On With the Shew

As a child... I was going to say "As a child growing up", but that is incorrect. As a child aging, and now, as an aged child, I have maintained a rather fuzzy soft-focus view of developmental milestones. I remember those tales of my childhood and my sister's in a manner which suits my frail ego. For example: I was able to read by the age of 3. My sister was a cross-dresser. Simple thoughts like that make me happy enough to while away the interminable hours of family interaction. Seldom do I reflect on: first act of random violence, or : first bench warrant. But I am thinking about these milestones today, both the good and bad.

Our daughter, who will be three in September, now insists on eliminating her waste (read, pissing like a racehorse, leaving a Nixon) without the benefit of the weird little-ass seat insert. I just finished watching her perch on the seat like... words fail. Like a really small person perching on a standard size shitter. How does one communicate one's pride to family members over this milestone (and I believe it is) without causing embarrassment to the object of my pride?

On a more prosaic note, in the milestone camp, our son took several unassisted steps yesterday. He's walking. Holy shit.

P-man out.

On the Shoulders of Giants

Being a librarian my baby shower was a book shower. I often smile inside about having one of the finest children's libraries for the under 3 set thanks to the amazing teacher-librarians I work for; then I think of Mad and Kittenpie and sort of eat my words. So, let me say this. I love our children's books and I love storytelling.

Every once in a while I want to write a book about all the people who have given us books. The feeling it gives me to be with the books and my children. It always seems to me like about five hundred souls are all crowded in a little child's room filling it with love and thought. Authors, illustrators and the gift-givers piled high enough to fill the room. Like college students in a phone booth or a VW Bug. Then I think about authors like David Weisner and Jon Muth and I sort of eat my words.

Both pman and I read a lot of stories each day. Our repertoire is different and our performances, too. Yet, we are equally good. This is a rare occurence since the main thing that characterises our relationship is our disparity. I'm good at roasting meat, he's the salad chef. He's an athlete and I'm a workhorse. He's a speed reader and I format truly excellent to do lists. I'm good with money, he's wild with a credit card. Anyway, we're different.

But we are both good at all our stories. I am sure you all are, too. Storytelling is a great leveller. I have come to believe that, in fact, we don't ever learn anything about storytelling. It is in us. It is of us. Like many cultures believe it is natural. As I laid about today reading My Mama Says in my inimitable way I felt so good. I sounded like my Dad. I remember how my father used to tell me the Story of Babar in a beautiful, lively manner with barely any bit of performance or range of characterisation. In his cool, compelling way it was pure adventure to me. Those moments together, noses tucked behind the pages of a storybook, voices thrown about to create little dramas. Those are the giant shoulders I stand on as I inflect.

True love.

PSA : The Buck Stops Here

I was going over a number of parenting challenges for the day and paused once again on the best advice I've ever got. Wanted to pass it on.

"No one can really give you advice. It is you who knows your kid best."

What's the best advice you've ever got?

ps... Note my tag on this. I have found of late some usefulness in categorizing things as either Macro-Parenting or Micro-Parenting issues.

Bad Parent : Part Two

I guess when I wrote a post about cold shouldered toddlers I was doing the bloggy thing. Casting out my parenting nervousness for you-know-what.

Well, what? you ask...

You know. Forgiveness or commiseration or other maybe more general feedback. You guys gave me all that and I thank you for it.

The more I think about what I posted, and what happened, the more I do think I knew what I was doing was wrong. Not the nuance of forcing hugs so much, as seemed to be the emphasis of that spun off the post. But rather that in the face of my daughter's tears I looked to others to provide remedy. What I failed to convey it seems in what I said was how much my girl's crying shocked me. I mean these two kids spurn each other over things all the time. They are, after all, two going on three it is just normal for their age. But this time she was an injured party. Add to this my guilt that I have failed to arrange enough playdates for her since she left daycare a couple months back and I am a wreck over this subject.

This first experience of my daughter feeling pain for 'social' reasons was a hard one. Rejection seems a solemn milestone to me. A road lies ahead mired in my own fears. I think of all things parenting it is the getting along that intimidates me the most. Count me one quick to say 'Oh, physical needs those are no biggie. It's the emotional needs that scare the crap out of me.' How can I help her? Where does our responsibility end and her character take over? It all sort of seems like a level of social engineering that -- to be blunt -- pisses me off. Life can't really expect me to do that. I can't make people get along.

