a funny thing that I am telling you on Friday (hence the name Friday Funny)

Alright the The Mayor over in Crazy Town had this brainiac idea to do her own kind (is their any other kind?) of Friday blog hop (which normally I don't buy into) but the premise is to post a funny story, email, tweet, whatever tickles your funny bone and link up over at her sight check it out. I likey because you know the content might make you pee your pants (seriously am I the only one with this problem, I need the Kegel8 )so that this whole blog hop isn't going to be a pain in the ass because their is a reward of funniness and possible pee soaked pants and you get to post your own hilarity like you're some kind of stand-up comedian, but not really. I'm totally in!

I am choosing to tell an embarrassing (but funny in an uncomfortable groany kind of way) story that happened to me last night. It seems these kind of things always happen to me, most likely because I'm not very modest and sometimes find it hard to censor myself. -shocker-

Yesterday was one of those crazy running around like a chicken with it's head cut off kind of days, filled with screeching children that I had to heft here and there and everywhere.

So by the end of the day all I wanted to do was get into some comfy pants, a tank top and sit in front of the tv with some popcorn. Which I did.

Upon finishing my bowl of popcorn, I went into the kitchen to deposit the bowl into the sink. As I turned around I got that scratchy feeling like a piece of popcorn must have found its way down my shirt and was lost in their somewhere. So I started to dig around searching for it, because if there is anything more uncomfortable than having a piece of popcorn stuck in your teeth its having it stuck to your boob.

Well I'll be damned if I could not get at it, so being the chronic unabashed breast feeder that I am, I just popped out the stricken boob, found the offending popcorn, and picked it off.

First a little bit of a back story. This fall we moved into our second, hopefully forever home (gorgeousness) in a new development. Because houses are still being built around us, we do not have fences. The houses are pretty close together but are staggered on their lots giving optimal privacy.

Now my side kitchen window looks over onto my neighbors patio. My neighbors being, get this, a house full of university kids. One of their parents bought the house for their kid to live in and rents the rest of the rooms out. Seriously, when I was in university in the neighborhood where I lived, you were in danger of getting your underwear stolen from the Laundromat, these kids have it good!

These particular kids are the nerdy quiet types, who probably participate in math challenges on Saturday nights (sorry I'm mathist, prejudice against people who enjoy or have a talent for math). A couple of the guys are cute but with my preference being the scruffy, slightly unwashed, messenger bag wearing, may have a drinking problem but that's okay because its for his art type, these guys have barely gotten a second glance since I moved in.

So back to the exposed breast in my kitchen. As I tucked it back into my tank top, I heard the sound of a BBQ lid shutting through the open window. In that moment I came to a few realizations. One being that this gawky university kid just got an eyeful of my left boob, two that thank goodness Little Miss had skipped her afternoon breast snack leaving them that much more full and perky and finally that I wished that I had walked the few feet to the garbage under the sink and thrown out the piece of popcorn instead of eating it fresh off the boob.

It might of been me but I think that kid looked a little uncomfortable standing there with his head down waiting for his burger to be done.

a statistical breakdown of the past four days

D: my grade in second year statistics, thus negating the validity of the following statistical analysis of my comings and goings over the past four days. In my defence it was the only grade below a B I received in the entirety of my liberal arts education, in addition to graduating summa cum laude from a reputable faculty of education. I'm probably wicked smart if not for my brain being pickled in amniotic fluid and breast milk for the last four years. And by 'wicked smart' I mean everything but math.

484: kilometres driven alone with two kids to visit the peace and serenity of my parent's empty nest.

3: Tragically Hip cds played to drown out crying kids who want out of their car seats (plus 1 Joni Mitchell cd because that's how we roll)

1: gallery exhibition attended, featuring photographs by my little brother and the rest of his photography program peers

389: feelings of uncool and squarishness experienced while attending the aforementioned gallery exhibit

2: lustful thoughts towards a dread-locked twenty-something with an eye for black and white stills

3: mornings I got to sleep in because my mother got up with the kids, bliss.

