LEGO was created in Billund, Denmark

Clackity, clackity, clackity goes my vacuum cleaner. Oops, another piece of Lego gets sucked into the great oblivion. No big deal, I tell myself; the kids have lots and lots of Lego, one piece here and there will not make a dent in their collection. While this is true, it got me thinking; just how much Lego do we vacuum or sweep up every year? I work at a toy store in Courtenay, B.C., Canada and I have to listen daily to customer laments on the costliness of the world’s favorite toy. If every parent was like myself; preoccupied with the minutia required to keep a family of 4 on track, one little yellow brick is nothing in the grand scheme of things; but is it really?

How many thousands of dollars are we sucking up every year in a desperate attempt to stay on top of the professional messmakers we call children? The first step in answering this question starts with myself. I estimate, conservatively, I vacuum about 5 pieces of Lego per year. I have two kids, so that is 2.5 pieces of Lego per child, per year in my house. The latest Statistics Canada data available (2006) tells me there are 3,889,305 kids between the ages of 5 and 14 in Canada. So; assuming 2.5 pieces of Lego are done away with per child, we are looking at 9,723,262.5 pieces of Lego vacuumed up every year in Canada!

Almost 10 million pieces of Lego are vacuumed or swept per year!!! What does this mean for our collective pocketbooks? Well, each 1 x 1 square of Lego weighs approximately .55 grams (0.2 of an ounce). Most vacuum cleaners can handle a 1 x 1 square without too much complaint. I have a Dyson, which will suck the white off rice; so it can devour 2 x 2 bricks with ease, but I digress. I have done the math so you don’t have to. We, as Canadians suck up 5,348 kilograms (11,790 pounds) of Lego yearly. A quick trip to eBay told me that the going price for used Lego is about $6.83 US per pound (averaged over 9 completed listings). That is over $80,000 US dollars that we squander away collectively in Canada on this innocuous,  plastic brick!

Our neighbor to the south has many, many more professional messmakers. According to 2009 US Census data, there are 40,934,306 kids between the ages of 5 and 14 in the United States. American families vacuumed up 102,335,765 pieces of Lego in 2009! Assuming  1 x 1 squares (at 0.2 of an ounce) were the nasty little culprits, 123,827 pounds (give or take) were vacuumed up in the United States in 2009 representing over $845,738 US dollars worth of Lego.

Food for thought….

My beautiful children have been in my life for three and a half years and 16 months now respectively. I brought them into this world naturally. How else could they have come? Unnaturally? A good friend of mine told me that she had a real problem with the terms “natural” and “unnatural” childbirth. My children were born out of my “zipper”, a 6 inch long incision in my abdomen just above my bikini line; a.k.a a cesarean section. Otherwise, I would have died. Modern science has given me choices that women would not have had a hundred years ago. In a perfect world, I would have had a drug-free, incense enhanced, birth that was a celebration of womanhood. Instead, I had a drug-enhanced, high tech, high intervention, celebration of modern medicine.

Labour with Chloe began at 4 am on Friday morning. I was so excited. After my husband and I carefully timed and recorded my contractions in our little notebook to make sure that they were regular, I called my doulas and my parents. Life’s miracle had started!

My carefully orchestrated birth plans began to go awry when I was sent home from the hospital the second time because I had not dilated enough; a mere 2 centimetres after 24 hours. All the books and articles written about labour don’t tell you about wanting to punch out the poor soul who delivered this news. Hard labour began soon I arrived home. My contractions were virtually on top of each other for the whole day. I thought that Chloe was playing my spine like a xylophone. My husband, mom, dad and doulas took turns jamming their hands into my lower back and walking a well-worn path into my carpet. At about 4pm, we decided, once again to journey to the hospital, only this time, I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting down, so I groaned on all fours in the back of an SUV (God help the cop who tried to pull us over for unsafe driving).

Three tries lucky. I demanded to be seen. After my millionth pelvic exam, they put me into a birthing room. I gave the nurses my gift of chocolate and a copy of my birth plan as an incentive to follow my carefully thought-out instructions. The patient and helpful nurses crawled around on all fours with a heart rate monitor up my nightgown to check Chloe’s heart rate because I refused to get into bed. Two more hours went by. Another pelvic, this time by an Ob.Gyn. I was still only 2 centimetres dilated, and Chloe had not descended. I was told that she was going to have to be delivered by c-section. All that work! I cried, and then reluctantly agreed.

It was time for the epidural. There was no break in my contractions, and the hospital bed was as inviting as a concrete slab covered in scorpions and lit on fire. My instructions were to get into bed and lie perfectly still so that this long, gleaming, needle filled with morphine didn’t go into the wrong spot. Sucking back nitrous oxide didn’t remove the pain, but it removed my concern about the pain. After some jabs, the anesthesiologist ran from my birthing room to get the head of the department; apparently, he had missed his mark 3 times! Panic stricken doctors fleeing from my hospital room did little to put my war weary parents at ease. The head anesthesiologist had no problems. I hadn’t realized that when you bought an epidural, a catheter came free. Bonus! An epidural renders you completely numb from just under your ribcage to your toes, and the hospital doesn’t want any stray urine making a mess.

