don't ask, don't tell

"Mommy, what's that?"

No matter where I might find myself, this question always sends fear up the base of my spine or at the very least gives way to a kind of anxious anticipation. Because I know that the reason for its asking is never very pleasant.

If its in the vicinity of your night table it could be downright scandalous.

In fact it is often earth shatteringly gross. The kind of gross that makes you pause for a minute and think of how far you've come as a mother, how far you have fallen into the motherhood abyss.

The 'that' can range from a huge booger on the end of a finger to a massive diaper blow-out.

"Mommy, what's that?" Monkeybone asked getting out of the van at daycare one morning. My trigger hand instinctively made a move towards my pocket to fish out a kleenex.

But the 'that' wasn't a booger.

Oh the 'that' was round, and what I could only assume as sticky, but a booger it was not. The ' that' was poking out from underneath the driver's side seat wedged in between the discarded plastic tray to the Bumbo and a wad of plastic bags kept there since a 'that' had turned out to be a car seat diaper blow-out, the worst kind of diaper blow-out.

The 'that' was big and brownish and shriveled. The 'that' was a mango, a very old mango. A mango past its prime. A mango that must have been separated from the group on one particularly bumpy ride home from the grocery store and found its final resting place under the front driver's seat, only to be excavated with the arrival of warmer weather when extra winter clothing and blankets are slowly removed from the van.

I brought Monkeybone into daycare, cheeks burning, knowing for sure that all who saw me knew. They knew my secret. That I was now that kind of mother who has rotten mangoes under the seats of her van.

Now to the list of:
forgets to comb her child's hair after bath time,

allows her too-tall toddler to wear too-short pants,

doesn't separate the colours from the whites,

only cleans out the high chair when the enormity of the mess requires a Shop-vac,

lets her children watch TV at the end of her bed so that she can sleep an extra 10 minutes;

must now be added - has rotten mangoes in her van.

Oh the shame!

26QRVJFUDPKN

sorry i'm an asshole

Because Tracy at The Daily Mom Diaries was thoughtful enough to recognize me with some blog bling, she's lovely like that. And me being the asshole that I am have taken forever to send my thank-you. It's like when my thank-you cards were 2 months late after my wedding and my mom got mad at me. So no one tell my mom.




There is no excuse, except as The Mayor would say, I've had to contend with a wild case of the Man flu and had to lay down and show my belly over the whole potty training battle despite the use of the most ferocious profanity which is utterly lost on my two-year-old.

Tracy, being wonderful, deserves better. I encourage you to run right over and tell her so and then get hooked on how she is going to make it through Jillian Michaels' work out DVD when I sometimes vomit a little in my mouth just watching the contestants train on the Biggest Loser.


Then you need to head on over to visit Mama Ash at everything mom and baby to check out the awesomeness but keep your Visa in check. Seriously.

And while you are at it stop by Chatter Scene which is a new cozy spot I just discovered, you will want to drink some cocoa with just the teensiest bit of Bailey's in it and curl up with a fluffy blanket.

Enjoy these deserving blogs.

potty training just might kill me

"If you don't pee in that fucking potty right now I am going to loose my mind and then I will be taken away where other crazy mommies go and you won't have a mommy. That's right, no mommy. No one to make sure you don't miss Toopy and Binoo no one to find your teddy bear, is that what you want? No mommy?", said my eyes.

My mouth said,"Do you have to pee on the potty? Can you feel the pee pee tickle?"

Of course the answer was no. And of course minutes later he peed on the couch. A thousand sighs. Deep diaphragm sighs. The sighs of failure.

I have been trying to potty train Monkeybone for decades. Potty training days are like dog years, you multiply each day by seven years.

I'm done. DONE!

I have two degrees, am a professional, have a successful career. I can teach kids to read, literally they come to me not knowing the alphabet and by the time they leave they are readers, but I can't potty train my kid. I can't. I've tried everything. I've read everything. I am doing everything right. Yet he still pees on the couch, rather than shoot me a memo that he has to pee so he can go on one of the 37 little potties I have scattered around the house. He finds the one square foot of space without a potty to pee on the floor!

