no milk engorged breasts here, move it along...

...because somebody searched that and stumbled across my site. Imagine their disappointment. Someone also searched 'assholes with potty' but that's another post all together.

No milk engorged breasts here or sadly, breasts of any kind really. Leaving me the tiniest bit regretful that I didn't let my husband take pictures of them after all. He was a man ahead of his time.

There's no cribs or bibs or diapers for the most part here. I still wipe ass but mostly as a detailer, you know to ensure everything is tip top.

And last month, I threw out my diaper bag. Of course I would have donated it but that bag owed nobody nothing, and it was full of crumbs, Baby Mum Mum crumbs, that shit is like fibre glass insulation. And it smelled like pee, so you know...

Here there are tricycles and Hot Wheels and two piece snowsuits. There are no high chairs or Cheerios or sippy cups. I'm down to one car seat and a booster seat. A booster seat people! There are four year olds who yell and scream and act like complete assholes. Who insist that they are, 'not in love with you anymore', but who still need a kiss from mommy and their back rubbed before bedtime. Here there are two year olds who stomp their chubby legs with a wild halo of red hair, who are constantly putting 'babies' to bed covering them completely with tea towels so that the family room of our house looks like a morgue and who'll gladly take a time out for one perfect jump bounce on the couch.

Here nobody crawls or walks really, but runs and jumps and slides on their knees across the hardwood. And we all yell and laugh and say 'poopie' a hundred times a day because its hysterical, I mean spill your milk at the supper table hysterical. And then there's the couch jumping. ...the fuck. That couch will go the way of the diaper bag. It already kind of smells like pee. And by kind of I mean somebody actually peed on it today.

So here we are now with kids not babies, with skating lessons and teacher interviews, with princess panties and Lego.

And decidedly unengorged breasts.

December 6

As an 11 year old girl, living in upstate New York, listening to radio out of Montreal on December 6, 1989 I remember a feeling of bewilderment. At such a great loss of life. At the senselessness of it. At how being a woman had became a death sentence.

For 14.

* Geneviève Bergeron (born 1968), civil engineering student
* Hélène Colgan (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
* Nathalie Croteau (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
* Barbara Daigneault (born 1967), mechanical engineering student
* Anne-Marie Edward (born 1968), chemical engineering student
* Maud Haviernick (born 1960), materials engineering student
* Maryse Laganière (born 1964), budget clerk
* Maryse Leclair (born 1966), materials engineering student
* Anne-Marie Lemay (born 1967), mechanical engineering student
* Sonia Pelletier (born 1961), mechanical engineering student
* Michèle Richard (born 1968), materials engineering student
* Annie St-Arneault (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
* Annie Turcotte (born 1969), materials engineering student
* Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz (born 1958), nursing student


...never again.

Jack Layton would have totally given unicorns a voice

I used to have thoughts. Big thoughts. Thoughts that were backed by theories or refuted them. Thoughts that raged against doctrination and advocated for the socially marginalized.(sad index finger moustache in memory of Jack Layton. As an aside and to illustrate what I'm talking about here, in and around the time of Jack Layton's death my son got some plastic orange super hero guy in a Happy Meal because sometimes I am just too damn tired to make an organic fair trade casserole. And when discussing possible names I thought why not name his new toy Jack Layton or maybe even Orange Crush, I mean it was the least he could fucking do, right? Didn't Jack Layton deserve that. But no. No. My son could give a shit about Jack Layton, or progressive social politics or advocating for the oppressed or even awesome mustaches. No, my son insists on Fireball. Fireball! He's probably going to vote conservative.)

But the idea here is that I used to think. About things. Things that didn't involve super heroes and fireballs and mono-horned mythical creatures.

But now? Now I'm in the shower listening to a heated discussion between my son and daughter. With my son maintaining that Spiderman is most obviously better than a unicorn and my daughter declaring that he has done lost his mind because unicorns so kick ass being that they can run really fast and are beautiful like princesses. To which my son came back with, superheroes can run really fast too and they can talk. They can talk a lot. And unicorns, he maintained, cannot talk. Or at least the real ones can't.

The real ones?

So now I mediate debates about superheroes and unicorns and my son lives for the most part in a fantasy world which can only mean he will vote conservative.

