the mombshelter

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

2012-01-29T19:43:00.008-05:00

...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

2011-12-06T10:41:00.001-05:00

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

2011-10-19T20:33:00.007-04:00

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

2011-10-09T13:55:00.001-04:00

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.

2011-09-18T08:45:00.008-04:00

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

2011-08-22T21:29:00.009-04:00

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

2011-08-13T20:24:00.004-04:00

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.

while you're at BlogHer, I 'll be enjoying 6 years of wedded bliss. get some perspective people.

2011-08-03T21:05:00.005-04:00

In six years there have been some peaks and valleys, as in all marriages I suspect.

Exacerbated by two kids.

Wiping ass all day, as you can imagine, is trying on the best of relationships.

Babies can be such buzz kills. Except when they're not and you sit together in awe of what you have created.

And then somebody shits their pants and the moment is gone.

Fortunately we have a lot of those moments and consequently a lot of shit pants.

But the thing about peaks and valleys, is the view from the peak is so spectacular that the valley is lost to you.

I can't remember what that fight was about where we didn't talk for a day, or what angry words we've said to each other. But I do remember the look in his eyes when our children were born and the smell of our first apartment.

After six years, we spent a day in the mountains together. We mostly spent time in the peaks.

face it, I'm 33

2011-07-25T14:09:00.012-04:00

And I've been so now for about a week, needing that long to really get comfortable with 33. To make acquaintance with being three decades and three years.

The hubs has this theory that 33 is your first year of real adulthood. Basing this theory on stories you hear of people doing wild, outrageous things like passing out in strange places covered in booze and vomit. These stories being easier to excuse when the protagonist is in there late twenties or even thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. But thirty-three? Thirty-three is much too staid and steady to be the participant in such reckless, irresponsibility. I mean what would their mortgage broker say, what would their proctalogist think?

And so I give you me, at 33. In the nascence of my adulthood.

A Clean, shiny hair. Its amazing the showering time you gain when your youngest turns two. While still playing outside the shower, we are now playing with real toys rather than a Costco box of tampons. Avert your eyes away from my obnoxious roots. The thing about having a two year old and a four year old is that babysitting for a 3-plus hour colour appointment is hard to score.

B Whitish teeth, the result of cutting down on my pot of coffee a day habit to a much more manageable 1 really big travel mug, with my going back to work. Smile is for being off all summer. Squee!

C Bangs. Because how can you be old with bangs?

D Silver hoop earrings. A welcome addition to the black yoga pants and flip-flops. You just feel more official in silver hoops.

E Eyeshadow and mascara. With my youngest taking for-fucking-ever on the potty, I have all this extra time on my hands.

F Pumped up boob. Remember last summer when I was all like, "I've quit breastfeeding and now I have no boobs, wah wah wah. Pity me and my flat chest." Well that was before The Great Breast Deflation of Fall 2010. Now I literally have no boobs, nothing. -sniff- And they were so good for eating popcorn off from and all the neighbors seemed to like them. Well that was before I found this miracle bra (not the actual brand, this one I found at Winner's in a shaft of golden light shining down from the heavens). I'm not even exaggerating (which means I am a little bit) and so now I have boobs. It took me a while to get used to them, it was hard to drive at first and turn around quickly but we've become acclimatized.

G Great big sectional micro fibre couch. Because we still can't have nice things but are always in need of a pirate ship/skyscraper for Spiderman to jump from/monster truck track/place to feed and nap our 'babies' and Dora. Also you can pee on it and it doesn't even leave a stain, or so I'm told.

H Eye wrinkles from smiling and laughing and crying and then smiling and laughing. Could someone recommend a good eye cream already. One that doesn't cost a mortgage payment. Alright it can cost a mortgage payment as long as its good. We're talking two-bedroom bungalow, open concept, in a neighborhood with only so-so schools. I can't afford the good schools.

I Absence of forehead frown lines. Which is indicative of how much I frown. A good sign, I think.

J Patterned tank-top. Patterned because kids are fucking messy and mine seem to be messier than the average bears. Patterns hide stains. Its very scientific.

K Chin up. Parenting does not get easier just because you or they have a birthday. Success in parenting is totally relational to the position of one's chin. I always try to keep mine in the upright position, plus its easier to hide neck sag that way.

And now that I'm an adult, I'm glad I no longer need to be on flu duty with the kids, because it is undignified for an adult to be passed out covered in puke. That shit would have flown when I was 32 but now that I'm 33, you're on your own kids.

his existence is pretty much a big 'fuck you' to physics in general

2011-07-20T20:38:00.007-04:00

Mainly because of his state of perpetual motion, violating laws of thermodynamics world wide. He's probably a scientific marvel.

He runs.

Everywhere.

He jumps.

On everything.

He's in constant orbit, circling me like the sun.

My son.

He's four today. And as I sit down (finally) after a tiring day, month, year(s) of running, telling, negotiating, rocking, waiting, shushing, putting back to bed, holding, bathing, herding, hollering, carrying, shaking my head in frustration, corralling, ignoring, praising, chasing; I put it in perspective, that all this movement, the constantness of it all, is a gift.

The story of my Sawyer's beginning is at the ending of another's. When the ache of motherhood was new in my heart and the need to fill the emptiness, left us feeling anxious and lost and wild.

And with the rising temperatures of that summer and the unforgiving sun beating down on us, we gave way to that wildness and maniac revelry in which it was easy to forget that,what was missing. Our irresponsibility, an abandonment and blatant disregard to the responsible, carried us through the months of long nights and left us in the end sunburned and tired and wanting.

The wanting being an uninvited guest who nagged and pestered and made its presence known in the wake of happy news from friends, we being at the age of happy news. Until the wanting, no longer content to stand behind wavering smiles and choked congratulations, found its way into my frenzied thoughts, driving me towards a preoccupation with recapturing what I had lost. Leaving me bewildered with my own inability, my failure.

The wanting had made permanent residence within, its consumptive nature peering out from behind my eyes. Until he, pained too, took my sullen face in his hands, looked into the green depth of where the wanting lay and said stop.

