it could happen...

Maybe I will learn to knit, but will I ever reach the glory and awesomeness of this yarn goddess?

Maybe I will cook chicken soup for supper.

Maybe I will stop obsessing over Monkeybone not being potty trained at 2 1/2 and will focus on his brillance. (he brought a letter M to me this morning and said, "Here you go, M for Mommy." the kid is well on his way to a Nobel prize in something even if he might have to accept it wearing an adult daiper.

Maybe I will have a glass of wine tonight, or a bottle.

Maybe I will stop listening to so much Joni Mitchell and will listen to a little Metric.

Maybe I will program my WII Fit and wear a bikini like this:


Maybe I will stop being such a goddamn feminist and tell my husband I can't shovel the driveway because my womanly parts are too delicate for such manual labour.


Maybe I will buy a pretty bra and matching panties.

Maybe I will quit going on Perez Hilton so much and read this:



Maybe I will let Little Miss be and she will just start crawling and pulling herself up when she wants.

Maybe I will stop swearing in the car, reasoning that if my kids are not looking at me directly then they aren't really affected isn't as comforting as it used to be (if we were religious Monkeybone might think Jesus Christ was in the car in front of us or that coming to a sudden stop was called an asshole).

Maybe I will get some more jeans like these because they make my ass look 10 years younger.

Maybe I will try and figure out how to organize this blog with labels and such before it starts looking like my walk-in closet. (...but can I tell you the bliss of having a walk-in closet!)

Maybe I will end this post and go play with my kids...

I'll tap that

We have a problem and it only became apparent at Thanksgiving. (Canadian Thanksgiving so at the beginning of October) The problem is my son, my spirited two year old, likes to slap ass. Not hard or in a violent way, just a tap, usually as he is running the 'course' from the family room, to the kitchen and back through the hall to complete the circuit. He will slap ass as he runs by you, maybe to let you know that he is there or maybe to build momentum as he gains speed. Whatever the reasoning, he is an ass slapper.

The ass slapping went largely unnoticed by hubby and myself mainly because we are a family of ass slappers. Hubby constantly pats my ass in greeting (really I can't blame him, I'm pretty hot and I do fill out a pair of yoga pants re: Post #1, ego boosts). Every morning I come downstairs get my cup of glorious-hubby-made coffee and collect my ass slap while chatting with Monkeybone over breakfast. And there lays the root of our problem and a antecedent to the Thanksgiving incident. The morning reciprocal ass slap. The greeting between husband and wife, the regular display of affection that had manifested itself into our daily groove beheld by the those of the inner sanctum, most notably the all seeing eyes of our two year old. And as Athena sprang forth from the head of her father so similarly did the emergence of Monkeybone's ass slapping.

This brings us to the Thanksgiving incident that would alter the presence of ritualistic ass slapping in all of our lives. Now for weeks Monkeybone had gleefully slapped ass with little repercussion because like I have explained it's such an unobtrusive piece of our family fabric. Thanksgiving was to change all of that.

It began like any other large family gathering, the scene of the crime was my mother-in-law's and Monkeybone was in overdrive. Paired with the excitement of an audience along with the tempting circular path between living room, dining room, kitchen and hallway, Monkeybone was in his element. He was running with complete abandon, periodically emitting joyful overtures of toddler glory of which we were ignoring because its hard to contain such a high level of energy without some kind of catastrophic meltdown; best to let it run it's course as long as it's destructiveness was relatively low key. And then it happened. The ass slap heard 'round the world. Monkeybone, in his toddler delirium had extended his chubby little paw while rounding the corner towards the kitchen, connecting with a gut wrenching slap, against the buttocks of hubby's eighty-five year old grandmother. I'm just going to let the monumentalness of that set in...

Hubby and I, for that brief period of time between the sonic boom and the mushroom cloud, made anguished eye contact before springing into action. Monkeybone was scooped up and deposited in front of the soothing calm of children's programming as I silently and simultaneous thanked the gods for not only the invention of the hypnotic power of television but also that a hip wasn't broken as a result of that one resounding ass slap, while a flurry of apologies and declarations of "I don't know where he got the idea to do such a thing," were made.

Needless to say, ass slapping no longer has a home in our family domain. It has almost become extinct mainly through a course of rapid fire time-outs at the first sign of a hand raised in the general direction of an ass. And as it stands just mere weeks ago, hubby longing for a simpler time, gave my ass an affectionate pat behind the cover of the kitchen counter which was spotted instantly on Monkeybone's radar. Consequently hubby faced the punitive measures of a time-out and was given a firm reprieval of "No touching bums". There's a new sheriff in town and ass slapping is a felony offence.