My mother might resort to guerrilla potty training and I say have at it. Because apparently her kids potty trained themselves on the way down the birth canal, just like we all slept through the night in-utero.

I wish he was in daycare full time, so they could do it. I wish he came already potty trained. I wish I knew what it felt like to pee out of a penis, maybe that would help. I wish there was such a thing as a potty training doula. Is there?

I love all the cutesy titles of articles related to potty training; Adventures in Potty Training, The ABCs of Potty Training. How about Potty Training: You Might Gouge Yours Eyes Out and Vomit Bile in Frustration.

I'm crying into an empty potty over here. My tears being the only liquid it has ever seen.

reaching for the unattainable

A hot shower is;


a decompression chamber, a therapist's couch,


a warm hug, a shoulder to cry on,


a good listener.


A hot shower is;


a masseuse, a time warp, a tropical vacation,


a cup of coffee for your whole body.


A hot shower is;


a catwalk, a concert hall, a party for one.


A hot shower does not see me enough.

the truth? you can't handle the truth?

The truth is that it's really hard.

This whole motherhood thing.

And while I patiently waited for the manual to come out with the afterbirth (I had my midwife double check)I began to realize that maybe I had miscalculated the ratio of hardness to not hardness. I never was really that good at math.

The truth is mothering is an interesting little dichotomy, because its overwhelmingly joyous and beautiful and exciting and full of emotions you thought your egocentric, fabulous self was incapable of having, never mind that they are now emanating from you at full wattage. But then it is so scary and messy and scary and not all soft glow and serenity and it`s scary. Now great big fabulous you, feels so teeny tiny in the face of your own inadequacies and this new teeny tiny you is now in charge of the health and well being of something even teeny tinier.

The truth is I was a phenomenal mother before I had kids.

The truth is you need people; a support network. Mothers need other mothers to fall back on, to laugh with, to cry on, to ask, to show, to reaffirm that you are in fact going to make it because no mother will be left behind. You need the kind of people who will remain unflinching when you call them and tell them you don't like your baby after 3 hours of sleep in two days and 10 straight hours of breastfeeding or you're one shitty diaper away from sticking your head in the oven right next to the broccoli casserole.

The truth is we need to support each other, support everyone; the breast feeders, the baby-wearers, the Ferberizers, the bottle feeders, the co-sleepers, the organic baby food makers, the moms who forgot their diaper bags or their sanity, the working moms, the SAHMs. We need each other. After all we are all travelling down different paths to the same end; healthy and happy kids.

The truth is it takes a village to raise a mom.

The truth is you should never eat Indian food before you go into labour. It's a bad scene for all involved, but that is a whole other story.

shit happens

People in this house need to get their shit together. And I am not speaking figuratively, I mean real shit, as in feces, bowel movements, poop. It is the inconvenient truth around here that people pooping has become, well, inconvenient.

I run a tight shit, I mean ship and you might not know this about me but I thrive on routine, I need routine. I choreograph quite the intricate little opera that is our day to day doodies, I mean doings and it is largely contingent on the bowel movements of certain family members that shall remain nameless.

Being the card carrying feminist that I am, I am reluctant to draw attention to any differences between the sexes lest I give way to generalization or feed stereotypes. I wouldn't want to say all men are anal when it comes to bowel movements or that they all participate in ritualistic pooping. That being said I have generally found that men that I'm married to (I don't want to name names as I've indicated before)are fucking things up with their shitting.

Let me paint a little picture for you. Time 5:30, any weekday, now in my life everything is cupcakes and daisies until 5:00, I mean we could be having an art appreciating, Kumbaya singing, watching the clouds go by filled day but at 5:00 the gates of hell open up and its like Dante's Inferno up in this place. So in addition to perfecting a delicious and nutritional dinner, I now have the hounds of hell, I mean my kids, howling at my feet. By 5:30 I am grasping at any sanity that I may or may not have left and am waiting for my knight in shining armour to arrive and slay the dragons.