6: mental drafts of a blog post expressing my views on Ontario's Liberal Premier Dalton McGuinty's dismissal (following the protests of religious right wingers) of a revised sex ed. curriculum that would include naming of body parts in grade 1 and introduction of homosexuality and homosexual family structures in grade 3. Since when are penis and vagina examples of profanity? Since when is it okay to discriminate against sexual orientation by way of its exclusion in public education? Apparently the Charter of Rights and Freedoms has no place in the public school system.

1.5: minutes spent considering voting for the Marijuana Party in the next provincial election in an attempt at finding a political party who holds strong to their platforms and who do not let groups outside of their voting demographic hold sway over policy revision (but then I got the munchies and went and played frisbee instead)

1: pedicure in which I indulged by way of preparing for an upcoming get away with the Hubby, leaving only detail work to get this girl ready for lakeside hot tubbing.

2: anticipated pre-getaway arguments over whose turn it is to buy condoms, of which I will relent and have to purchase said prophylactics with a baby on my hip, a toddler clinging to my leg and eyes that dare the teenage boy cashier to have anything but a neutral expression on his face.

12: belly pats, the recipient being one of my pregnant best friends (12 pats shows great restraint given my love of pregnant bellies)

.00000000000000003: nano seconds spent wishing I was pregnant too

16: Blackberry messages sent between the Hubby and I during my absence, only 5 of which had any restricted content

2: cans of in car Pepsi consumed to fuel my road trip (coincidentally this is as well the same number of consumed Tim Horton's toasted whole wheat bagels with garlic and herb cream cheese)

167: glances in the rear view mirror to marvel at how breathtakingly adorable my two kids are (especially when sleeping and not screaming in their car seats)

53: kisses to the Hubby upon my return, its always better when we're together

1,432,534,080,343: thank-yous to my mother for giving me 4 days of which I did not have to cook or clean and had nothing to do but enjoy my kids

because its been a year and I love her so

It was an unassuming pregnancy, my second pregnancy. More by necessity than by default. I was mothering a newly sprung toddler, who might have been an only child had I not gotten pregnant before the 14 month turn he seemed to take.

I barely had time or energy to take stock of the usual pregnancy afflictions. Although my ballooning breasts and the aching sciatica were hard to ignore.

Truth be told I rarely knew how many weeks I was pregnant unless I had just come from a midwives appointment. The second pregnancy seemed to while away amidst the chaos and din that fills the home of a toddler and two working parents.

With this pregnancy I flip flopped as to whether it was a girl or boy, finally deciding on the latter. I planned for another boy with mixed excitement, wondrous of the bond that would form between two brothers so close in age, but secretly yearning for a mother/daughter connection I held so dear with my own mother.

With May 5th as my due date, April 23 seemed a good time to finish up work. It was a Thursday. I was measuring small for how far along I was although the baby was still growing and the midwives were unworried. The discomfort that comes with the final weeks of pregnancy had yet to set in.

Driving home from work that day, I mentally listed the preparatory tasks I needed to accomplish in the following week (gardening, packing my hospital bag)and was looking forward to a final pre-baby get together that night.

Dinner at an Indian restaurant with a group of teaching friends was the plan. One last hurrah if you will. And having for the most part escaped the excruciating heart burn of my first pregnancy, a little gluttony was due.

While walking from my car to the restaurant I peed myself a little. This was not abnormal during the final months of my second pregnancy in fact its unabnormality had prompted me to begin carrying an extra change of clothes in the trunk of my car weeks ago. However this was just a dampness (nothing a panty liner couldn't handle) and it quickly slipped my mind as I greeted the ladies.

Laughter and chicken masala ensued. If you've never eaten Indian in a group, the only way to do it is to each order a couple of dishes, put them in the middle and indulge in their yummy heat. This occasion was no exception to that rule.

As the dishes were being carried away and bills were being paid, I got up for one last bathroom break before the short drive home. Upon hoisting my curry-filled girth up from the table, I suddenly felt a warm gush of epic proportions. Now to you the reader it is obvious that my water had broke. But because my water had never broke with my first pregnancy and I was unaware of its unique feeling, I still was in the dark about the whole thing.

Given my perchance for urinating in inconvenient moments that had plagued me throughout this pregnancy, I quite honestly thought I had left it a little to long and had fully wet myself this time. Being completely embarrassed I continued on my path to the bathroom unnoticed by the group.