I stalk midwives

I'm serious, I do. Not all midwives just the ones from our local midwives group. And not in a creepy way, alright probably in a creepy way.

I love midwives, I love everything about them. Their cool easy going midwifiness, their calmness, the good vibish energy they emit, their funky jewellery. It's their way of stoically looking an effaced cervix in the eye, coaxing out life.

No, having a midwife didn't mean I gave birth at home (not that there is anything wrong with that I just couldn't deal with that caliber of mess in my house, I have trouble walking past the spot where the cat puked last week let alone sleep in a bed that caught my afterbirth) but the option was there if I chose. I could have given birth hanging sideways from my shower curtain if I wanted. That's the thing about midwives they always remain unphased. I can easily imagine myself having tea with a midwife or multiple midwives, you know eating roasted red peppers and goat's cheese on baguettes listening to Joni Mitchell (or whatever, I haven't really thought about it that much)and telling them your deepest darkest secrets knowing that they would take that shit in stride. They make you love them, make you!

You spend nine months with these women developing this bond that is like no other you've ever experienced. They, right along with you, thrill to the sound of that first heartbeat, listen to your name choices, answer all your crazy discharge questions.

Who else would come to your house twice to confirm that it was in fact false labour and take your ten subsequent phone calls; who else would help you put on your underwear and lead you to the bathroom for your first postpartum pee and stay there to talk with you so that your mind isn't on the possible pain, your muscles can relax and you can actually go; who else would give you a bag of herbs to put in a bath so that your poor nether regions can get some relief (alright I'm pretty hippy dippy but my hippy dippiness does have some limit and at the time I wanted hard drugs to kill the pain, I'm talking drugs you might have to go downtown in some alley for, so I was sceptical of this bag of herbs but true to her midwifey wisdom they worked); who else would come to your house after you miscarried your first pregnancy at eight weeks and hold your hand on your couch, understanding that even at eight weeks you were still a mom? A midwife that is who.

I think that is way I love them, because they have seen me at my most wretched and my most beautiful. They have instilled in me that sense of strength, that only carrying and delivering a child could bring. And at 6 weeks postpartum, the time where you must fly from the proverbial midwife nest, I found myself standing hesitantly in the doorway, wanting to know when I would see them again, how could I maintain that connection. And of course you really can't, you need to get on with your life and they with theirs. But I always get excited when I see one and imagine us as friends.

Well what are you waiting for? Get out there and stalk a midwife.

this made my day

This post could also be titled 'Excuse me, in which aisle do you keep your dildos?", but I thought that would be a bit much to swallow right off the bat. (okay I'm just going to leave that one.)

Now there are many reasons I love my hubby; he is a wonderful partner, a great father, supportive, blah blah blah, wind beneath my wings. Most of all I love him because he is one sick bastard and has a sense of humour that reflects this.

So of course I am out of diapers (someone is always running out of diapers and because I never have my shit together I am always having to run out to get some.)We also needed a few other necessities so I started a working list as I puttered around this morning putting out fires, nourishing babies and such. I get myself ready and off to Wal-Mart I go, list in purse.

*Sidenote* Although my blogging career is just getting underway I feel it necessary to warn that sooner or later, probably sooner I will rant about Wal-Mart. I strongly dislike Wal-Mart and would tell you right now but as I am trying to cut down on the use of the f-word and because I already wasted my f-word budget for the day actually going to Wal-Mart I don't feel at this moment that I have the amount of f-words in my f-word bank necessary to accurately illustrate my hatred of Wal-Mart. Why do I still got to Wal-Mart you ask? I am drawn there by cheap diapers and hair product. Enough said.

Okay I am entering Wal-Mart, and take out my list and trusty purse pen (which I found after 5 minutes of rifling through dirty kleenex, crushed Goldfish, a size 3 diaper, Goodnight Moon, etc.) so that I could jot down a few more items I needed to pickup and found that my hubby had made his own addition to the list of necessities right in between bread and baby cereal:

It's the little things, you know, that say we are in this together. And nothing says it better than dildos.

my midwife didn't tell me there'd be days like this...

My midwife didn't tell me that it would really hurt, I mean I thought childbirth would hurt but not really really hurt. It really really hurt. Really.

My midwife didn't tell me there would be poop outside the diaper. She didn't tell me that it would ooze down legs, spray across the room, get stepped in and tracked through the house, that it would end up on your foot and you wouldn't realize it until some unsuspecting house guest pointed it out to you. She also didn't tell me that in the end it would be very difficult to get the poop out of the diaper and into the potty.