When he arrives on his trusty steed, or in a Toyota Echo whatever I'm not picky, does he whisk me away, does he banish the demons back to hell? No. No, he retires to his throne for 20 minutes while the screeches of the damned are muffled behind a locked door. That's right locked. He locks the door to go to the bathroom. Its locked. No one can come in. He's alone because the door is locked. He poops behind a locked door. For 20 minutes. During the dinner rush. He can't wait. Inconvenient.

And that isn't even the shittiest part of the shit problem. Apparently the above mentioned family member isn't the only one with freakishly regular bowels. The littlest one is the biggest offender. You can set your watch to her bowel movements. And being like any other self-respecting woman she can't sleep with a shit in her pants. Normally this isn't a problem because her naps and pooping schedule coexist harmoniously.

Then we sprang forward. Although her internal clock has been reset, apparently her bowels did not get the memo. She as I write is writhing in bed trying to work one out which I will go remedy in semi-darkness because she was asleep for half an hour before her bowels came a knocking. Inconvenient. Lost is on for goodness sakes, I don't have time for this shit, literally. I can only hope this will work itself out, I won't have to engage in any post-bedtime diaper changes anymore and my little sleeping beauty can sleep.

Until then it's shit on me and I'm up to my elbows in it.

this bitch is crazy and that's why I love her

What could be better than a Neocitran induced coma? Um, blog awards of course, duh.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to the Crazy Town Mayor for bestowing upon me A Bloggy.




Her taste is obviously impeccable, she has breastfed four kids so you know her bosoms are ample and her love of her best friend (I prefer non-married life partner) rivals my own. Also its her birthday this week so stop by and give her some birthday bumps.
http://crazytownmayor.com/blog/

If you want to laugh so hard you cough up a huge ball of phlegm into a kleenex (sorry that was just me, you will probably just laugh or maybe pee a little especially if you've had more than one baby or have similar incontinence problems)go and read her. What are you waiting for, go now, don't even finish reading this post (I'm still sick, I've got nothing) but come back later and read these other uber-fabulous blogs that I feel are worthy of a Bloggy in addition to my own fabulous blog. (Sorry, I need the ego boost to pump my mucousy self up.)

http://momoftheperpetuallygrounded.blogspot.com/
She makes raising a house full of teenagers sound so fun you'll want to run out and get some of your own.

http://capitalmom.blogspot.com/
Reading her blog is like sleeping on clean white sheets and ignoring the fact your child left a booger on your pant leg.

I'll take a sick day

There were moans and groans coming from my bedroom last night.

Unfortunately they weren't the good kind.

I'm sick. I'm woozy, oozy wish I was boozy sick. I've got the snots and the hots but not the trots (thankfully) sick. I'm siii-ckuh. I'm siiiii-ck! Waaaaaaaaah

I never get sick or not since I have been pregnant and breastfeeding for the last fifty years. Its like I am super-humanly healthy (considering what I come in contact with each day) and my super power is to give and nourish life. I am just trying to decide if the symbol I wear on my chest should be an effaced cervix or an engorged breast,(calling all graphic designers).

But since Little Miss has been sick for a week, (Monkeybone never gets sick, he must have gotten the good batch of breast milk) I've been sneezed and coughed on approximately 6,238,474 times.

I want drugs, I want drugs, I want drugs! The good kind, I'm not taking about crack or heroin, I want the good stuff; Ny-Quil, Neocitran, Benylin. Come to me my pretties.

I'm taking a sick day.

What? Moms don't get sick days?

Fuck.

better late than never...

This past March 8 was International Women's Day (it's that all year 'round in my house, but whatever) and I wanted to observe that with some kind of inspirational post about the power of women, hear us roar, me-ow, all things totally cliche and totally true.

Instead I am going to post this to commemorate its necessity...

* 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.

what the hell is wrong with me

I never cry. Well not never, ever. I of course cried at the birth of my children, my son's first ultrasound, funerals,etc. but I rarely cry over prefabrications that do not relate to my life or my loved ones. I don't cry over Oprah episodes, when reading Charlotte's Web, or The Lion King (not even when Mufasa dies, that is how hard-ass I am).