And I stopped.

In that airy, light time, leaves blew across our path and the coolness on our skin felt better. We felt better. And we laughed and embraced in the face of our new found betterment. Betterment being a more welcome companion to the wanting.

So that our own happy news, didn't seem news at all on that cold November night. Its arrival just being delayed. We forgave it it's tardiness and waited.

We waited for things to take. For it to be okay. To get past the point where it had ended before. When things had gone awry.

We were hopeful, filled with cautious anticipation, singing Beatles songs. Pleading with it to hold on. To stay.

But then there was blood. It's familiarity allowing me a sense of composure, a numbness.

And this composure carried me on wooden legs, into a darkened ultrasound room where I explained to the woman technician that this was not the first and that I expected the worst. And because of the numbness my words were wooden too, hollow.

Maybe it was that hollowness in my voice or the glassiness of my eyes or maybe it was just that she was a mom too. But whatever her reasoning, she broke protocol and turned the screen so that both her and I would see the silvery images there.

Her voice was soothing and murmuring as she moved the wand across my still flat belly, searching. She held her breath when she stopped and I did too.

"There," she said quietly, with warmth, pointing to the screen.

One blinking pixel.

One blinking pixel, until I am no more, will be the single most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes upon.

And many months later, in the glow of a summer heat, my Sawyer was placed in my arms. Where I marvelled at the miracle of him and how I thought he had been lost save for the hope I'd found in that one blinking pixel.

This post helps me to remember that gift. These words being effective remedy for motion sickness.

where have you been all of my life

2011-07-14T21:18:00.003-04:00

Yes, I'm aware that my attendance has been poor. Ten months just gets away on a girl. But summer is as good a time as any to catch up, n'est pas? So what have I been doing?

I've been blogging part time.
I've been enlightening young minds.
I've been teaching kids to read.
And write.
I've been replacing the "I need to get away from my kids" stay at home mom guilt with "I need to spend more time with my kids" working mom guilt.
I've been eating a lot of frozen pizza and caesar salad.
I've been wiping noses.
And butts.
I've been loosing myself in books.
I've been missing my 15 month mat. leave.
I've been watching Mad Men.
I've been drinking red wine.
And white.
I've been catching up on all of your blogs.
I've been listening to the Skydiggers.
I've been trying to get my kids to sleep.
I've been wishing I thought to write, "Go the Fuck to Sleep" first.
I've been waiting for the terrible twos to end, we're almost at four.
I've been trying to harness the energy of my children to replace fossil fuels.
So far nothing.
I've been rolling down the hill, which isn't a euphemism for anything, we just have a really big hill in our backyard and its fun to roll down.
I've been potty training my daughter, which is going amazingly well, so amazing in fact that its not even blog worthy.
And my husband hasn't had to talk me off the roof once.
I've been getting new jobs.
And feeling quite proud of myself.
I've been thankful for a husband who excels at foot rubbing.
And kissing.
I've been reminding myself that hanging out with midwives or not getting a period for nine months are not good enough reasons to have a third.
There's not going to be a third.
I've been proud of all my bloggy peeps making waves out in the internet ocean, sistas are doing it for themselves.
I've been packing up my classroom, saying goodbye to the school that has been my home for the last six years and anticipating new beginnings.
I've been gardening.
I've been running in the sprinkler.
I've been waiting for my kids to go the fuck to sleep.
Still.
I've been making strawberry jam.
I've been drinking good coffee.
I've been wearing yoga pants and flip flops.
Again.
I've been painting my laundry room. Which is as exciting as it sounds.
I've been lunching with best friends.
I've been packing for the cottage.
I've been longing for the mountains.
I've been happy.

I'm a Monster

2011-07-11T07:21:00.003-04:00

Today I've dragged my sunburned ass out of the woods and am sharing some Mommy Moments over at Mommy of a Monster & Twins. Natalie is all kinds of lovely and would never do something so tacky as get a sunburn. So head on over and have a read, but put on some sunscreen first.

because he has street cred and shit

2011-06-19T09:40:00.005-04:00

To the man who has wiped as much ass as I have.

Who has changed as many diapers, soothed as many tears, monitored as many time-outs, read as many stories, administered as many closet checks, done as many loads of laundry, cut off as many crusts, peeled as many bananas, washed as many faces and hands.

Who has worried as much as me.

Who has cuddled as much, laughed as much, ran after as much, played as much, built towers as much, lost sleep as much, filled juice cups as much, blew noses as much, loved as much.

To him who is like a mommy but with more daddy.

To him I say thank you for being as much.

is this curriculum-based enough for you

2011-06-15T22:09:00.005-04:00

Its report card time, so bugger off.

Also both kids have the stomach flu.

Me writing a long post is about as likely as finding a clean set of sheets in my house.

That cough on the monitor sounded suspiciously wet.

Fuck.

gardening, can you dig it

2011-05-29T14:28:00.003-04:00

I've dirt under my fingernails and am in bad need of a pedicure.

In other words everything is bliss.

I'm playing in the dirt which is my favourite place to play.

When I started doing big girl things like paying a mortgage I found I had fallen in love with gardening. It was quite unexpected, given my fear of spiders and disdain of Crocs but it is what it is.

And when we moved from our first house to our new build almost two years ago I thought my heart would break from having to leave my gardens, we had grown up together you see.

But my heart has healed and I'm ready to love another.

I prefer domesticating

2011-05-18T19:53:00.004-04:00

Because I refuse to be Tamed. But the Insanity part totally applies, although quirky sounds less desparate.

I'm like one of those dog/wolf hybrids. Sure I'll let you pet me and I probably won't poop on the floor, but I might bite the heads off your chickens if not watched closely.

