Gal Smiley being quite so babyish at age 5, perhaps this is a youngest thing? But it’s nice when she’s confident enough to dress herself or make her own snack. So I’m still getting my fair share of cuddles and snuggles, and yet, getting a more independent family that’s capable of broader experiences and adventures, and it’s all good.

So what I really wanted to talk about was Barbies. Specifically, shoes. The Little Miss loves Barbie, and up until now she’s had fun with my old doll from when I was a kid and her extensive wardrobe, hand made by my mother who had a little Barbie clothes making business when I was young. My old doll is named Sandy and reeks of Malibu. I kind of love her, still.

The Little Miss has also acquired a couple of new Barbie dolls, but they don’t fit the old clothes quite right because the dolls were redesigned in 1997 to have a thicker waist and smaller chest. So for her birthday, we bought her a few new outfits for her new-style Barbie dolls.

And the outfits came with shoes.

Now, my mother is a wonder with her sewing machine (how she made it through all those finicky wee bits of trim without losing her mind is beyond me), but shoes require a big plastic making machine. So my classic Barbie has store-bought shoes that are sensible, practical, logical.

Take these:

I think Sandy has about 15 pairs of these in various colours. Look at that nice, sensible heel. They go right from the office to date night in comfort, all night long.

She also had sporty sneakers for running, and ballet shoes for pursuing her dream:

And of course, a variety of boots featuring safe, square heels suitable for horseback riding or a day-long tour of the mall:

For evenings out, if she really wanted to get flashy, she had these (actually these little fancies belonged to my sister FameThrowa, we’ve absorbed her Barbie wardrobe into ours):

And now, compare with the shoes that came with the new Barbie outfits.

What?

The?

Hell?

Is That?

Do you see the heels on that last pair? Pointy spikes, with a ball on the end? And the others, with their high heights and sparkles and ankle straps, what are we, Lady Gaga?

I just…don’t know. I really don’t know. I’m thinking there must be something more practical on eBay.

In other news, no one seems to make patterns for Barbie clothes anymore – once the redesign happened, no one bothered to alter the patterns. I still have my mom’s old patterns but they’re only good for making more clothes for Sandy, who is already very well covered. The new ladies are going to have remain content with their cheap, sparkly store dresses and the matching ridiculous footwear. GAH.

Last weekend, we got talking to some friends about a study described in Malcolm Gladwell’s book, Outliers. In the study, they took a bunch of four year olds and sat them down in an empty room in front of a marshmallow. They told the kids that they could eat the marshmallow any time, but if they could wait 20 minutes without eating it, they would receive a second marshmallow and could eat both.

They then followed the kids for years, and by the time they were well into adulthood, it became clear that the ones who were able to delay gratification and wait for the second marshmallow were far ahead of their more eager counterparts when it came to success. They made more money, they had more responsibility, they were farther along in their careers and accomplishments.

So Sir Monkeypants and I immediately both thought of our own four year old, Little Miss Sunshine, who only has two weeks left until she’s too old for this test. And we thought, maybe we don’t really want to know. Because there’s no guidelines in the book on what to do if your kid fails the test – possible strategies for turning them into future successes. It seems that if they fail the marshmallow test, they’re marked for life. We might end up spending our entire life patting Little Miss Sunshine on the head in a pitying kind of way, sighing that she’ll never amount to anything because she ate the marshmallow.

Plus, we did not have any marshmallows actually on hand, nor a sterile empty room to run the test.

But Sir Monkeypants was undeterred, so he beckoned over the Little Miss for the following conversation:

Sir Monkeypants: Little Miss Sunshine, say I give you a marshmallow. You can eat it right now, or you can wait 20 minutes and then you can have two marshmallows. What would you do?

Little Miss Sunshine: But, I don’t want a marshmallow.

[Parents beam with pride at their child circumnavigating the whole of science in this manner.]

Sir Monkeypants: Okay, say I have something you do want – like a Hershey’s Kiss. Would you like one now, or two in twenty minutes?

Little Miss Sunshine: If I wait, do I get marshmallows AND kisses?

Sir Monkeypants: No, if you do the waiting you get two things but just two.

Little Miss Sunshine: What if I wait an hour? Then can I get two marshmallows AND two kisses?

Sir Monkeypants: Um, I guess so.

Little Miss Sunshine: Then I will choose that.

FUTURE PRIME MINISTER OF CANADA, right there, folks! I am so proud.

Gal Smiley, running up from the basement: Mom! I found something!

Me: That’s a cassette tape. It plays music, like a CD, only you need a different kind of playing machine.