The operating room was cold. I could almost see my breath. I wanted Chloe to be put skin to skin against my chest after emerging, but she would have been frozen. In reality, a curtain is put up at chin level to mercifully separate you and your hapless husband from the grizzly reality of surgery. As far as Fraser was concerned, Chloe materialized by osmosis, pre wrapped in blankets, aided by beautiful butterflies, and strong, but dainty fairies. My arms were strapped to boards on either side of my body and attached to machines to carefully measure my every function. I couldn’t lift them even if I tried. I was quivering with fear. While I was pregnant, the c-section was an amorphous concept to me; not major abdominal surgery. After feeling a lot of tugging, I heard a cry. She was here! Chloe was immediately whisked away, out of my sight, to be cleaned up, weighed, and apgar’ed. Fraser watched the whole scene because I couldn’t move. The first time I met Chloe, I couldn’t touch her, because my hands were strapped down. Fraser brought her close to me so I could nuzzle, kiss and smell her. Wonderous!

In recovery, I was so exhausted, I couldn’t lift my arms. Nurses were bustling about me, cleaning and changing my dressings while I slept. Chloe spent most of her first couple of hours nestled against Fraser’s chest. I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to have a strong birth partner; especially when having a c-section. Fraser gave Chloe that special bonding time that she so desperately needed because I was physically unable to so. Daddy met and snuggled his baby daughter without having to share her just yet.

About those dressings….

A word of advice for all women giving birth soon; c-section or not: bring your own underwear and pads. Did you ever wonder what happened to all the sanitary napkin and belt systems? Vancouver hospitals bought them. They look especially appealing when accompanied by paper underwear. Enough said.

As the epidural began to wear off, what struck me the most was not the pain, it was manageable, but the itch was unbearable. Apparently, many people get uncontrollably itchy as a side effect of the morphine in the epidural. Bring moisturizer to the hospital if you are having an epidural; it helps a great deal. The hospital gave me an antihistamine to control the itch. If it is offered to you, make sure that you find out if it is non-drowsy unless you are looking for a “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” experience. The room was spinning for about 2 hours afterwards.

Breastfeeding was new and exciting. I have never had so many strangers manhandle my boobs. Everyone had an opinion on the correct technique. Nurses would come by and squish my breast like a hamburger in an attempt to get Chloe to latch properly. One poor friend of mine told me that the janitor came over and “manipulated” her breast into a proper latch. People just love to help J

I was ravenously hungry the next morning. It had been about a day and half since my last food. I started salivating when my morning tray arrived. Bacon! Eggs! Toast with peanut butter! Hash browns! Mmmm. I wheeled my bedside table over in eager anticipation. I lifted the lid and was greeted by jello and chicken broth. I began to size up the nurse to see if she would be tough and stringy or tender and meaty. Another little c-section detail that was left out of my education was no food until you “pass gas”. You must drink some terrible medicine prior to surgery to halt digestion. The indicator that everything has started moving again is the noble, yet humble fart. My digestive track took 12 hours to start moving again, prompting many whispered inquiries as to the state of my flatulence.

I planned for a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) with Logan. I chose a midwife this time for a more soulful experience. Contractions started on Sunday, and Logan was born on Thursday afternoon naturally by cesarean. I didn’t labour hard, but I laboured long – 5 days. I walked and walked and walked. Ikea and Metrotown Mall were like old familiar friends. I got all my Christmas shopping done. My water finally broke on Thursday morning prompting an immediate c-section to avoid cord prolapse as Logan had not descended. My beautiful boy had arrived.
Logan’s birth was soulful because I knew what was going to happen, and I had a great team. This time around, I was more relaxed and more prepared. I loved being pregnant. I loved the miracle of growing a person inside my skin. I love that I was able to have 2 beautiful kids without dying in the process. Your birth experience can be soulful, spirited and filled with humour. It is what you make of it.

I have a Facebook account; as do most of the people I know. It is a wonderful social networking tool; a way for me to know the whereabouts and activities of extended family members. I am kept up to date on births, anniversaries, birthdays and other special occasions in peoples’ lives. I am compared with and ranked against all of my friends, I am sent drinks and quizzes and I have even had family arguments through Facebook. All of these things are stored, documented and could be sold to interested (and supposedly responsible) third parties. Not only does Facebook collect the information about you from what you enter; it can also gather information about you from other sources on the Internet. WTF?? Have a look at Facebook’s Terms of Use and Privacy Statement. Here is an excerpt: “We may use information about you that we collect from other sources, including but not limited to newspapers and Internet sources such as blogs, instant messaging services, Facebook Platform developers and other users of Facebook, to supplement your profile.” Despite this disclaimer, Facebook says that it will not sell any information that it gathers to any third party; I suppose the disclaimer is so that they can leave their options open for future opportunities.