So today I'm biting the heads off chickens over at Taming Insanity. Its really less bloody than you think.

word to your mother

2011-05-08T09:13:00.004-04:00

As I sit here drinking cold coffee because I spent 30 minutes trying to put cream on a rashy 3 year old instead of drinking it hot, while my husband negotiates with said 3 year old to pick up all 27 cars that same 3 year old lined up along the hall, I remember just how badly I wanted it. Its these rashy, messy, looking like a PSA for birth control times that I need to remember just that. I wanted this. So badly.

I wrote the following post last Mother's Day so that I wouldn't forget. I read it sometimes.

There was a time when nothing was funny, when there was no jokes, no smiles. When the technician standing in front of the monitor, holding the wand shook her head, just slightly but I saw it. And she said to go home and wait for my midwife to call. And so commenced the longest I had ever gone without laughing.

There was a time when I sat on my couch and learned that it was not to be, as sometimes happens. When I cried into his chest and could not look into his blues eyes. When we held each other and were silenced in our mutual loss.

There was a time when women hearing of it, reached out their hands from near and far as women are apt to do when one of their own is hurting. When hands folded me into arms, hands wiped my tears and sometimes those of their own, hands laid my head into laps and stroked my hair, hands picked up phones and whispered comforting words.

There was a time when my mother was called and said she would be there in two hours, which is extraordinary because she lived three hours away. And she sailed through my door like a Spanish galleon in full mast. I'm stealing from Lucy Maude Montgomery's description of Cornelia Bryant here, but such a description is fitting to how my mother descended upon us, cleaning and cooking spaghetti sauce. And she put me to bed and sat with me until I found sleep. Not once did I see her cry, which I was thankful for. There are many things of which I can endure, my mother's tears not being one of them.

There was a time when I did not go to work for many days and it was over. The midwife came and held my hand, touched my cheek. She took my blood reasoning that it would already be done for when I got pregnant again. I was grateful for the when instead of the if, sometimes conjunctions make all the difference.

There was a time when I lay in bed and when that was over I worked in my garden. Gardening as therapy is solely underestimated. I planted a clematis and moved iris bulbs from the patch behind the shed. The clematis never grew, clematis being finicky until they take root, only then will they become hardy. Iris bulbs are different, only needing of gentle hands to place them into the soil where they will bloom just as though they had always been there. Finding happiness in iris being a sweet foreshadowing of things to come.

There was a time when my grief was surprising, the difference nine weeks had made. And upon hearing this a friend with more motherly wisdom than I would ever have, said that for some of us we as mothers emerge at the sight of two pink lines and are forever changed because of it.

With motherhood comes great joy and great sorrow.

There was a time four years ago this May, at the cusp of twenty eight, I only had had the sorrow and it changed me. For without it I would not be the mother I am today.

And now is when I go snuggle babies, sleepy from their naps. And nuzzle their heads which will smell of spaghetti and feel their hands on my cheeks. Because that is what time it is now.

Sometimes I read it a lot.

she

2011-04-22T13:13:00.008-04:00

She is all red curls and round belly.
She loves baby dolls and monster trucks.
She does things, "all by self".
She could give a fuck what her hair looks like or if she's wearing pants.
She has a gap between her two front teeth.
She isn't afraid to speak her mind or to yell it.
She doesn't go anywhere without her blanket or her smile.
She listens to Bruce Springsteen in the car.
She can't get through the day without 'reading' books or 'singing' songs.
She goes down the stairs on her bum but jumps the last two.
She's fearless.
She runs down the hall and splashes in the tub.
She begs for back scratches.
She's two years old now.

Before her, I thought I could never love my second as much as my first.

She proved me wrong.

Her arrival was staight out of Bollywood.

this is what a family looks like

2011-04-15T19:46:00.006-04:00

I have a namesake!

Finley Cole (as in Nicole) arrived 2weeks early and is lovely beyond words. Her mommies and little brother are smitten.

As am I.

Most likely her awesomeness will surpass that of my own. As it should be for one's namesake.

While it would seem that there are those who needlessly struggle with defining a family in stringent terms as if it is only a Census box to be checked or a recipe to be strictly followed. All I have to say is, you'll know one when you see it.

they were all out of really big couches

2011-04-11T20:45:00.006-04:00

One of my earliest memories is at the age of three. I shared a room with my baby sister, her crib at the end of my narrow single bed. I remember putting all my teddy bears and dolls, all my worldly possessions into her crib, my mother being angry at what I had done. Her anger was confusing to me because my intent wasn't to hurt the baby but to fill her crib up with all that I loved. To give her all that I had.

Thirty years later I'm still trying to give her all that I have. All that I have being a wine fuelled surprise thirtieth birthday party, complete with flashing tiara and raging hangovers with the unfortunate timing of being the night before my husband left for Seoul as in South Korea. But what else are you going to do on a 14 hour flight if not kill a hang over. Except maybe be thankful that your kids are at home with your equally hungover wife.

And there I went filling up her crib with all that I loved, of course now being red wine and cake.

Surprise birthday parties are not as easy as teddy bears and dolls but each are equally worth it. Because I love her.

Sometimes we laugh really loud and act annoyingly silly.
Sometimes we sit in really big chairs because that's more dignified.

all this time I thought I was padding my resume

2011-03-18T20:08:00.005-04:00

And here I thought to be a good mother you had to breast feed your babies until they were six, from a third boob you grew specifically for their subsistence or nourish them with organic formula, hand ground by Tibetan monks. I thought you had to cloth diaper your kids in silk woven prayer flags and sing them Latin lullabies in sign language. I mean every good mom is suppose to carry their children around for the first twenty years of life in a sling made from her own tanned placenta, right? Isn't that what good moms do?

Well it turns out no. That is not it at all. We've been lied to lambs. Lied to!

Because this week? This week of hellish germ warfare, of fevers and ear infections and sick husbands. This week I found out the truth behind the good mom.

Quite simply, good moms run in, when everyone else is running out. That is all. They size up the situation whether it be puke spattered walls, bleeding wounds, boogers, raging fevers; they size that shit up and when their every instinct is telling them to get the fuck out of Dodge, when all they want to do is get in their car and drive, they run back in.

Kind of like a fire fighter but without the protective headgear.