I'll probably ride this holiday thing out until at least March

Because I`m supah busy, friends. And I have nothing to write about except that the kid who throws sand from the top of the slide has stopped, he`s moved to the swing but sand thrown from the swing doesn`t quite have the same velocity as sand thrown from the slide plus this kid`s aim is shitty, probably because its very hard to throw sand while swinging, also he knows as soon as he gets off that swing to scoop up sand I`m going to totally take his spot because swinging is like my sixth favourite thing to do and there`s no savesies.

And it being Canadian Thanksgiving (Canada could give a fuck about the pilgrims, but we celebrate the shit out of the harvest because it is tough as hell to get through the winter without a nearby Tim Horton`s or a Swiss Chalet) and we get all this thankfullness business out of the way in October because we be ho ho holding the payments in November. So I thought I would capitalize on our thankfulness for fall`s bounty and our anticipation of the festive special (it comes with a 3-pack of Lindor yo)and get a post out of it because I`m multi-tasky like that and my kids still won't go the fuck to bed so a lot of my time is taken up yelling from the bottom of the stairs.

So I give you: Things I'm Thankful For

clean sheet night: The perfect one night only when you change the sheets on your bed, before kids, cracker crumbs and sweaty man find their way into your bed.

Uncle John's Bathroom Reader: You gotta stay smart somehow

super absorbancy tampons: That one's a stand alone.

nutella: Have you tried this shit, its the inside of a Ferrero Rocher. A Ferrero Rocher! But in a jar, a great big jar! Brilliant. And you can put it on toast and call it breakfast.

dogs that carry sticks in their mouths while walking: You cannot not smile when you see a dog walking all jaunty, carrying a stick in their mouth. You just can't. Those dogs have their priorities right. They have their shit together.

black leggings: black leggings are the new yoga pants but instead of flip flops you wear a pair of bitching boots with them and a tunic. Who doesn't fucking love a tunic?

when Costco has Cottonelle on sale: There is a lot of ass to wipe in this house and its best to do so on a budget.

Orgasisms: Again a stand alone.

The Sheepdogs album: First of all I love men with beards, also my kids like listening to it too and they're from Saskatoon (The Sheepdogs not my kids, although that would be really awesome). Beards from Saskatoon rock.

fall walks: My kids are like greyhounds they'll run for miles and we live near a lot of foresty, waterfront trails. Also I love fall and long walks by the water with the kids. Mainly because they say things like "I hope we see a really big beaver," and then the hubs and I giggle.

my son's kindergarten teacher: seriously that woman has her work cut out for her.

bangs: bangs are bangin.

oh yeah my kids, husband and health: After being asked why he was running around the gym riding his hockey stick like a horse during a sports program at the Y, my son pointedly declared he wasn't trying to ride a horse, he was in fact trying to saw his butt in half. Leading me to begrudgedly admit that I am indeed thankful for it all, even the butt sawing.

yeah, that.

Remember when I was all like, "oh I think I want another baby but I'm just going to finish this bottle of wine first," while I clutched my uterus and limped drunkenly away. And then I started at a new school, had four days to clean out my new classroom (because of construction) which was straight out of an episode of Hoarders. As an aside hoarding is a major problem within the education community but I only have an undergrad. in psychology so I'm going to refrain from commenting further. And then I went through a whole bunch of culture shock related ailments due to coming from a small country school to now teaching in the downtown core, the constant sound of traffic and the number of available crossing guards is unnerving. And by ailments I mean finishing bottles of wine and obsessively Googling positive behaviour modification plans for children who throw sand and scream, "fuck off" from the top of the slide. But our grasp of the -uck word family is impressive, so we're on our way. Also my oldest started kindergarten in the midst of this wild, crazy September, with nary a complaint, which I was thankful for because I have bigger problems to contend with, like the sand throwing and the fucking off. But also my heart breaks a little at his big boyness, walking bravely away from me with his spiderman backpack. And his kindergarten teacher drives their class pet (obviously a hamster) around the classroom in a little car, so how can I even compete with that. But he says I do make the best lunches so that's something. Oh and the 2 year old has lost her damn mind but nobody was surprised much, and anyhow there is something almost melodic to the screeching of 'no' in rapid succession.