Alright, I used to cry over dogs in peril (like Bengi in a burning building or the Littlest Hobo running from a crook), but I've outgrown that. Pretty much anything else, nothing, not even a light misting. I'm like steel, throw what you will at me; Olympic medal ceremonies, Grey's Anatomy, throne speeches (damn conservatives), even Robert Munsch's book Love You Forever, doesn't cause me to well up. I know what you are thinking, its inhumane, I'm emotionally stunted. I thought the same thing too.

Then why is it that this damn commericial causes the waterworks? I was as surprised as anyone. Is it a vitamin D deficiency? A long winter? The hope that spring is around the corner? Maybe it's because I really do enjoy a good glass of orange juice or maybe I'm just a hormonal-gonna-get-my-period, still breastfeeding, overtired, been-up-with-sick-babies mess. Your guess is as good as mine, I would love some psychoanalysis. Am I totally fucked up or is this a touching commericial?

my kids are sometimes assholes and I like it that way

There is nothing to make you feel so horribly powerless like your child coughing on the baby monitor. It brings it all back that, yes you have procreated and are now responsible for another's life and that that life is the most precious, most valuable thing you have. (oooh a that that sentence, sorry)

You didn't even know the definition of valuable before this child and if the value of that child's life could be measured in monetary units the value of that money would cause financial markets to collapse and whole economical systems to crumble. You clutch that life to your heart with white knuckles, daring the world to even try to lay its filthy hardened hands on your baby. And you yell at the world, "What makes you think I won't cut you, bitch". You might even flash a gang sign or at the very least give the world a stern look and make a movement under your jacket like you're packing heat but really you're just reaching for some lip balm because fear makes your lips dry.

And it's fear, the terrible all encompassing fear that finds its home in a mother's heart shortly after holding her baby to her skin for the very first time. It's simultaneous, the torrent of maternal love that flows from her, which for me was followed instantaneously by fear. A fear so great it left me immobile, not able to leave my house for a week after giving birth to my son. The fear that something would happen, that something could happen to that baby, to your child. Leaving you breathless, and fearful and wondering how mothers do it, how they can stand to love something so much, how their hearts don't break with the thought of it. But we leave our houses, we go about our lives because thankfully our children, our babies are assholes and that is what saves us.

Of course my children aren't really assholes they just act like assholes from time to time and its this occasional tendency to be assholes that keeps that nagging fear from totally debilitating me as a parent. The temper tantrums, the chaos, the eating crayons, the empty potties, the full diapers it's all designed to distract you from the fear. By yelling, "get your finger out of there", or "quit sitting on the cat," combined with the constant butt wiping and nose blowing day in and day out, the fear is kept at bay. I mostly don't think of the preciousness of my child's life as I'm washing poop off my hands or as I drag my toddler kicking and screaming across the Wal-Mart parking lot.

The degree of assholeness present in my children is correlational to my ability to allow them out of my arms. It might be a Darwinism thing. Survival of the assholes or the parents of assholes. And it is this Asshole Theory that keeps me from clutching my children and burrowing into the ground as an attempt to keep them safe from, well from everything. And when I hear that little, piteous cough over the monitor I try to remember that tomorrow will be another day, something assholey is bound to happen, and this rawness will pass. So now I am just waiting to dodge a bowl of mashed up carrots or to find a moldy Cheerio under the couch.

out of the mouths of babes (oft times come gems)

Alternate post title: my husband is a dick.

I believe the saying goes, children and fools speak the truth. And while doubled over naked in the shower, heaving with laughter; this is exactly what ran through my mind. Allow me to back track a bit to properly set the scene:

It was a Thronesday morning, pretty unassuming, starting out like any other inner-week day. My showering options were as follows: 1) skip shower and wallow in my own filth for the day 2)laze around in bed watching Little Bear with Monkeybone and then catch the tail end of a shower with Hubby 3)risk another Vaseline incident (re: Mess of the Minute)and shower during some kid down time. On this particular day I opted for option #2.

Now before the porn music is cued, showering with my husband is not a steamy sexual thing (well okay it is steamy but not x-rated steamy). We are tall, leggy people and tall, leggy people do not comfortably combine with shower sex. Especially when there is a two year old enjoying the morning episode of Little Bear ten feet away. Showering together has more of a utilitarian purpose in our relationship. Its where all the major decisions are discussed, debated and made; its where we collaborate, commiserate, and commemorate. It's our Oval Office if you will.