P-man and I are blessed with some really tremendous friends. We are lucky in love some might say. But I count among my dear ones some not always so lucky and this makes me acutely wary. My brother, for example, suffered the wretched geek ostracism that characterised 80's North American teen culture. You know how they say, kids are cruel. I've seen it. It's true. I want so much for my kids to get along with everybody. (Though, of course, I don't.)

I hope I won't make the mistake again and fail to help my little girl, or little guy as the case may be, when someone else's choices or needs hurt them. I was wrong to look to others to smooth over her hurt. I mean that mother naturally had to put her kid first just like I was trying to do.

This is something I see as a level of mothering maturity that I still need to achieve. Time to stop idealising the relationship of humanity to my precious, gorgeous, dear, clever and sweet offspring. Over-simply put is my row to hoe. Though, to be honest, you all pitch in on a semi-regular basis and it does help me to remain in my comfy-not-completely-jaded place. Thanks again. And, chalk that up as Inclusion 1, Exclusion Nil, for blogging will ya Ginga?

Dancing Cheeks to Cheeks

Don't lose your lunch over this. The other night we were setting up for the bath. One tired baby and one napless 2 year old combatant. It was my night in the pub. I removed my crusty gardening garb in anticipation of tubly delights to realize I was without clean clothes.

No problem - I live down the hall. Off I went to my bedroom for some styling loungewear. I stopped suddenly in front of our double French doors. The curtains were open. Turns out our cross-alley neighbour Albert was having a BBQ. Turns out our room is highly visible from his deck.

I promptly lay down on the floor. I was now visible only to myself in the bifold mirror doors of Mo's closet. Let's just say it has been a while since I've had an exercise regimen (unless trembling counts). Turns out I've grown an extra ass. Not as big an ass as the one with which my body is equipped, thankfully. After all, this is just an ass for an ass.

It is possible the only thing more undignified than having some spare ass hanging out back there is blogging about it.

This has caused me to reflect upon my relationship with ice cream. There is little I enjoy more than relaxing at night and eating a tub of ice cream. Not a big tub, just the criminally small tubs produced by those genial publicity-seeking ice cream making guys. I am powerless over Ben & Jerry. I'd like to blame them, the happy cows at their imaginary hippie-cow farm, global warming, my parents, or anything at all for my problem, but I cannot. I am unable to resist the cold creamy goodness of ice cream. I can't even discuss the local gelato god without drooling. Pear and gorgonzola... lavender... blackberry... maybe lust is the correct word. Gelato lust.

I hate to do this, but I have to go cold turkey. It is bad enough I am losing my hair. I don't want to be bald and have two asses.

More to follow.

PMO

Bad Parenting Confessional: Hug Forcing Hippies

I was so so so upset. I saw my daughter cry yesterday like I have never seen before. She was refused a hug and she bawled. Our Girl Friday is not what you would call a bawler. But I've seen it now. I was so upset.

Yesterday we had a playdate to breakup all the Mommy & and Me (and Baby!) doldrums. It was really fun for the two girls. Then when her friend went to leave my girl said. "No, wait. You forgot a hug and a kiss." (This is just like she'd say to Daddy or Grandpa when they're leaving.) The friend looked her square in the face and said "No, hug" and they went to leave.

I froze. I just didn't know how to react. Upon reflection I was leaving it to the other mother. And her response was bye-bye. Was there a sorry in there? I don't remember. I was profoundly upset, dumbstruck. Foolishly (?) we went after them down the lane. I tried to suggest alternatives to my daughter. Blow a kiss? The ever popular, "Ciao, Baby." But it was obvious she wanted no substitute. Our little visitor was amenable to supplying something in response to her playmate's cries in the end. Nose kiss? OK. My daughter held her in her little arms as they did it. What a relief I felt. She only whimpered a little after that. I could chat her through it.

In an effort to help us and to explain the little girl's Mom said she didn't like to force her daughter. Due to, as an example, the thoroughly logical limits she has to impose on her toddler around the hugging of their baby when baby doesn't want it. You know how those can be entirely age-inappropriate rough-housing in hug clothing. I understand this.