Once in the bathroom I came to a series of realizations.
1)this was not pee as each step I took brought with it a tidal gush
2)I was thankful for the dark denim maternity jeans I was wearing because even though I was soaked, I repeat soaked from waist to ankle you couldn't really see it in the dim light
3)that having to empty amniotic fluid from your cute ballet flats into the toilet is an awkward moment

Now absolutely sure that my water had indeed broken, I hobbled back to my table trying to be low key. (all four readers of this blog may find it surprising that despite my bravado and gratuitous ego boosts, I in fact am a bit uncomfortable when a great deal of attention is payed directly to me, so I didn't want to cause a scene)

I whispered to my least excitable friend my predicament, who in turn whispered to my most excitable friend, who in turned announced to the whole restaurant that my water had broken and I was going to have a baby. The restaurant erupted into applause (I am aware that this is like a scene from a bad romantic comedy but I am not exaggerating, all four of you who read this blog are not going to believe me but it is so embarrassingly true). Needless to say the soft-spoken owner seemed relieved to have me ushered out the door by my friends.

Of course just because your water breaks doesn't mean a baby is going to drop out (although I do know a little lady where this is the case, girl you know who I'm talking about), I knew this but apparently my friends who were all seasoned mothers had forgotten that bit of information and insisted on following my car home, all of them. So that we made a little convoy of slowly moving vehicles (its hard to drive when putting your foot on the gas causes more amniotic fluid to rush out)all travelling the five minutes to my house.

Fast forward through an uneventful night, where contractions didn't begin until the early morning giving my mother time to make the 3 hour trek to my house and allowing me to make arrangements for my son's care.

A bit of a back story, the labour and delivery of my son while starting off normal enough quickly had turned into a 26 hour ordeal of hard labour, contractions not going into a pattern, the baby in mild distress, ending in a lot of oxytocin, an epidural, a vacuum extraction and a very blue baby. If I had ever prayed to a god I did then, to every damn god and deity I new of. Whether it was the power of prayer or a good rub down on the part of the midwives (who through it all never left my side because midwives are solid like that), I had a beautiful, healthy baby boy but also feelings of disappointment over the whole process.

So that that morning when my labour began in the final hours of my second pregnancy I had some apprehension. The lovely thing about having a midwife, is that you can labour mostly at home, which is so good for women like me who pace and swear and need to be held my their mother and sit on the toilet for hours and pet the cat, and talk on the phone to their best friends through clenched teeth and convince their husband to call the midwife a dozen or so times to check that they are in fact not dying and all the other stuff that is much better at home and tends to ease the apprehension even if just a little bit.

I was soon happy to find that this labour was turning out to be, well, normal. My contractions came along beautifully, there was a pattern of increasing intensity, the time between each one was getting shorter and by the time noon rolled around all systems were a go.

In theory I was looking forward to experiencing labour and delivery for the first time, without all the gadgets and gizmoos. In reality I was a shrieking banshee. First of all pain and me do not get along, and I don't take that shit quietly. Some people breath through contractions, I hiss and scream, loudly. Luckily things were moving along quickly and after only being at the hospital for twenty minutes I was ready to push.

Some people say that when it comes to pushing it is a relief, obviously these people are fucking liars, because it hurts so fucking much that I find it necessary to describe the degree of pain associated with pushing out a baby with no pain medication by using the word fuck. It fucking hurts.

I screamed, "I want an epidural," to which my mother curtly told me that she could see the head and I was just going to have to deal with that. Thanks mom. My sister, crying because she couldn't stand to see me in so much pain but refusing to leave my side, quietly sobbed and mopped my forehead with cold wash clothes. My mother told her to get a hold of herself. My mother is doting like that.

Now just let me take a minute to just express my undying love of all things midwife. If you have never had the experience of a midwife assisted birth (they assist mothers in giving birth), it is something beautiful to behold. Because while I am flailing and writhing about like a woman possessed they are quietly coaching and massaging and just showing the love. My particular two midwifes are two woman who work so well together that watching them deliver a baby is like watching a well choreographed dance. And yes this did run through my mind between the expletives and I told them so once the dust settled.

Where was my husband during all this, he was on my left side, closest to my heart. Holding my hand, looking into my eyes, assuring me with soft words that this was going to happen and soon we would be holding our baby. He's awesome like that.