And there they stay, until disaster is averted.

This week I ran back in and here I still sit. My one consolation is that I'm obviously over-qualified for this motherhood gig.

So now what am supposed to do with this third boob?

for International Women's Day I had a 30 minute conversation about penises

2011-03-08T20:11:00.009-05:00

Lesson learned: never spell check the plural of penis by Googling penises, especially while at work. But if you do, Top 10 Famous Penises will be the first to pop up (of course no pun intended, I'm so much better than that) and number 10 will be Milton Berle, which is all kinds of awesome.

The discussion of penises, has of late taken up a lot of my time, what with the 3 year old deciding of his own volition that he will indeed stand up while he pees which means I'm now keeping a roll of paper towels and a squeegee next to the toilet. If only I had a Sham-Wow. But I opted for the Slap Chop instead. I know, I'm kicking myself.

And so this morning as I held my breath, while my son swayed unsteadily in front of the toilet insisting he did not sit down to pee anymore (he turned around to tell me this, while still peeing) we had a few things to clear up. Mainly who in fact has a penis and who doesn't. As my son rhymed off every person he knew including all of our neighbors, Twist from The Fresh Beat Band, and my father, I was required to indicate the presence or absence of a penis.

The conclusion being that everyone has a penis.
Especially Milton Berle.

Charlie Sheen could use a bubble beard but that would make him look crazy...

2011-03-02T20:06:00.004-05:00

I know there are people in the world right now, right this very minute, who are fighting for basic human rights, for freedom, who are being oppressed. Like the people of Libya or Charlie Sheen, people in my own country, and city, maybe even on my own street.

And there was a time that I cared. I had opinions and ideas and idealistic solutions that I would vocalize and debate and defend. But now? Now I'm exhausted. With everything so that nothing seems to matter as much as the tiredness.

So I wallowed in it, sitting stonily next to the tub, resentful of the splashing and the impending towelling and singing of silly songs and chubby naked bums.

Then there were bubble beards. Giant frothy bubble beards. Bubble beards dripping from grinning, giggling faces.

And I felt rested.

Now what to do about Libya...and Charlie Sheen.

good

2011-02-22T20:40:00.003-05:00

From my seat, next to the window, I would intermittently stare out across the street at the assembly of smokers grouped homogeneously in threes and fours, envying them their dissidence and Doc Martens.

As I absently picked at the soft denim frays exposing a bare, boney knee where I would rest my chin, I wrote.

She wore her hair in a blunt bob of steel gray, its severity only rivalling that of her calculating gaze as she regarded us over the wired rim of her glasses, that hung on a chain around her neck. The precarious position of those glasses, just above the tip of her narrow nose, was unsettling.

She had no patience for frivolity of word or character, both of which I was guilty, and doled out approval begrudgingly.

Our attempts at various assignments were often met with short, reprieval or curt interjection, guiding us through numerous revisions. It being an advanced creative writing class and her having extraordinary standards of excellence. Standards that were at once intimidating and exhilarating. Seemingly unobtainable.

And as I worked furiously over some writing assignment that's nature is lost to me now, I felt her presence hovering behind me.

"Good", she blandly declared before moving on leaving me, mouth agape, wondering if I had heard correctly.

In that singular statement she validated my writing, my words. And they have gotten me through, they have kept me company, they have made light where lightness was necessary.

A little over a year ago, I remembered that writing was better than not writing.

Because its good.

Happy Blogiversary just doesn't do it justice.

Dante probably never had to write report cards, or maybe he did and that was the whole point

2011-02-13T14:48:00.000-05:00

I'm in the depths of hell, writing provincial report cards. Provincial report cards being about as useful as teats on a bull, which come to think of it would probably be very useful with the bull being able to take on a more active role with the calf raising. Maybe the mother could sneak off and have a bit of a nap or a glass of wine once in a while. I guess teats on a bull aren't like provincial report cards at all, because provincial report cards are low in usefulness. Mainly because all the things I want to say like...

"Your kid is pretty awesome. Everyday he creates a new outfit for me in the art centre using old Sears's catalogs, complete with labelling of accessories and speech bubbles declaring, 'Im prete Im stilish', which is super amazing. I wouldn't think of getting a new hair style without consulting with him first"

or

"Nowhere in my degree in education was I ever required to take a class on finding lost mittens or distinguishing your child's black snow pants from twenty other pairs of black snow pants, nor does it indicate anywhere in my professional standards of practice the necessity of taking parent phone calls during instructional time to discuss the aforementioned mittens and black snow pants as beneficiary to your child's academic skill development. Label your kid's shit!"

...aren't deemed appropriate by the Ministry of Education, instead I have to write rubbish like:

"Name, creates visual art pieces using appropriate strategies for design and colour. Name capably writes simple messages appropriate for his/her grade level that effectively communicates his/her ideas."

or

"Name will refer to visual cues and teacher prompts to responsibly take care of his/her personal belongings."

-les sigh-

Burn baby burn.

all the single mamas

2011-01-24T20:45:00.005-05:00

My husband is here:

here, being Florence, Italy. Where it is a respectable two degrees Celsius, instead of minus fucking silly. Which it is here, in the land of barely starting cars and marshmallow children. Marshmallow children being extremely difficult to strap into car seats of barely starting cars. Especially when doing so in the singular.

So I'm all single momming it, which would be totally easy except for the screaming into pillows and the crying in the shower. And also the single parenting part.

And then she came.

She who is known in these parts as picker upper of heart broken daughters, buyer of spirit lifting shoes and yeller of "you're not getting an epidural I can see the head for gawd's sake". Or as I call her, Mom.

And after I hit Publish Post, I will close my laptop, crawl across the floor and I will put my head in her lap, tired from dealing with other people's kids that keep me from my own, it not being strange at all. A thirty-two year old woman laying her head in her mother's lap, having done so for decades now. We being bonded thus, during her own time as a single mother.

And she will play with my hair and I will sigh, thankful for single mamas.

first world problems

2011-01-19T19:13:00.004-05:00

Which is more douchey?