My midwife didn't tell me that I would bitch and complain about the woes of breastfeeding, that I would threaten my babies with bottles and formula if they didn't quit biting only to get tearful when faced with the reality of my last one self-weaning.

My midwife didn't tell me that I would slave away at making homemade baby food for months and months only to have my son refuse to eat toast without Cheez Whiz.

My midwife didn't tell me that I wouldn't be able to sleep without the the baby monitor on, even well past the point of night awakenings, just to hear those sweet sleepy sighs.

My midwife didn't tell me that there would be laughter. All kinds of laughter, little giggles, belly laughs, snorting, messy, breath-catching laughter.

My midwife didn't tell me that after a day of messy messes, toddler tantrums, nap strikes, dirty dishes, dirty diapers, spit-ups, nose blows, time-outs, sippy cup refills that once bedtime finally arrives, the door closes and you lean up against the wall and sigh that you would want to go back in for one last cuddle

My midwife didn't tell me that one day your oldest would come close and whisper in your ear with peanut butter breath that you are his favourite boy.

My midwife didn't tell me there would be days like this.

Two Baby Boobs

I was late this morning but it wasn't because the alarm didn't go off. Although that did happen, well sorta. We don't actually set our alarm because one kid or the other is always up before 6:30, always. But this morning we heard little feet, opened our eyes and saw something that we never see in the morning; sunshine streaming into our room. Because we always wake up in the dark this was a definite indicator that the impossible had happened, we had slept in and on a Thursday of all days!

The 'alarm' not going off however, was not why I was late. Truth be told, it was the fault of my boobs. More specifically my two-baby-boobs. (just so you know I am singing two-baby-boobs to the tune of Derek and the Domino's Bell Bottom Blues, youtube it and you will see what I mean). I digress, back to the two-baby-boobs. I have gamely breast-fed two babies, two babies who are horrendous breast feeders. A friend once eloquently described my son breastfeeding as watching a lion attack a dead gazelle. Some babies cuddle in and have a good gentle breastfeed, these babies are attentive and respectful of the breast. Not my children. My children are biters, tuggers, they latch on and off, they will turn their heads towards a noise with a nipple still in their mouths. In short they have wrecked havoc on my once perky boobs. I think this is often the case with a lot of breastfeeding mothers but especially those that start off with nice perky B cups. Mine were especially lovely and I was quite happy with them. When I got pregnant they suddenly ballooned to C cups and once my milk came in, a little beyond. But it was too good to be true, as breastfeeding progressed I didn't get to keep those glorious globes.

Instead I found myself deflated with a pile of bras ranging in all sizes from B to a second-hand D that was especially useful during the first weeks of engorgement. Now multiply all those bras by 2, for two kids. That is a lot of bras and that was the reason for my lateness. I could not find a bra to effectively accommodate the two-baby-boobs. The two-baby-boobs were to blame.

Subsequently I need to go bra shopping and am considering lobbying for the inclusion of breast augmentation for women who have breastfeed more than one baby to be included in basic health care coverage.

Mess of the Minute

Note to self: When a toddler says he is doing nothing that means he is smearing vaseline all over the walls, himself and his toys.
Sidenote: Vaseline is difficult to clean up.

good-bye to romance

Ozzy Osbourne in his drunken stupor had it right, good-bye to romance. Although I highly doubt he was referring to its absence as a harried parent he very well could have. The passing of Valentine's Day has allowed me a moment to reflect on the changes parenthood has brought about in the various sectors of my life most importantly in the romance department.

How did the mother of two children under three get the time for such luxurious revelry you ask, what with all the cupcake baking, valentine making and dressing the kids up as cupids for obligatory photos to embarrass them with when they are older as payback for difficult labours? Well the highly coveted Valentine's Day gift this year was peeing with the door locked and I being the proud recipient of such a gift was allowed some precious minutes to collect my thoughts and even stray from the usual who needs diapers, did I remember to wipe the spit-up off the couch and will this package of wipes last me through the weekend. There was no reading stories, no playing trains, no explaining for the hundredth time that Mommy didn't loose her penis she never had one to begin with, nope just peeing and thinking. And while I sat peeing and thinking I took a little mental walk down memory lane and in the spirit of the day began to wonder where the hell did my romance go!