But at first it wasn't natural to understand. I was a bit in shock to not be the parent with the kid throwing the cold shoulder. It is usually the other way around. I have forced our daughter to hug this girl a couple dozen times. I never thought forced. I hand-out lighthearted chidings and tell her I expect that she return 'the love' when her friends wanna give it. I mean we're just hippies like that, I guess.

Which brings me around to friends. I mean do little 2 1/2 year old people really have friends? I know they are pretty friendly but are we wrong to hang our thoughts on social nicieties between them like they have such obligations? Or are they what I said... playmates. Thinking it over makes me feel quite icky; sort of like social engineering. I am flummoxed.

I'd be lying not to admit that I was shaken to experience that gap in parenting knowledge that seemed so accessible to the other parent. I tend to obsess about these sorts of run-ins and with the right/wrongedness of this parenting gig. What am I: some massive parenting schmo? I read too much into things, right? I love to ask "Did I do the wrong thing?" after these sorts of things.

The short story is someone refused my child's affection and it made her cry. I am sure this won't be last time. It's just that it was the first. It seems both of us got bawlers down there somewhere.

Good Things

So it is the weekend. In Canada a long weekend, in fact. A time to feel good. My last post hinted at me feeling like a bad parent. Here are two things that I had happen recently that made me know I am a good parent, like you say (thanks for that you dear commenters!).

#1 My smiling daughter exclaims in a breathy voice, "Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you." At the sight of 5 smarties as a reward. The thrill of this sugar recompense being thus measured is gratifying. It was as if she had just been given a marvel of such rare quality as something rare and marvelous might be that I was so proud. Demonstrable of my persistence over several days to distance myself from bribery.

#2 My son having two peaceful naps in a day where he did not have to go shopping or unpack my fridge for amusement. Thanks to my parents taking E. yesterday I was able to spoil my son in a way I like. Extra minutes for play with me instead of just near me is so often an unattainable goal. But whoa did we laugh our asses off yesterday.. good times.

I can add to this review of Mo-Wo good things that I experienced a simulatenous nap period for more than 90 minutes this afternoon. 90 minutes! In that time I called an out of town friend I owed a callback to for hmmmm.... 3 years? That was very nice. It was even better that she told me 'you know I think of you whenever I see Maggie Gyllenhaal. you must get that a lot." Well, no. I think in fact she was merely recognizing that I looked something like Ms. Gyllenhaal for 25 minutes back in 1990 when my friend and I were both young gypsy ladies all backpacking like and illegally overnighting on some Welsh Beach in August. Interesting what memory holds and how an image can be so distorted towards beauty by good feeling. Memory and the Internet... so I will now command you all to think that I do actually look like this, even today.



Here's wishing everyone a very good weekend and some goods things coming your way, too.

King of Tonga

I'm not going to say it's the hardest it's going to be. I'm not going to check out any books from the library to solve my problem. But I do have to say this is hard. We have two babies. They're not twins, not even the Irish kind, but they are both young and this is hard.

We have days where the way things are seems too challenging. Tonight in the bath they laughed themselves silly and everything was right with the world. Yesterday the toddler sabotaged her brother's nap with repeated head rapping with a balloon. We had a schedule to keep it was NOT OK. At times we yell at her and hate ourselves after. Looking after a crawling, climbing, falling, whining, crying, drooling, food splattering little person is hard. We try out damndest to stay 'up to it.' His sister is, understandably, not always up to it.

The levelling of discipline is shaky business. We have our rules. "No hitting, No pushing, No shouting." These are "Not allowed". They sort of work. Oh yes and naptime is 1-3 and no covering peoples heads, "that's where we keep all the good stuff! Gentle" For the most part our daughter's twoness is in hand. She is light on the tantrums and we haven't had to leave the playground so often for sand throwing. She doesn't push her brother unless he pushes her first pretty much. Ditto on the spitting, so you can imagine how that is going.

I want to be my daughter's teacher and not lose my temper with her but it is happening. The alternative is this weird place of resignation where she makes mistakes and we cross our fingers that she won't be a total brat. Our little family is one tiring enterprise. It really isn't the fourteen meals a day or the potty breaks or the games and activities. It is the mental anguish of imperfection. It is the effort to fight temptations of resignation to inadequacy. Having one child was a lot like running a corporation, I could do it. Having two? That's a bit more like being a Head of State. I don't know that I am up to it.

Apples and Oranges

I was at a job interview yesterday. One question went like this...