And it did, after a lot a pushing (it was really only twenty minutes, but I was sure I was pushing out a cube van) into the world came a demure 6lb 15 oz baby girl. A girl, our girl.

As I held her to my breast, I observed her fine, delicate flower-like features. They seemed fitting to her name. Iris.

I'm outta here, root beer

I've packed up a clean pair of panties (yes I did laundry), a toothbrush, and have gone visiting.

The Dirty Mommy was delusional lovely enough to ask me to guest post on her awesome blog, The Dirty Mommy Club. I was super duper excited (I might of peed a little) I blushed a lot, I ran around yelling, "I'm popular, I'm popular", I might of even put on an old prom dress and got drunk on lemon gin by way of celebrating the honour of it all.

And since the cure to a raging hangover is writing (I'm lying everyone knows it's McDonald's cheeseburgers)I began writing. And I wrote. And then I ate a McDonald's cheeseburger. And then I wrote some more. The result being the greatest post in the world.

Head on over to check out my brilliance at the Dirty Mommy's blog because I might have lied told her that people actually read my blog, so please show her some love.

The Greatest Post in the World

Oh fudge I almost forgot that The Dirty Mommy also bestowed upon me some blog bling!



To pay it forward you have to go here and check outAre We There Yet. It's a brand new blog by a very dear friend, who is nothing like me as she actually knows what she's doing and has mad skills in all things pregnancy, mothering, babies, and fitness. Pick her brimming brain.

Sundays

Cats often have a way of igniting envy and inspiring self-indulgence. Spurred by his seemingly effortless oblivion to a sink full of dirty dishes and the pressing need for clean clothes, we decided to take action.

Fancy cheeses and crackers, ladened with frivolity upon purchase, now seemed necessary.

A formal dress code was not required, in fact slippers were encouraged.

Babies played amidst the sunbeams and the dust motes (which we conspicuously ignored).

We helped ourselves to more cheese...

and olives.

While Penny Penguin bore witness to our revelry.

but with a gooey fruit filling

I'm flaky. I am. I have been since time immemorial. I just googled flaky and it said this. Although in my defence I am reliable but the other stuff, yeah pretty much.

Every New Year's Eve my resolution is to be less flaky. Well except for the two New Year's Eves I was pregnant, my resolution was to eat more fibre (nothing like a growing fetus to make you realize the importance of fibre) and not the New Year's I was hard-core breastfeeding (I wouldn't google that if I were you or at least not at work, what I mean was I was breastfeeding an infant not yet on solids = my breasts were the single source of nourishment for said child), that year's resolution was to re-establish my love affair with sleep, or at least be on speaking terms.

But every other year I drunkenly whisper to myself, "I will not be so much of a fuck, I mean fleck, flake! I will eat more Flakey Puffs. And buttered stuff. What? Oh yeah and I won't be flaky anymore not me, nope, done." But alas I am still flaky and not the yummy Vachon kind.


Now this often comes as a bit of shock to me, even though I just said I have been flaky for-fucking-ever but I am good at masking it and even sometimes elude myself of my true nature. Especially since the birth of my children. I mean if you can grow life and deliver that life out of your vagina doesn't that afford one some wisdom and wherewithal. But no, apparently it does not, however you should meet my vagina, very wise.

I mean for once I am ahead of the diaper situation and on top of the baby food supply in the freezer (although I did have to do laundry today to be able to dress my son but that is moot), groceries are stocked, the floors are... well the floors are walkable. I'm singing to myself "I am so smart, s-m-r-t," when flakiness just sneaks up on me and bites me on the ass. The sneaky bastard! (luckily I am still carrying a bit of baby weight so it didn't hurt as much as you would think).

Red sirens, the word FLAKE flashing like a strobe light. Sound the flaky alarm. Because when you have to drop off important documents, at important buildings, in important cities and you had to make important arrangements for babysitters and have your husband take the day off from his important job and when you went online to find the address to the important building in the important city and read for the first time an important message indicating you need an important appointment that you did not make, that is what happens. You are a flake. I am a flake.