A potential area of concern for young people should be how their current postings and activities will be viewed by potential employers and colleges when they become adults and venture into the world. It is difficult to remove things from the Internet once they are out there, and anyone with a computer can Google you to learn more about that beer bong party with the topless girls at the lake when you were 16. It used to be that you could delete your Facebook account, but your file would still remain in their system, but now, you are able to call Facebook and have your records erased. If you are concerned at all, contact Facebook and confirm that any record of your activity on their website has been erased. Be sure to ask your friends and family not to tag you in any photographs; especially embarrassing or compromising ones. Even though you may not have an account, doesn’t mean that your name won’t show up if you are tagged in a picture. On the very day that I wrote this article, Google News reported on the launch of Facebook Connect, an expansion that will make Facebook accessible to software makers who can use member information (with permission) to benefit their websites. Last year Facebook really took off when thousands of software applications were exclusively built for Facebook users. This new project is an expansion of this concept with tighter security restrictions. Last year, Facebook shut down 1000 applications for security violations and subsequently are instituting tighter controls over these applications.

I will continue to use my Facebook account. I like social networking, knowing what my friends and family are up to, and having an online event calendar chock a block full of invitations. It is an incredibly powerful tool for keeping connections alive. Just make sure to ask yourself if you are posting information that you wouldn’t mind anyone to read in the present or future and as with many things, read the disclaimers and policy statements.

In my experience as a mom with a 4 year old and a 6 year old, explaining things comprehensively and simply at the same time poses a never ending challenge. We have an extremely inquisitive 6 year old, who has made such observations in the past:

Age 3 When I was trying to get her to walk faster and asked her why she was being so slow, she replied, “Mommy, little chums have short legs.” (We call her our little chum)

Age 3 At the dinner table she inquires, “Mommy, are we eating beef?” (Yes, I replied – we were eating pot roast) “Does the cow have to be killed?” ( Yes, I replied). Then the zinger, “Mommy, little chums don’t like it when animals have to die for us to eat our dinner.” My husband and I looked at each other in amazement and suddenly decided that we were no longer hungry . We offered our daughter the choice to be vegetarian, and she tried it for a little while before deciding that she loved ground beef too much.

Age 4 While driving in the car, “mommy, is whip cream a liquid, a solid or a gas?” At this point, we had already explained about the 3 phases of matter, using water as an example. The question, on the surface appears easy, but is actually somewhat complicated. It is a suspended emulsion for those of you who were desparate to know.

Age 4 She is really scared about Santa entering our home in the middle of the night. She just doesn’t like the idea of having some stranger prowling around our house at 3 am, so we spilled the beans and explained the nature of Santa. She told us that she thought that made sense. We went on to explain the absolute importance that she keep this information to herself, so when her auntie was visiting, and asked my daughter if she was excited for Santa to come, our little co conspirator looked at us knowingly, then turned to her auntie and replied, “yes, I am so excited”. If she had had the muscle tone to wink, I am sure she would have.

Another zinger came at us at age 4; the philisophical age in our house, “where is nowhere?” Had she been secretly talking to Neitzche when we weren’t looking?

Age 6 “Daddy, what is the biggest star in the universe?” To which Fraser replied, “we don’t know the answer to this question because we don’t know the entire universe.” She then chimed in with, “what is the biggest star that we know of so far?”

Many questions come at us, fast and furious, and hourly. Sometimes, I just have to put her in “question time out” for half an hour to allow time for my brain to cool down. “Please don’t ask mommy any more questions for the next half hour,” to which our daughter replies “why?”

There are many, many others that I will remember at 2 am tomorrow morning when I wake up, but can’t for the life of me remember now. The point of these examples is to illustrate that my husband and I made a commitment that we would answer all questions the best we could, and look up the answers if we didn’t know. Of course, this commitment was made before children came into our lives, and it is now tempered with age and experience, and we scrimp on the details when we are worn out, but our daughter was able to read at a young age and has dictionaries and encyclopedias in her room. At 6, she is learning to “Google” her questions; ahhh sweet, sweet Google babysitter and question answerer.

This is not to say that we play fast and loose with the rules in our house. We have only 3, and so far, they have been applicable to every situation that we have encountered with our kids:

1. Don’t hurt yourself.

2. Don’t hurt anyone else.

3. Don’t wreck our stuff.

That’s it; the KISS principle in action. Whenever a transgression occurs, we ask our kids to specify the rule broken.

Once, we explained to our kids the intent of T.V. commercials. We feel this is especially important when toy, candy, cereal and other ads are coming at them non stop. The ability to critically think has already reaped rewards. I saw a product on a TV commercial that I was interested in purchasing. My daughter pointed out that I was falling for the advertiser’s ploy to get me to buy. She was right. It made me take a second look.

In our house, we respect our children, and recognize that just because they are smaller, doesn’t mean that they have less rights as human beings. This is not to say that time outs and privilage removals don’t happen regularly in response to breaking one of the above 3 rules, we are attempting to remove the arbitrariness out of discipline and endeavoring never to be hypocrites. Kids can smell hypocracy like a shark smells blood, and we have been called out more than once to be sure, but we are grateful that we have kids who are able to critically think about the world at a young age.