Being upset because I was hit with a wretched ass stomach flu after lunching on homemade seafood chowder (that's $20 dollars worth of lobster now glazed in my own bile, floating surreptitiously against the porcelain veneer of my ensuite toilet)?

Or that I was struck with said wretched ass stomach flu mere hours after a monthly visit from our marriage saving cleaning person, in whose wake is left a pristine house usually enjoyed and kept in close to pristine condition for at least 24 hours post visit or until someone throws food on the floor, steps in it and then tracks it through the rest of the house (I'm actually paying her a fee equal to that of a moderately successful divorce lawyer, that's how good she is), leaving me with 3 toilets to clean post-flu (I'll probably need a hazmat suit and a lot of steel wool)?

It's tough to call in this Gravol haze.

2010 parenting fails

2011-01-09T19:52:00.015-05:00

Limiting Exposure To Television Fail

They're watching t.v. but it was G rated...I think.

Discouraging Aggressive Toys and Brands Fail

Yep, he was Iron Man for Halloween, despite never having actually seen Iron Man in motion... and he's 3. But he's totally ripped and will kick your ass (probably from all the aggressive toys he plays with).

Dressing Up As A Cowboy or Santa Claus Fail

She's indecisive that way.

Whisking Fail

My ladles were all in the sandbox.

Protective Headgear Fail

They were clean... I think.

Seeing A Camel Fail

Well we saw the camel, just not it's face.

Using A Spoon Fail

Nothing has changed. -sigh-

Not Shrinking My Son And Making Him Perch On My Shoulder Fail

He's easier to keep track of that way.

this year I'll probably get my sanity back...I think (also if you have no prior knowledge of Facebook then this will mean nothing to you)

2011-01-04T20:50:00.008-05:00

On Facebook, (I've just watched the Social Network and have had an epiphany on how much Facebook has infiltrated our daily lives, becoming this ever growing entity of time wasting and stalking of husbands' ex-girlfriends to make sure they're less pretty than you. Most people, after having come to such an appalling realization would probably wrap it up into some cliche New Year's resolution like 'I'm going to simplify my life and get off Facebook' (if that is your resolution its totally not cliche because its you, its only cliche if someone else does it because you are incredibly awesome and original) (as an aside I'm only feeling a little anxious of how many parenthesis I've started and am unsure of how to back out of this parenthesis predicament I've gotten myself in to and the plural of parenthesis is lost to me right now so...

That's better.

Back to how everything comes down to Facebook, and how parents of toddlers, who work outside the home don't have the luxury of simplifying their lives as a New Year's Resolution and how I'm prettier than most of my husband's ex-girlfriends, I was reflecting on 2010, and all that it was and what that year meant, blah blah blah.

And I remembered last year (2009, keep up with me people)Facebook had this application that presented your year in review as the most frequently used words from your status updates, for the whole year). And I also remember thinking in December 2009 of what my year (still 2009) would have been, having had a baby in April of that year (haven't gotten past 2009). Then, it would have went a little like this:

I love being pregnant, I could have 10 kids, my boobs look great, I hate being pregnant, my boobs hurt, is it over yet, had a baby, am breastfeeding, still breastfeeding, just breastfeeding, gotta go breastfeed

(and that was only the first six months)

This year (2010 not 2011) would probably go more like this:

I thought motherhood was supposed to be all glamorous, potty training sucks, well at least I try, I need to get curtains for my kitchen windows, still no glamour, my vagina is royalty, still potty training, well at least it wasn't on the hardwood floors, victory is mine, motherhood fucks with your head, I dread going back to work, but there could be pretty panties, the grass is always greener, this is pretty much my life now but without the glamour of houndstooth.

2011 you're looking pretty sexy, standing over there like that.

the twelve days of Christmas... if I don't wish you a Merry Christmas first.

2010-12-24T16:24:00.005-05:00

On the twelfth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

twelve of the most mirth filled, wild, gleeful, squealing, magical, exhausting, wonderful, hours that is Christmas with small children.

Of which I wouldn't trade all the presents in the world for, not even a nap with nobody but me.

And so I in my 'kerchief (yoga pants and tank top) and he in his cap (nightcap of rum and egg nog) will all settle down for a long winter's nap.

May you find yourselves all snug in your beds with visions of sugar plums dancing in your heads.

the twelve days of Christmas... if I don't get a very shiny nose first.

2010-12-23T19:26:00.003-05:00

On the eleventh day of Christmas my children gave to me...

eleven stop the fightings (over who gets the orange car, sharing the blanket on the couch, which story to read, who touched the Christmas tree...)

Ten hours sleeping (the luxury of sleeping in past 7:00).

Nine all out rantings (Costco how dare you make me think I need a 4 pack of bacon, now I'm going to have to eat it and I'm going to have to figure out what wine goes with bacon. Way to ruin Christmas, Costco).

Eight maids-a-cleaning (but then I would have to clean before the maid came, so that the filth we normally live in wouldn't be so apparent).

Seven glasses brimming (brim-ming).

Six listen to what I'm sayings ("Use your indoor voice", I'm fully aware yelling it totally negates the request).

Five meals that someone else brings (or McDonald's cheeseburgers, no onions please).

Four swearing words (for when I'm trying to wrestle toys out of ridiculous packaging).

Three holding pens (so they won't hear the swearing).

Two latex gloves (you don't even what to know why -shudders-).

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas... if I don't smoke a corncob pipe first.

2010-12-22T19:18:00.004-05:00

On the tenth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

ten hours sleeping (what's that again?)

Nine all out rantings (Wal-Mart you are the bitch teat at which I must suckle this holiday season, mostly because of your cheap stocking stuffers).

Eight maids-a-cleaning (that should be enough to tackle the kids' bathroom).

Seven glasses brimming (brim-ming).

Six listen to what I'm sayings (I know, total pipe dream).

Five meals that someone else brings (like poutine).

Four swearing words (I'm going to need them when opening my Visa bill).