"Give us an example of a time when you had to think strategically?"

I quickly supplied a workplace example from last year. This morning all I have been thinking is that I should have used a day with two children under 3 as my example. When do I not think stategically?

When I was in Library school our director, a man by the way, made the point that mothers underrate their transferrable skills in the workplace. I think this is true. Tell me, have you ever linked motherhood and your marketability as an employee? Maybe I should update my resume to show my B.A. plus my M.L.I.S plus my M.O.M.

Pump it Up

I pump breastmilk sort of 3 or 4 times a week. I don't like it really. And I often wonder... why am I doing this? We don't need the milk for bottles or anything as our near 10 month old gets off-boob nutrition through yoghurt and peas and baby splat, papadams and pilau rice with dahl! He's a good eater.

I pump milk to mix with infant cereal. Do I need to do this? I have never been sure when to 'stop' pablum stuff and I have likewise never been sure if I need to keep mixing it with breastmilk.

What do you guys know? Think?

When He's Not Choking to Death

...on someone else's vomit, Jeff Monaghan is a bureaucrat, an employee at a book store, and a musician. Of course, according to the CBC, our fine government-funded national broadcaster, he is not really any of these things. He is, in turn, a low-level bureaucrat, an employee at an anarchist book store, and a drummer. According to the RCMP Mr. Monaghan is in trouble. According to his employer, he is likely fired. (I guess. People have done worse and kept their jobs.) According to me, this guy cracks me right up. He's trying to do the right thing and I applaud him for his efforts. The government of today cares little for the environment (or their kids, who will have to live in it). This is not to endorse the main alternative... far from it. I think his commitment to the environment may well begin and end with the naming of his dog. I have a dog. His name is Ankles. Does this mean I am a podiatrist? Fuck no!

Nonetheless our fearless national broadcaster ran a story tonight in which it attempted to paint an unflattering and dangerous picture of Mr. Monaghan. The book store is menacing. Mr. Monaghan wears Converse sneakers with slacks and a tie! His band's logo features a plane flying towards and one supposes, on a different shirt somewhere, into the House of Parliament. And, the plane... it has eyes! And eyebrows... oh, the horror!

PMO

All Hail Alec Baldwin, Feline Motivational Speaker

Colour us sheepish. It appears our good friend and boon companion, Mr. Alec Baldwin, found a way to motivate one or both of our feline freeloaders. All hail, the mouse is dead! (We would include a dead mouse photo herein but for the fact it would be disgusting and you can find innumerable dead mouse photos on the web by conducting an image search for "dead mouse". It is difficult to comprehend why this is so.)

Since this is Gratitude Week in my crazy head, allow me to expound: Thank you, Mr. Alec Baldwin, for rousing our cat(s) to action. Thank you, Dexter, for capturing the dread rodent. Thank you again, Dexter, for leaving the dismembered and regurgitated corpse of the mouse, together with a goodly amount of partly-digested kibble, under our son's crib in the middle of the night. Thank you, baby A, for sleeping through the retching cat noises. Thank you, Mo, for allowing me to clean up the ex-mouse. Thanks a bunch.

PMO

Tuna Sandwiches

In recent weeks I have sort of felt crushed under the weight of our family to do lists. I suffer for time. We have a lot of times to keep track of in a day. Bedtime, naptime, bathroom breaks, breakfasts, storytimes, earthworm hunting, etc. etc. I look for minutes here and there. I am always behind.

Awhile back I took a hatchet to our family routine when it comes to shopping. That's it I said no more running out for a couple things. Grocery shopping is to be done twice a week, max. If we run out of ham for sandwiches sorry kids tuna is a fine substitute. Dinners gotta come from the freezer and when in doubt chick pea curry. We haven't lived like this since grad school and you know what? It's great. We must have gained about 6 or 7 hours in our week by doing this. We are not wasting food like we were before. And, I might even say we are eating better than we were.

So tell me. Are we late to party on this one? Do you guys all do this? If so, why didn't you tell us? And, what other great time saving secrets are you keeping from us.

Kicking Television

I have moaned a bit of late regarding the idiot box. Not that it matters. I didn't get the free tickets and the Canucks reverted to form. Go Sens!