I remembered fondly when Valentine's preparation did not consist of trips to the craft store to secure lace doilies and heart stickers or finding the perfect candy heart cupcake toppers that wouldn't pose too much of a choking risk and don't even get me started on the hoops you have to jump through to get a cupid's arrow! Call me old fashioned but I remember when Valentine's Day meant getting a good bikini wax and finding chocolate body paint that wouldn't stain the sheets. It was a simpler time when the prerequisite for a romantic dinner was getting a reservation and whispering you weren't wearing any underwear during dessert not finding a babysitter and pouring yourself into some Spanx. You could bust through the door in a fit of passion and undress your way to the bedroom or you might have hopped up on the kitchen counter without knocking over a rack of drying sippy cups and bibs. You could talk dirty, you could yell, there might be some buzzing sounds all without the red glow of the baby monitor holding you hostage. If they gave you a free t-shirt when you become a parent it might read, Parenthood: You Better Throw Out Your Vibrator or Parenthood: Not Too Loud, You'll Wake the Baby.

No, things had definitely taken a turn, but was it for the worse? Was I lacking? Sitting there peeing with little fingers reaching towards me under the door, I could hear my hubby singing to the baby and it struck me that there is nothing more romantic than a man changing a diaper and I could still wear no underwear (the laundry had gotten away on me).

rallying the troops

Surveying my life, it sometimes resembles a war zone; the ground is littered with various parts of dismembered toys, there's the thunderous sound of marching little feet, gaseous smells are wafting low in the air, choked entreaties of "No leave me behind, save yourself," echo through the halls. Yup its war torn for sure, which provides a perfect junction to introduce the troops.

The General,is me of course. I am in charge of the cleanliness, nourishment and entertainment of the officer cadets, I also wipe their bums.

The Lieutenant General, my hubby. He is the yang to the General's ying, holding all the same duties as the General plus listens to all of her bitching and puts up with all of her shit. Although several unsuccessful coups have been staged, he remains high ranking because he is not only sleeping with the General, he also tells her she looks pretty even when she is wearing torn pajama bottoms and a crusty tank top.

The Officer Cadets, Monkeybone who is two and Little Miss who will be one in April. Keeping these guys in line is a full time job. Monkeybone is a spirited little boy and by spirited I mean running around the house singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star at the top of his lungs, jumping off the couch, yelling "NO!", handing out kisses, all while dragging two disease infested teddy bears wherever he goes. Little Miss is a chubby bunny of cuddles who, on a daily basis proves that I will never have a quiet child. She enjoys sucking her fingers, grabbing the cat and jumping.

Well there you have it, these are the troops that accompany me into the trenches everyday. They are a motley crew but they are all mine.

Mess of the Minute

Yogurt...-sigh-

letter to my blog or plea of desparation, you decide

Dear Blog,

I have heard so much about you and I think that you just might be the thing for this yummy mommy to get her groove back. Did I just say "yummy mommy" and "groove back", alright I can't promise that I won't use cliches and I might shamelessly give myself the odd ego boost because that's how I roll (last one I promise). What I really want to make clear is that you are it, IT! You are going to be just mine, my little piece of the universe untouched by little sticky hands, I mean have you ever really looked at a toddler's hands it is not for the faint of heart! I need a place to document the kidcapades that occur in my life each day, by typing them out, they seem a little less dreadful then in the heat of the moment. Blog, you might have never had a two year blow out a diaper, step in it and then run down the carpeted hall looking to you for help. Well let me tell you, at that exact time looking down at little poop covered feet and the brown footprints following them, you just want to cry but by writing it down here it might seem a little less disastrous and maybe even some will even see the humour in, not the one who had to scrub the carpet, but some.

You see Blog, I have had two beautiful, bouncy, loud, happy babies in three years and as of late (maybe its the winter) have been feeling 95% mommy and 5% me and since I like to keep an 80:20 ratio I think you are just the forum for this mom. Plus my Facebook status updates were regularly exceeding the character limit so I figured it was time for an upgrade. Okay Blog here is the 411, I will try to always record things here that are true to my mommyness (alright so sometimes I let my kids eat off the floor, its good for their immune systems), being that its messy and graphic and chaotic, its not always cute and sometimes you just want to catch the next flight to the Caribbean and ride it out until they are 18, but it is never dull. However I feel it necessary to warn you that I really don't know what I am doing (both blogging and mommyhood), I will probably give in to run-on sentences and elaborate adjectives, I will use a lot of exclamation marks, I am prone to exaggeration and I will probably need to bitch periodically or everyday. Oh and I will also just throw in a paragraph break wherever I feel necessary but bear with me. So there you have it Blog, its you and me. I have a lot to get off my chest, most notably a nursing bra, so here we go...