Three holding pens (so they won't hear the swearing).

Two latex gloves (you don't even what to know why -shudders-).

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas... if I don't take a ride on a jingle horse first.

2010-12-21T19:25:00.006-05:00

On the ninth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

nine all out rantings (there are so many things I would like to rant about right now Wal-Mart being one of them, but let's start with the red Monte Carlo I follow to work everyday. First a Monte Carlo, really? Are you sure you wouldn't like to hang a pair of chrome testicles from the back bumper, you know to class it up a bit? And if you have the balls to drive a red Monte Carlo then for the love of gods drive it a little faster than 10 under the speed limit! Oh and one more thing, the left lane is for passing asshole!)

Eight maids-a-cleaning (I could use nine but I don't want to be a complainy complainerson).

Seven glasses brimming (which is different from the usual six).

Six listen to what I'm sayings (or just ignore me completely and throw a huge temper tantrum).

Five meals that someone else brings (thanks Mom).

Four swearing words (which is strange, seeing as I hardly ever find use for profanity).

Three holding pens (only until the Christmas tree comes down and also until the kids turn twenty, I'm just kidding you're legally an adult when you turn eighteen. So only until they're eighteen).

Two latex gloves (and the pee, -sigh-).

And a nap with nobody but me.

twelve days of Christmas... if I don't deck the halls first.

2010-12-20T21:30:00.003-05:00

On the eighth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

eight maids-a-cleaning (eight is a start anyways).

Seven glasses brimming (of wine, because duh).

Six listen to what I'm sayings ("Put your listening ears on", said through clenched teeth).

Five meals that someone else brings (but not fruitcake, I draw the line at fruitcake).

Four swearing words (I would settle for saying fuck four times).

Three holding pens (its the gift that keeps on giving).

Two latex gloves (because of the poop, -sigh-).

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas... if someone doesn't bring me some figgy pudding first

2010-12-19T19:07:00.004-05:00

On the seventh day of Christmas my children gave to me...

seven glasses brimming (with a nice Shiraz or even a Merlot, I'm not picky).

Six listen to what I'm sayings (its like I'm talking to a brick wall, a brick wall that never sits still and occasionally pees his snow pants).

Five meals that someone else brings (its nothing but candy canes and almond bark from here on out).

Four swearing words (I've got a lot to get off my chest).

Three holding pens (so I can get some peace on earth).

Two latex gloves (need I explain).

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas... if I don't fa la la la la first.

2010-12-19T09:51:00.005-05:00

On the sixth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

six listen to what I'm sayings. (there's a lot of selective hearing going on up in this ma and Santa's pissed)

Five meals that someone else brings (because cooking with a toddler wrapped around your leg, licking your jeans is exhausting).

Four swearing words (so I can express my self properly).

Three holding pens (one for each kid, especially for my 33 year old who won't leave the chocolate chips alone).

Two latex gloves (because wiping ass is a dirty job).

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas ...if I'm not candy caned first.

2010-12-17T20:14:00.004-05:00

On the fifth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

five meals that someone else brings (my palate is ready to move beyond frozen pizza and caesar salad).

Four swearing words (don't worry the c-word isn't one of them, Conservative especially when paired with Progressive, is even too much for this blog, although sometimes when I stub my toe or someone cuts me off in the passing lane, I yell out "Stephen Harper!").

Three holding pens (but the humane kind).

Two latex gloves (you know, to preserve my manicure).

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas...if I don't get tipsy off the holiday spirit first

2010-12-16T21:05:00.006-05:00

On the fourth day of Christmas my children gave to me...

four swearing words (fuck, shit, damn and ass preferably.) To be used without repercussion in situations meriting their use, instead of settling for fudge, snap, darn and bum.

Three holding pens ( "No touching the Christmas tree", fudge!)

Two latex gloves (Because kids can be gross and they're really leaky)

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas...if I don't jingle any bells first

2010-12-15T20:57:00.004-05:00

On the third day of Christmas my children gave to me...

three holding pens (seriously if I have to say, "No touching the Christmas tree", one more time I'm going to loose my shit.)

Two latex gloves (shit and I have become way too familiar)

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas...if I don't get mistletoed first

2010-12-14T19:16:00.007-05:00

On the second day of Christmas my children gave to me...

two latex gloves. (I'm done with shit. Done.)

And a nap with nobody but me.

the twelve days of Christmas... if a reindeer doesn't get me first

2010-12-13T19:18:00.006-05:00

On the first day of Christmas my children gave to me...

a nap with nobody but me.

sepia and Lululemon has pretty much ruined my life. not really.

2010-12-11T17:13:00.010-05:00

I would like to say that yes, I did use this picture as last year's Christmas card.

That, that is what greeted family and friends during last year's holiday season. Because that just about summed us up at the time. That picture was so us, for so many reasons. And because it is pretty fucking awesome in all kinds of ways.

But in reality this was last year's Christmas card.

Which speaks to the reality of motherhood, of parenting, that pair of pictures. Really fucking loudly.

That behind the scenes there is always a reindeer fight or something. That when the antlers come out it gets really real, really fast.

That parenting is not all soft glowy and sepia toned.

Because when you're standing behind a perfect blond ponytail clothed in light coloured Lululemon pants in line at the grocery store. And the blond pony tailed Lululemon is speaking all sing songy to her spotless children who are singing the alphabet and working through quadratic equations, while my own are blissfully eating my grocery list, you feel a little lacking in the sepia department.

Children have no business being well behaved in grocery stores, it just ruins it for everyone else and light coloured Lululemon pants! Everyone who has given birth to more than one child vaginally and sneezes a lot knows that light coloured pants are a total fucking faux pas and that the industrial strength Lycra in Costco yoga pants are way more effective at holding in your gut. And anyways I can only get my hair in a messy kind of half pony tail.

But there it is right in front of you, that little sepia toned moment and it just totally fucks with your perception of things. And there you are wondering what it would be like. The sepia.

And so last year's Christmas card was that. Because, for a little bit, it was nice to be sepia.