One day my flakiness will no longer be endearing. I think maybe that day has arrived.

about last winter

I started blogging for myself and that's the truest thing I've said all morning (which isn't saying a lot when you consider that, "No it's not thinning", and "You are such a scary pirate," were both things that came out of my mouth minutes after getting out of bed). But it's true

It might have been the stir-craziness one feels during cold winters with two small children, it might have been hormones, it might have been a vitamin D deficiency, whatever it was during that bleak post-holiday, snowy, plunging temperature, not enough sunlight time I lost myself a bit. And that's true too.

I was feeling overwhelmed and tired and mommyish and not enough Nicoleish and kind of loosing my mindish. It is such a contrary feeling to a smiley, laughy, lucky, lucky, lucky girl such as myself. And its that feeling of I-should-feel-fortunateness that is the hardest to bear, because I know and I am, but there was still that feeling.

So after a little intraspectiveness (I was a psych. major for gods' sake and a good word maker upper) I decided that I needed something for me, something I could own. Something that I did just because I liked too, writing seemed an appropriate outlet.

Entrer Le Blog.(I'm bilingual like that, not really but I eat a lot of poutine and when you've gone to Ottawa U, you order your poutine en francais lest they short you on the curds). Why not journaling you say, well because I sound bat-shit crazy in any journals I've ever written in because I think 'No one's ever going to read this',(and I didn't want to sound crazier than I already was).

A little self-censorship was needed. The chance that someone might actually read me keeps me honest and sounding semi-sane. It also lets me step outside myself, wipe the shit and baby puke off me and makes me see that okay that's pretty funny and bearable and I'm sure years from now I am going to look back at that time and cherish it. Cherish it written down, in my words and not warped by my tired, breastfeeding, unshowered mind. Blogging seemed a good fit, it felt right.

Blogging for me isn't about job opportunities. I am a teacher. I am a teacher who when she is in front of a classroom or working with a group of kids, I get that feeling like this is me, this is what I am supposed to do. I will teach until they drag my wrinkly old ass out of the classroom. Despite all that is wrong with our provincial education system (I am probably going to need stitches from biting my tongue so hard) it really is about the kids and seeing that look in a student's eyes when they recognize a word and can read it for the first time. The look that all of a sudden a door has opened for them and they will never be the same, that they will be better because of it. I am done then, done with everything else but teaching.

No blogging isn't a job for me.

And I didn't think it was about relationships either, not at first. I am really surrounded by love. I'm far from lacking in the positive relationships department. My family is just the most supportive, easy, wonderful family you could have. My mom is forever holding me up, cheering me on and my sister is my heart. My absolute heart. And my husband is perfection, he really is. I, not by chance, am rich in friends. Friends that have been there for always, even those I have recently acquired. Something you should know about me is that I mate for life. You can't unfriend me so don't try.

No blogging wasn't about new relationships.

So I started and I delved in, just writing my heart out, and feeling renewed, like Nicole again. My Nicoleness was back and I loved reading my own words and recording my thoughts and having my stories heard. Having your stories heard frees them so that they aren't so oppressive, they're lighter. I'm lighter.

And I was surprised. I was surprised that I started to connect. One by one, connect with other moms. With women whose strength and skill and ability to write their own stories so that their words are accessible and relatable, is inspirational. And before I new it I had made new relationships. I had connected with women, women whose faces I've never seen save for in photographs, whose voices I've never heard but whose words I've taken to heart, until now I would consider them friends.

So it is here that I just want to recognize these women, because I think as women or as humans we are so quick to find fault but we don't recognize one's greatness enough.

So first go visit Jen at mom Vs. the boys. I know Jen in real life so go visit and then come back and let me assure you that she is really that awesome. I mean this girl does it all. She will have her three boys all sitting quietly, engaged and in walks you with your wild children and your messy diaper bag and she wont' judge. Not a bit. She won't even judge you if you drunkenly threaten to show everyone your boobs one night at a party and she certainly won't judge you when you let people balance their drinks on your 9 month pregnant belly. I don't know anyone like that or anything but if I did I know she wouldn't judge. Jen has been lovely enough to recognize me with a blog award
because that's how she rolls.

To the people who are mentioned next in this post feel free to grab the above award if you have a mantle for such things. As I said before its not about linking back to me or any other business, its about standing up and taking a bow.