On this particular Thronesday morning, hubby had just stepped out to towel off and shave leaving me a blissful, steamed-filled, kid-free moment to mentally prepare for the day. Monkeybone in all his sleepy two-year old, wide-eyed glory toddles in and makes the shocking accusation, "Daddy you have a big penis." Silence.

Did I laugh so hard I broke a blood vessel in my eye? Yes.
Did I cut my self shaving? Yes, but I would have severed an artery for that moment.
Did my husband walk a little taller that day? He sure did.

Now if Monkeybone would only tell me how unequivocally brilliant I am.

hooray!

Blog awards?! Blog awards?! Blog awards are like your kids telling you that you look like a princess when you put on anything other than yoga pants. Blog awards are like realizing you have enough Merlot for two glasses instead of one. Blog awards are like finding an extra order of chicken mcnuggets in your bag of McDonald's when you get home. Blog awards are like olives and brie. Blog awards are like 3 hour naps on a Sunday afternoon. Blog awards?! A million gracious, humble, blushing thank-yous!

This blog is a lovely little corner of my day or week (I'm pretty inconsistent like that) where it is always a surprise to find someone has stopped by. Please excuse my lack of rule following (can you imagine what my kids are like?)because I am only just dipping my toes into the Blogginess and allow me to pass these awards on to some blogs that I ignore my husband to read during those precious evening kid-free hours.


IASoupMama passed this award on to me in all her Mom wisdom which includes having the presence of mind not to utter the f-word while being tailgated on a snow covered road. Please check her out here at http://courtenaysbo.blogspot.com.

I am passing this award on to this lovely lady whose blog makes me want to cuddle my kids and do messy crafts against my better judgment (the crafts that is). She is just so much goodness. Love her up here at http://momvstheboys.blogspot.com.



Both Mom vs.the boys and Finding my Weigh moms bestowed upon me this strong arm award. Again, loves times two. Mom vs. the Boys is above and Finding My Weigh mom is on a quest to loose weight on mat. leave which just makes me love her to bits and takes refuge in her ensuite bathroom which makes me love her even more. Love to love her here at http://imfindingmyweigh.blogspot.com.
I am passing this award on to Cindermommy, whose daughter's love of science is inspiring! See what I mean here at http://cindermommy.blogspot.com.

Oh I almost forgot there needs to be some randomness about me so holla!

1. I cannot hide from the colour orange
2. spiders suck
3. red wine
4. red wine
5. red wine
6. poutine (non-Canadians must google it and immediately eat some)
7. seven is a good number so I will end there

my kids are better than yours (a lesson in crossing-out text)

It seems as soon as we conceive give birth to our children, we find ourselves obsessively subconsciously comparing our kids to every other kid we lay eyes on those of our friends or even our other children. We compulsively sometimes agonize wonder, is my kid better in line with other kids, is my kid a genius normal?
Well I am here to rub it in your face assure you, that kids are kids and that my kids are in fact superior to no better than yours. There I said it and it's a lie true! Now if you are like me you find yourself wanting to physically injure or at least psychologically scar getting annoyed with those people who constantly showcase their bratty kid's tot's latest great accomplishment on their Facebook status updates. All because we are living vicariously through comparing our children and I am not going to openly admit it anymore through! I am just going to groom my kids to be Nobel prize winners let my kids be and have an emotionally damaging childhood based on feelings of inadequacy where they always feel pressured to please others and reach unobtainable expectations fun.

It's all reading the Greek classics finger painting and contemplating quantum physics play-doh sculpting in this house. Kids should be able to quote French literature run and multiply polynomials shout. And of course a toddler is a protege in the making a toddler, temper tantrums and messes never happen because my kids are perfect are a part of life. I am done comparing my dictatorship parenting style to those of others and know in my heart that bribes love and negative reinforcement guidance is all our kids really need to be better than everyone else happy.

So as the ones who will receive all the glory for raising such flawlessly skilled children mothers let us pass judgement on support one another, knowing that we are all in this together and that I am better than you we are all doing the best we can.