This year? This year we are all about this.

Which is pretty much where we are at right now.

wordless wednesday, because I'm feeling all chipper and shit

2010-12-08T17:46:00.005-05:00

And also I'm riding out a Benylin high, which makes me all warm and fuzzy and partial to participating in blogging memes.

(It's Wednesday right?)

Last year's attempt at a holiday photo card. It was a raging success.

hear that? that's the sound of the mighty falling.

2010-12-07T20:01:00.008-05:00

It totally sounds like a balloon deflating, all farty and depressing, with a sharp hissing sound. And it hurts. Me being the mighty and having fallen so hard and unceremoniously.

One day I was walking around spreading motherly love and wisdom throughout the land.

Meaning, I was yelling at my kids to eat their carrots, swearing under my breath at the familiar shooting pain of a Lego underfoot and bribing my husband with sexual favours to clean the garage. (You don't even want to know what I had to do for a clean basement. -shivers-)

When the next thing I know I'm laying here indulging in my recreational drug du jour, Neocitran, with the kids running around unkempt, eating grilled cheese sandwiches, yelling 'poopie' at the top of their lungs.

Motherless and wild.

Its bad, real bad. With the aches and feverishness, the chills, sore throat and the mucous. Its the mucous that just might be the end of me. And if it is and the end does come (I always thought that it would be someone else's snot that would kill me) please, someone give me a pedicure and a bikini wax before they hand over my body.

Don't let me go down like that.

vigil

2010-12-05T17:18:00.003-05:00

I would have went topless but ...

2010-11-21T19:31:00.007-05:00

Instead I'm bottomless over at Mommy Pants.

how I spend my days

2010-11-16T20:56:00.006-05:00

Trying not to domesticate the wildlife.

dishevelled mother standing in the fruit aisle of a grocery store

2010-11-10T19:47:00.006-05:00

Her childlessness was apparent.

It might have been the disdainful glance at my kids, daycare grime ringing there nostrils, indoor voices echoing shrill up amongst the painted, metal rafters.

Or it could have been her spotless houndstooth wool suit. Houndstooth being one of those obvious materials with magnetizing properties known to attract crumbs, peanut butter grease and boogers. The staples of any mother of small children.

And while held mesmerized by its hypnotic qualities I unconsciously tugged on my own work shirt, which could loosely be considered professional if not for the remnants of crumbs, peanut butter grease and boogers. Mentally calculating the care of wool in terms of hand washing hours and trips to the dry cleaners. Do dry cleaners even have Parents With Children Parking?

But mostly I saw her as without children for the single pomegranate she placed inside her small reusable grocery bag. Pomegranates are too much work for too little gain, such a finicky fruit has no place during a lunch time rush when toast crusts are flying fast and furious. They would only be mocked by the bananas for their frivolity. And anyways after only just getting one child to begrudgingly admit that seeds are not to be eaten, pomegranates would only seem contradictory.

Although she was too far away to carry any scent to my nose, I imagined she smelled of free time and clean sheets.

And as she sauntered off towards the artichokes, in perilously high heels and toned calves, I sighed and murmured, "She's pretty," quietly to myself.

"Yeah," came a whisper from across the bananas, as she diligently bagged Royal Galas and popped a Mum Mum into a waiting mouth.

Our eyes met, for a moment, in recognition and we parted, wheeling our carts towards separate aisles. Her towards a stacked end display of diapers on sale and me to retrieve a box of animal crackers.

And as I turned down that aisle.

The houndstooth wool suit?

Wasn't there.

Stephen King had it all wrong, but it was probably because of his penis

2010-11-02T21:46:00.003-04:00

Penises often have no sense of perspective.

And anyways, can penises know real fear? Can they?

I mean seriously Stephen King, haunted hotels? I think you were missing the point here.

Its a hotel! Where I have my own room and presumably my own bed. That is a away from my house. Where I can be by myself. And do nothing. Like a vacation. Only with ghosts but I'm good with ghosts as long as I don't have to wipe their bums or fix them snacks.

I mean I get your whole point, Stephen King, what with all the hauntiness and the ahhhh and the crazy husband in the maze, oh and those anemicy ghost twins.

First of all, Stephen King I wouldn't bring my crazy ass husband, he can be all crazy at home with our kids. And by crazy I mean do the laundry or clean under the toilet seat. I mean, we're talking having a total psychotic episode here. And that shit is best left at home.

And as for those sneaky little ghost twins? Yeah, I'll admit Stephen King, their creepy. But if that would have been me? I would have been all like, " Get your ghost asses down to the laundry room and get yourselves a mop and clean up all this fucking blood. Are you kidding me with the blood? On the carpet?," I will be damned if I am cleaning up any more messes (especially if I'm on vacation). And especially messes made by kids that aren't even mine! Oh alright Stephen King, cleaning up other peoples' kids' messes is pretty fucking frightening. I'll give you that. Well played old man, well played.

But what I guess I'm getting at Stephen King, is haunted hotels, shmaunted hotels. Its a little light on the scariness factor, don't you think? And considering the month I've had Stephen King? Quite frankly you've let me down. You've let me down Stephen King. Because this month? This month I've seen some scary shit. Let me break it down all spooky like for you.

Dropping your son off at childcare, driving all the way to work and then realizing you forgot to leave him his Teddy Bear.

The shit that is coming out of my kids noses.

Underneath the toilet seat!

My almost-a-year-without-a-pedicure feet.

Buried alive in my own dirty laundry.

Using the last crib sheet on a diarrhea night.

Using the last diaper on a diarrhea night.

Using vinegar and water to clean up diarrhea.

Vinegar and water, Stephen King. Vinegar and water.

And diarrhea!

That is some scary shit for you Stephen King.

Ghosts? Dead cats? Clowns with serious oral hygiene problems?

Stephen King do me a favor. Have a look at an effaced cervix or maybe a stitch up episiotomy and then, maybe then you will have some idea of what real fear is. Because that?

That is scary.