Gal Smiley: Does the thing in the basement play them?

Me: Yes, I guess it still works. [Ed note: We’re talking about my old boom box from my university days.]

Gal Smiley: But when I press the buttons on it, it doesn’t do anything.

Me: That’s because it’s not plugged in.

Gal Smiley: So if I plug it in, we can play this tape?

Me: Sure.

Gal Smiley, calling to the other kids: We can play it! We can play it! Let’s go!

Captain Jelly Belly: Forget it, Gal Smiley…even if it does play, it’s going to be boring OLD PEOPLE MUSIC.

Excuse me as I go soak my false teeth. GEEZ.

Tonight is Blog out Loud, and I hope my readers and friends in the Ottawa area can make it out. I was thinking this morning about how a lot of bloggers are shy introverts – like myself, actually – and that makes it tough to talk yourself into an event like this. I don’t even take the kids to soccer, because the thought of standing on the sideline chatting with the other parents for an hour and a half at the end of a long day sounds too draining. Even though they are actually my friends, and even though I always, always have a great time when I DO go, I still think of social occasions with a big “ugh” and have to drag myself off the couch.

So I totally get how going to an event where there’s a big room full of people, most of whom you don’t know, can seem scary and tiring. And how it’s a hot day, and the kids are all wild and crazy, and you’ve had a long week. And how it’s so, so much easier to stay home and watch last night’s PVR recording of Dance! Show! than to get in the car and drive downtown where there are crowds and construction and finding parking is an epic adventure. I GET IT.

And if I am being completely truthful, if I didn’t host the freakin’ thing I’d probably stay home, myself.

But! It really is an amazing, wonderful, truly good time. You will laugh, and you will cry. You will meet some great people – trust me when I say, everyone I have ever talked to there has been outgoing and friendly and kind. It can be a moving experience just to be in the room with other people who like to do the same thing you do.

It is worth getting off the couch.

So I hope I will see you there – if you do manage to make it, be sure to find me and say hi.

Lately I’ve read a few articles about how the blogging bubble has burst. A few of the “big” bloggers have noted that their comments and hits have fallen off. Even us smaller bloggers have noticed that “no one comments anymore.” There’s been a lot of talk about how people have taken their social interaction to Twitter and Facebook. So is this it? Is blogging going to fade away like bell bottom jeans and one-shoulder sweatshirts?

I admit, I don’t comment as much as I used to. I still read, though. I have about 300 blogs in my reader and I actually keep up to date on almost all of them. But since I am reading through a reader, I have to click through to comment, which is an extra moment of time that I might not have, especially just to leave the kind of simple comment that let you know I was here, I read, and enjoyed. But I’m trying to do better at that, because I think it’s really important to let bloggers know that you loved their words, that you were touched by what they said, that you have something of your own to share on that subject. It’s a meaningful interaction to me.

I still find blogs from time to time that I add to my reader – every year at BOLO there’s someone I love so much, I have to hear more. It’s sometimes a bit of work to add a new blog. You have to invest time in reading longer posts, get to know the person a bit. Maybe even explore some back posts if something comes up that you don’t get. But it’s worth it. The people I have met through blogging have become friends. Even those who I’ve never met in real life seem like personal pals – I feel like I really know them. These days, when I tell someone a story that I read on a blog, I am more likely to say, “A friend was telling me that…” than to say, “I read on someone’s blog that…”. It just makes more sense to me the first way – reading a blog really is kind of like having a coffee with a friend.

I don’t get the same thing from Twitter or Facebook, but I hear lots of people say that they just don’t “get” those kinds of social media, so perhaps I’m missing something. I’ve “met” people through Twitter and we’ve chatted but I still feel like I know nothing about them. Maybe if I spent more time there and was more interactive there, I’d find the magic. But what I really love is delving into a meaty blog post, and finding insight into someone’s day, someone’s thoughts, or someone’s soul.

Is that too much to ask of blogging? Maybe.

I’m meandering here, but what I really wanted to say is that I think there’s definitely a continued place for blogging, even if the audience is shrinking. It’s extremely powerful to have a place for writers self-publish their works, be it anecdotes about how they burned their lunch to political rants to deeper pieces that share a difficult time or emotion. Even casual blogs that just document the day-to-day stuff can be great writing; there’s something about just being human that invites empathy. There’s meaning in sharing stories, and there’s power in developing your writing skills. Plus, there’s something worthwhile in documenting your own story, for yourself.