As a postscript to that tale, three days after the cable was reconnected we received a disconnection notice which referred to the initial cause of the without-notice disconnection. It was alleged we had a basement suite. We do not. We have an unwanted rodent down there but no tv-viewing tenant. Unless that little shit was up watching Stuart Little on his own very small tv.

During the course of the cable imbroglio we decided to move our cathode-ray-emission device to the basement. Unhelpful Shaw Cable Guy #1 informed us our basement cable functioned just fine. He lied. Due to the immense bulk of the tv and my unwillingness to move it again I resolved to purchase a new tv. A flat tv. A monitor tv. Thus began my quest to join 21st century tv-ownership. I will not, in keeping with my own policy of avoiding name-brand references on this blog, refer to any products or sales outlets by name. Some approximations may occur.

After a brief period of searching I located 32" product manufactured by Damdung. More to the point, the sales guy at Narcotum Londinum raved about the product. After it went on sale, and was packaged with a hockey print autographed by Bobby Orr, I was defenceless. Christmas shopping for my brother-in-law was complete, and I had a tv with awesome R&D bucks behind it.

What the tv did not come with, however, was a picture. So I returned it yesterday and purchased a larger tv manufactured by Pony. I love it - it has a picture. I haggled a few bucks of the sale price. I felt a minor degree of vindication until this morning. E and A got involved with the local free newspaper/unsolicited flyer vehicle and I went to clean up the mess. I noticed a competitor had the same product for $400 less. Back I went to Mr. I'm Sorry About the Damdung But Here's the Best Price I Can Give You on the Pony and played my Mr. I'm Trying to Figure Out Why I have to Pay More to Buy Suspect Home Entertainment Products From You role to the hilt. He Attempted to cop the I Didn't Find That Price Yesterday Guy act on me until I established my Mr. I Can Read the Fucking Flyer and It Says "Prices Good May 4 Thru' May 11" Guy-thing was no act. I got my discount. Cue applause.

And so I give thanks for the 40" of viewing pleasure at a very small increase in price over the 32" unit, although there's next to nothing I want to watch. The satisfaction, however, is priceless. Thank you, Damdung, for manufacturing your cheap piece of shit. Thank you, Mo, for demanding 40" of tv viewing surface. Thank you E and A, for stirring up the flyers I would have recycled unread.

PMO

Bad Parenting

We wonder if we are bad parents. When of course we're not.

Today our blog took the pause not about itself but about others. We will talk about our own badness pretty soon. Because I do agree that claiming to be bad parents is like the new “I’m fat” among thin women.

Today, the "bad parents" on our minds are Madeleine McCann's.

I think about them and recall times I looked at my sleeping infant and had to haul him out of bed to pick up my daughter from daycare 1 block from home. I always did it. Because, you know, I'm a "good" mother. I look to them and try to make sense of fates that have pierced their holidays with that stitch of badness we all possess. Admit it. You have stepped too far from the monitor once or twice haven't you? You walk a fine line of childproofing at times? Maybe like me you were a bit laissez-faire about that open window upstairs? But just that once, right? Other than that you are perfectly omniscient, I'm sure.

In our increasingly secular world parents have been made out as gods. Ever-knowing and hovering around their offspring. Parents, in fact, are not. And, while there was a part of me that hit the sneer reflex when I had heard about the McCanns leaving their children, gasp, alone that has passed. We have nothing but hopes and prayers for them today. That any mistake be passed over this time. That tomorrow they may have the chance to error in some small way about Maddy's lunch menu or her toothbrushing. That another day will have them parents again not some sort of failed bodyguards.

Alec can you help me

So we have a mouse.

We are pissed... totally steamed. Not so much over the mouse but rather those useless effing freeloading cats of disrespect. We have thus far restrained the urge to throw them out on the street. That's the next step.

After the first step, which was visualization with the above image, met with total failure we called up our good friend Alec Baldwin and asked him to set them straight! As you know, Mr. Baldwin is a huge proponent of positive reinforcement. He's like that Robbins guy, but he can act.