Just a typical September, move it along, nothing to see here.
Just ignore the chalk outlines.

this is what happens when you bottle your own wine

So sometimes you drink a lot of wine and want to have a third, baby that is. That was a really confusing statement at first, wasn't it. That could have been a different kind of post all together couldn't it of? But, I will not be distracted by scandalous sex and sentences ending in prepositions. Geesh people, focus.

So lots of wine and suddenly you're pining for a third or not suddenly because these things rarely come about suddenly. One isn't usually afflicted with a raging urgency to have a third, that shit mulls about in the back of your mind and slowly dawns on you while you're all warm and glowy and totally winey. And so there it is and you wake up with a headache and the nagging feeling that you may or may not have drunkenly accosted your husband to make a baby last night.

Good thing I argue a very weak case...

Drunken Reasons to Have a Third (baby) As Sheepishly Recalled in the Morning

- Midwives are cool beans. I like to hang out with midwives, I like to hang out with midwives a lot. I mean who else can check your cervix while you're on your bed petting your cat. (again an unintentionally confusing statement) Midwives that's who, making them very awesome to be around and practical as well.

- 3 just makes more sense, what with my ch'i and all.

- (in whiny/winey voice) But Tori and Dean are having a third!

- Periods are shitty. The less periods the better. Especially, without getting into the gory details, periods after you've had two kids. Don't I too deserve to wear light coloured pants all month if I so choose.

- Boobs, its a win win.

- I need to cut back on the drinking anyways. Just as soon as we finish the last case of our wine. Once that's down, baby making time.

- Really I just want to be able to stick out my gut.

- But my womb is so nice and cozy.

- I look unbelievably gorgeous when I'm pregnant, like Giselle Bundchen gorgeous. And that lone hair I always have to pluck off my chin every few weeks doesn't grow when I'm pregnant. Again, a win win.

- Using the 'Expectant Mother' parking at Loblaws is super convenient, so make an honest woman of me.

- Nursing bras are awesome especially if you're boobs get really hot and you just want to cool them off for a bit. So convenient.

- Pregnancy hormones are a fucking rush!

- I could really use another mat. leave right about now. (muffled, with my head face down on the table)

At this point I began slurring through Jack Nicholson's lines from A Few Good Men, the truth was adequately handled. It got real fuzzy after that.

Fortunately a mistrial was called. Because of a hung(over) jury.

if you don't know what a Grateful Dead cd cover can smell like then you probably won't want to read this post

Alternate Title:
how I came to nurse my babies in an old Ikea chair for university that smelled like a Grateful Dead cd cover

Because that is what happens when you blow out your asshole, pushing a nine pound baby into this world all hopped up on an epidural you totally hadn't planned on getting, so you can't really feel how hard you're pushing and because sitting on the lovely oak rocker gifted to you by your mother-in-law feels like your holding a sandwich baggy of hot coals, the red glowy kind at the bottom of campfires, between your bum cheeks.

So you can see how obviously necessary it was to drag up the old Poang chair from the basement where it had been retired with the lava lamp and the lucite coffee table. You know because of the hot coals. And 16 months later when my asshole went back to its congenial self, the Poang remained. My perch through hours of nursing, and bouncing, and soothing. A staid presence in both my kids' nurseries. Its where I sat humming softly to both my newborns, taking them in, kissing their soft heads, whispering into their tiny ears. Its where we first met, where we first became acquainted.

I mean, there are certain moments as a parent where you expect the heartache, the overwhelming emotion. First steps, first words, first day of school, graduations. All these Hallmark moments, you prepare yourself for, you're ready for the tears, the trepidation. You steel yourself to these times, gird your loins if you will.

And so I was as surprised as anyone when over this past week, moving my daughter into a big girl bed and removing the last vestments of her nursery, that moving the Poang chair back down to the basement was so fucking hard. Like sitting-in-her closet-in-a-pile-of her-old-baby-clothes-ugly-crying hard. My husband just shakes his head, understanding of my idiosyncrasies.

I peer from the top of the stairs at it, alone in the dark, and I feel sad. Because that chair, sitting in my basement, will take on a new smell, of what I don't know. But I will never sit in it nursing a newborn. My newborn. That chair will never smell like baby, my baby, again.