I’m wondering if, instead of the blogging bubble bursting, if we’re seeing more of a new life cycle for a blog. I think blogs and bloggers come in waves – people who are new to the format sign up, get excited, blog a lot, make a network of friends, and get reading, writing, and commenting. They mature in style and develop their own goals and plans, maybe spend three or four years growing their blog. Some will hit the right market segment and get huge; others will be content (or learn to be content) with a smaller audience. And then perhaps, eventually, the blogger tires of the same old subjects, the readers tire of the same old subjects, and everyone moves on to something new, leaving room for the next wave. Maybe the big bloggers who are seeing their audiences shrink are just in the twilight years, and new bloggers will come forward to take their place.

For me, I’ll always love blogging no matter what happens. I’m not cut out for the quickness of Twitter or the forced intimacy of Facebook. I like writing blog posts, and I plan to keep it up. But I do sometimes feel like I’ve accomplished all that I ever will with this space, and that I need new challenges. Is blogging dead? Mine sure isn’t, but it has matured, aged even, and sometimes gets a little tired and creaky. But I’m still here.

So, remember a couple of weeks ago when I warned parents not to take their kids to the New Art Festival (aka Art in the Park), because it’s just a lot of boring walking and shopping? I totally took mine! Isn’t one of the circles of hell reserved for those who can’t take their own advice?

Actually, it did not turn out too badly. I announced that I was going down to the park and both girls said they wanted to come. So I warned them, repeatedly and with vehemence, that there was going to be a lot of walking and shopping, and quite likely it would all be in the rain as it was pouring out. And I set up some ground rules, that there was to be a) NO complaining about being bored, and b) NO constant asking for snacks.

They agreed, and for the most part, stuck to the plan, and I was pretty impressed with them. The three of us actually had a really nice time traipsing through the park looking at art.

And also, shopping! Yay, shopping!

Last year, Sir Monkeypants and I were hoping to acquire some actual art for our house. We are both really depressed about the state of our house, since after seven years of living here we still have almost exclusively builder paint and builder light fixures, plus other than kids’ furniture, one couch, and one dining room table, we are still living with the mish mash of furniture that we had back in university. Neither of us really has the time or interest in beautifying our home, however, we are both sad and despairing about the ugliness of our home, so you can see, it is not a good situation.

Anyway, for a while now we have both been saying it would be nice to have some “real” art, instead of just prints from IKEA and Disney posters on the walls, but the two of us have widely differing taste in art so it’s almost impossible for us to agree on something. Last year we ended up seeing a couple of things we liked, but they were expensive and Sir Monkeypants and I are not only weak at home decorating, we are also cheap, so we balked.

And then we regretted it all year long, so this year, I was determined to BUY SOMETHING, for the love.

So, the purchases! This first one is by local artist Anne Remmer Thompson. It is called Lazy, Lazy Day.

The picture does not do justice to the fabulous blues in there. Also, the sand of the beach includes real sand! Cool.

Story behind this one: Sir Monkeypants saw one just like it last year at Anne’s booth and really liked it, and I thought it was nice too, which usually for us means BUY NOW, because these kinds of intersections of taste don’t happen often. But of course we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to part with the money, and plus we had three cranky screaming complaining kids in tow, so we decided to think about. Then I got it in my head that this painting would look great over our bed, and I would use it to create a beach-themed bedroom, and I even went so far as to create a Pinterest board on that subject. But by the time I decided to just Do It, Already, I called Anne up and it had been lent out on a rental program.

So I gave Anne my info and she said she’d call me if/when it came back from the rental contract, but eventually she called me to let me know that the contract had been renewed and it didn’t look like the painting was coming back any time soon.

Then, this week, for the art festival she painted a new one (yay!) but had lost my contact info (boo!), but then I went the show anyway (yay!) and it was still there (yay yay!) and I bought it (yay yay yay!). So now it’s hanging over our bed, and the rest of the beach-themed room will hopefully happen before I DIE, Jesus Lynn, get the lead out already.

And that’s not even all the art I bought. I saw lots of art I really loved, but I knew just would not be Sir Monkeypants’ thing (special shout out to Sue McNenly, who I ADORE, and will be on my wish list forever). But one artist I loved so much, I knew I had to have something of hers even if it was going to have to go in some back corner of the house (and actually, it is going over my new desk where I work all day, so, AWESOME).

The artist is Lison Salois and she is amazing. This one is called Encore De La Mouille, which I think means “it’s raining again.”

Love it. I’m so pleased!

Overall, a fabulous trip to the park. Now if only I could get my house in shape, we’d be all good.