The Mayor over at Crazy Town.
The Mayor with her exuberance and zest was the first to find her way into my heart. I don't even hate her because she has a flat stomach after 4 kids. That's right 4. If you don't want to hate her then don't look here. Her talent for comedy is obvious and her love for her kids is palpable. She is easily one of my best bloggy friends, whose support I am thankful for. She made a button for my blog on her page she says because she's too lazy to go the long way around (anyone whose raised 4 kids and allows them to be in hockey and cheer and who puts rabbit 'fur' and 'tracks' around her house so her kids think the Easter Bunny has been there is not lazy) and its easier for her to just click on the button but I know its because she loves me too.

Cheryl at Special Sauce in the House.
Cheryl is beautiful, and lovely and has her shit together. She says that sometimes she doesn't but I think she is a wonderful liar. Look at her picture, she does not look like a woman who lets her child play with a box of tampons while she takes a shower. She needs to have her shit together because her kids have severe food allergies. Just look at that little back here. She endures that and writes about it and about breastfeeding and everything. And you know she must be tired and sometimes frustrated, but reading her words you only see how much she loves her kids and motherhood. She has found her way into my little blog circle and now I won't let her leave.

Tracy at The Daily Mom Diaries, Mama Ash at Everything Mom and Baby and that gorgeous gal over at Finding My Weigh.
Tracy is super supportive of mom bloggers and is so generous with sharing the love. Also she just did a makeover and I am a sucker for a makeover! Mama Ash is the reason why my Visa is now under lock and key. She is tireless with her reviews of products and places for both moms and babies (hence the title). One day when I am rich and famous (on a teacher's salary -spits tea across rooming laughing-)I will convince her to be my personal shopper. Finding My Weigh is just a good read from a generally good person, who might have to come to my house and potty train my kids for me. 3 women, 3 people who won't be able to get rid of me.

I also want to shine the spotlight on Capital Mom and Ironic Mom.

I've described reading Capital Mom's blog before as 'sleeping on clean white sheets and ignoring the fact that your kid left a booger on your pant leg'. What I meant by that is that she sees the beauty in motherhood, in spite of it all. She sees the beauty in things that would frustrate or be ignored by the rest of us, things that would get lost in the day to day battles. When I read her writing I am humbled, I am reminded to slow down. To enjoy the ride and not get lost in the bumps and bends. I am reminded not to waste it, to hold every moment close to my heart, even the poopy, sleepless, leaky moments. Her words are beautiful and powerful and necessary. I have a feeling that her words will find themselves beyond the blogisphere and make their way on to a page somewhere. Or I hope anyways.

Ironic Mom is published and she is funny with bold italics (even her picture makes me laugh)! You will read her and you will love her. All of her, her hate of crafts, her messy mini-van, her Sunday attempts, her clever twins, love it all.

I also would like to mention Stephanie over at The Dirty Mommy Club. Although we've recently connected, I know we're kindred. Stay tuned for some guesting posting between our blogs.

So ladies stand up and take a bow and know that a freckle faced 31 year old Birkenstock wearing,(but stunningly gorgeous), sometimes forgets and swears in front of her kids, girl who has it all is thankful for you for showing her there is room for more.

a little goes a long ways

It's easier to breath, to smile at little yogurt covered faces and to laugh at thrown Cheerios.

On Friday I got into the trusty Echo which carried me away towards the horizon, into the wilderness.

Many of us made similar journeys towards the same destination.

Upon our arrival we embraced familiar arms. Arms that have linked with our own during hurried walks to liberal arts classes, arms that have hugged us in white dresses and veils, arms that have held our firstborns and those who came after.

Toasts were drunk to where we began, to all we've become, to being together once again.


The chains of motherly responsibility were thrown off.

Tentatively at first, but then with more vigour.

Morning mimosas seemed appropriate.


As did afternoon wine.


The weather was right. Was perfect for girls who in previous times, in far off places would drink keg beer and make potato salad at the first sign of double-digit temperatures.


Our thoughts were only for ourselves and we sat sometimes in conversation or sometimes in silence. Always comfortably.


The birch trees alone observed our silliness. Fortunately birch trees are good keepers of secrets.


At times it was quiet and still.


Other times we were careful to adhere to posted speed limits.


We ate too much.


We drank too much.


Some of us pumped.