Of course, the little shits would not answer the phone, lacking in opposable digits as they are. Man, did our good friend Alec Baldwin get his BVDs in a twist over that! Here is the transcript of the message he left for the fat furry fucksteins:

Hey I wanna tell you something, okay? Don't pretend you are not listening you pig er cat. You will take me seriously. Listen here I am once again I've made an ass of myself trying to get through to you. Don't lick your ears you little shit. I can hear that you know? I want you to know something, okay? I'm tired of playing this game with you. You have insulted the family for the last time. You don't have the brains or the decency as a pet. I don't give a damn that you're 6 years old or 4 years old or that you're cats, or that p-man is a thoughtless pain in the ass who doesn't care about what you do as far as I'm concerned. You have humiliated Mo-Wo for the last time with the mouse thing. Get it together cats!

I'm gonna fly out there for the day just to straighten you out on this issue. I'm going to let you know just how disappointed in you I am and how angry I am with you that can't do the first right thing a fat cat with good healthcare is asked of by their owners. You've made them feel like a fool over and over and over again by not doing anything. AND, this crap you pull on me with all the sleeping?? I'm going to get on a plane, and I'm going to come out there for the day and I'm going to straighten your tails out when I see you, do you understand me? I'm going to really make sure you get it, then I'm going to get on a plane, turn around and come home. So you better be ready to meet with me so I can let you know just how I feel about what rotten little cats you really are. You are rude, thoughtless little cats, okay???

Love you, Mo-wo!


As you can see, he sort of lost the plot there. Kind of like in The Edge. The cats, still they lounge around, eating kibbles and ass all day long. Is there such a thing as a better mousetrap?

**Update** Of course this did work!

Make A Wish, Asshole

I am just now recovering from Mo's love-fest of a post, or think-fest, whatever. All this emotionalism, it clouds my judgment, so much so I thought I would enter into the fray. Herein I identify numerous bloggers whose product I read, or have read, and I will name an activity I would like to participate in with them. All will be relieved to note there will be no pig in a blanket-type references. This may be my fantasy league but I am not so self-revealing as to disclose my more perverse desires, with the exception of my perfervid longing for immoral dwarves.

Alpha DogMa: I would like to attend a Paul McCartney show with this woman and shower the performer with prosthetic limbs. And seal flippers. Anyone who takes on the odious social commentary of this fatuous fuck and his evil contemporary the Nuge is doing fine by me. Front row centre - I'll bring the legs!

MetroDad: Tennis at Flushing Meadows. I haven't played tennis since 2004. He will kill me in a 3 out of 5 set match. Or 2 of 3. I don't care. Flushing Meadows... what a name.

Jason: Olympic hockey in 2010. I'll bring the legs!

L: I'm not sure, maybe we'll eat some dead raw fish, or drink coffee. Maybe we could compare notes on our respective fearless leaders.

Mr. Big Dubya: More tattoos, of course. I'll bring the left arm of Dickey Betts for inspiration.

Sarah: We will rehearse in her garage. Inna Gadda da Vida, anyone?

Kara: We will attend a book signing by some "major author" and offer unhelpful advice from the peanut gallery. And artificial limbs.

Dutch: Pankration. Death match. In a vat of Kalamata olives.

Denver Dad: We will publish an "Audubon Field Guide" of vasectomy clinics.

Nonlinear Girl: Neko Case wherever she is playing and a fine seafood dinner at a retaurant of NG's choosing. I will enquire as to the whereabouts of Linear Girl. Where's the body? What have you done with her?

Zero Boss: I plan on arguing with him for hours while drinking coffee and pissing into a bag. My idea of fun.

Crouton Boy: This is difficult. It can't be a video game marathon. I am as dextrous as a limbless invertebrate. Maybe dinner at a spicy terrorist restaurant... maybe not. In the end, I'll suggest a Rangers/Canucks game at Madison Square. Based on the NHL's current scheduling practices I think the next opportunity will arise in 2012. See you then.

I am sure there are other bloggers I could have mentioned. If I didn't, it's because I didn't think of you.

PMO

IOUs

I owe you guys this from last months real moms meme. Found the usb cable!



My flab can go poopits* to poopits with Kristen anyday! (Yes, I did choose the blurriest one.)

And, shamefully we are more than a month behind on the response part of our Thinking Blogger nod from the slick Mrs. Chicky.

Here is our list of think-me bloggers. Please note this list is representative rather than exhaustive. Here's people we think about...
Mary P at It's not all Mary Poppins
L. at The Homesick Home
The nonlinear one
Alpha Dogma
Crouton Boy
Jason

*poopits is a navel in weirdo Can-Uke slang, p-man is firm that no one is gonna get that.