Some of us didn't.

Luckily engorged breasts fill out custom girl's weekend t-shirts nicely.

this morning

I woke up with kissing lips this morning, lips that are red and chapped from kissing. It is a wonderful way to wake up.

The Diaper Genie(I know, I know if I was to do it again I would go cloth) was empty and we still had yummy fair trade Breakfast Blend beans from the cafe downtown left for coffee this morning. If you don't grind your own beans then you might as well quit drinking coffee. I'm not being elitist (I eat McDonald's on a weekly basis for gods' sake) I'm just being real.

Also Monkeybone ate his vitamin without first squirrelling it away in some bizarro place around the house.(re: previous post) He is like a dog with a bone. I have to stand and watch him eat it to make sure I don't find it later in one of my shoes or behind the couch.

It reminds me of when I lived in Ottawa, going to teacher's college (you're supposed to say the faculty of education but I always feel pretentious saying that... oh right the coffee beans thing, okay point taken).

I love Ottawa. I pine for Ottawa. It is such a nice bite-sized city, so accessible. Living there you really get to know the different neighborhoods. You have affairs with these neighborhoods, whiling away whole afternoons wandering their streets only to come home to your own smelling of another.

Being from the Ottawa area, it is the city of my youth and subsequently my post-graduate, young adulthood. As a wise man once said (Neil Young of course, is there any wiser men, geesh) all my changes were there. And they were.

While living in that glorious city, I was employed at various institutions (Second Cup on Fifth and Bank, holla!) one of them being a pharmacy in Hintonburg.

Hintonburg is one of those lovely neighborhoods, that amidst its mature trees and crumbling stately old homes has seen some hard times but bit by bit is being rejuvenated. The result being a mishmash of organic tea shops and $12 burger joints combined with smokey bars where old french men drink Labatts 50 and all sorts of seedy eclectic characters roam the sidewalks. (side note: I also worked at one of the daycares in the neighborhood where we would have to comb the playground each morning for dirty needles, the eclecticness had given way to the seedy)

One of my best friends and I worked at this particular pharmacy which was frequented by prostitutes and people with all sorts of addictions. I worked front cash and so was graced with being familiar with many of the prostitutes, who were generally lovely.

They're women much like you and I, some of them had kids, had seen hard times, many were in abusive relationships of some sort whether with themselves or someone else; they were all just trying to get by. Most of them were chatty and would hand out pearls of wisdom as I made change, like "Astroglide is the best lubricant on the market", (it is) and "Stay in school, sweetheart", (I did). All in all they were very interesting, leading a life so very different from my own.

My friend was a pharmacy tech. and so was responsible for doling out liquid methadone and morphine to two men who were totally immersed in their respective addictions. These particular men would come in each day for their prescribed doses and were required to take them under the close watch of my friend, lest these men take their meds. and sell them for the good stuff on the street. So there my little friend stood ever ready with a paper cup of orange juice as a chaser for the methadone and morphine.

It was those two men that I thought of this morning while I eagle-eyed Monkeybone to make sure he had indeed ingested his vitamin. Its funny how you find life parallels in the most unexpected of places.

Maybe it was the tulip sprouts that I saw yesterday, reaching towards the rain. Tulips always make me think of Ottawa.

reality check

Hello lambs.


Sorry I've neglected you as of late.


I have been way to busy being uber-fabulous; wearing non-nursing bras, eating yummy Thai without worrying that its endorphin boosting heat will send breastfeeding Little Miss into a tailspin, drinking wine with lovely ladies, going to Metric shows, wishing I had a silver sequined dress and yellow leather ankle booties.

But then Monkeybone stuffed a gummi-vitamin behind the window jamb where it is unreachable and will likely mold and fester until we have to move because of its rankness. My new house smell will be ruined. And Little Miss launched a poopy diaper across the floor where it landed with a squishy sound on my beautiful hardwood floor. And we are out of bananas and bread, household staples, which means I have to accomplish the decidedly unglamorous task of hauling babies out to the grocery store at which time I will arrive back home and realize that I forgot to get diapers and will have to start the whole process over again but this time all sweaty from lugging my over-breastfed children in and out of car seats and carts.

-sigh- I bet baby puke is hard to get out of silver sequined dresses anyways.