No disrespect to your penis.

shitty is the new awesome

2010-10-19T19:19:00.003-04:00

Because despite being unabashedly neglectful and shamelessly passing off five sentences as a blog post, I've been nominated for a Canadian Blog Award.

For Best Humour Blog no less! The 'u' in humour gives me all kinds of street cred.

This is just the kind of thing that happens when one wears pretty panties. Let that be a lesson to you.

Your welcome.

Is what I will say after you vote for me.

This is where you should go to take care of that urge.

Feels good, don't it.

seriously, I'm certifiably...

2010-10-07T19:48:00.004-04:00

Insane.

Because I'm painting.

My bedroom.

With my husband.

After which I will have to decide which is less expensive.

A divorce.

Or new carpet.

What am I saying, it would have to be just a legal separation.

He's got nice legs and I'm a sucker for nice legs.

No, I will just need some sort of legally binding contract, clearly stating that under no circumstances will we ever paint together again. Ever.

Did I mention that the paint?

Is lime green.

Kind of.

postcards from the edge

2010-09-26T20:18:00.007-04:00

Dear Former Stay-At-Home Self,
Non-elastic waist pants with zippers and buttons are totally overrated. Also do you think me missing the quality time diaper changes afforded, may be a sign of some sort of mental breakdown?

Dear Yoga Pants,
Why can't you be considered appropriate workplace attire? I miss you old friend.

Dear Empty Lunch Bag,
I despise your emptiness. You have now replaced making lunch for two toddlers as the hair shirt I must wear.

Dear Grocery Store At 4:30,
Its been a while but you are still the cluster fuck I remembered.

Dear Alarm Clock,
I hate you most of all.

Dear Hair,
You being somewhat cooperative in the morning has made all the difference.

Dear Red Wine,
Never leave me. Seriously I'd be pissed. We're talking boiled rabbit pissed.

Dear Frozen Pizza and Caesar Salad,
One day there will be a week where I won't eat you, just not right now.

Dear Peeing Sometimes When I Sneeze,
You've overstayed your welcome. Don't be that guy.

Dear Travel Mug of Good Coffee,
I can't help but vocalize my love of you, but we might have to tone it down in front of the husband, it makes him feel inadequate.

Dear Sleeping Children,
In your ears I whisper all the things sometimes lost in the harried rush of the day. Please hear my words.

Dear Being Back At Work,
You are only a pain in the ass less the 50% of the time, mostly.

and now I have mom butt which is better than mystery poop but only a little bit

2010-09-14T20:36:00.005-04:00

Going back to work after a glorious 16 months maternity leave will blow your mind in all kinds of ways you never thought possible, like when you release all the casseroles you can make with Stove Top stuffing while blatantly ignoring the sodium content in just one box of Stove Top goodness but you decide that sodium is the least of your worries in relation to your caffeine intake, forcing you to get real with how much coffee you really do drink in a day. Forcing you to consider taking drastic measures like coffee I.V.'s or a coffee patch.

Totally. Mind. Blowing.

And also I'm using the term glorious loosely because this blog is archived and all those tales of backyard pooping and boob popcorn I wrote while in a breastfeeding stupor are only a click away. But its glorious in comparison to getting boogers wiped on you by a pack of six year olds. Because at least the maternity leave boogers were the fruits of my loin. Not the actual boogers but the wipers.

And Little Miss starts to cry when we get within 5km of the childcare centre. She's either wicked smart or we have a category 5 clinger. I like my children reeking of co-dependent separation anxiety. It makes me feel loved.

Also Monkeybone likes mean dinosaurs best because they are just like Mommy.

But when I asked him later he said he likes nice dinosaurs too. I think he sensed that I was on the brink and threw me a bone.

Velociraptors have nice legs right? I'm taking comfort where I can.

Because when you go back to work after a loosely termed glorious 16 months maternity leave nothing fits, least of all your pants. They're all baggy and saggy in unsuspecting places.

Like your ass.

Leading me to conclude that I now have mom butt. Or it could just be the pants. But when I asked the hubs he was really reassuring in reiterating that I was a mom, while ignoring the butt part of the question. Which is totally okay because I'm too tired for sex anyways.

Ass lifting jeans will probably cut into my pretty panty and gravity-defying, NASA engineered push-up bra budget.

And even on the days that I'm not all saggy and baggy, when I actually look semi-put together, we will all get out to the car ready for loading and then I will smell poop. After checking the diaper and all surfaces that particular butt has touched, no poop will be found, making me realize that I've just experienced a mystery poop which is similar to a paranormal experience because of the haunting smell.

And while pacing the house sniffing, trying to find some prey to eradicate (in this case the poop) I almost certainly look like a velicoraptor.

But a mom velicoraptor.

Because of the butt.

working 9 to 5 but without Dolly Parton

2010-09-07T22:00:00.006-04:00

Utterly exhausted and racked with guilt.

Please send reinforcements of red wine and McDonald's cheeseburgers.

And also Dolly Parton.

every journey starts with a single step

2010-09-01T19:39:00.007-04:00

Mixed uppy.

Would be a good way to explain my current state of mind, or would have been a good way to explain my current state of mind. But that current state of mind, is no longer so current. And my state of mind is slightly less mixed uppy.

Back when that was the current state of my mind, the mixed uppyness, it was for all kinds of reasons. Reasons that had me feeling like I am about to leave on a big trip, what those more poetical than myself might call, a journey.

And as I head out on this big trip I have the nagging feeling that I am totally unprepared, like I might have forgotten my toothbrush or enough pairs of clean underwear. Except on this trip I won't be returning to where I left and the items that I'm not bringing with me aren't toothbrushes and underwear. They're things that I will never get back, will never have again, in that way. Like holding a newborn for the first time, in those breathless seconds when you are still connected to one another, and that connectedness you're sure will remain forever palpable even after its physicality is severed; like smiling sleepily in a tangle of chubby arms and baby curls on the couch as late afternoon sunshine streams through the window and snow blows across the backyard; like the lunchtime giggles; like the lazy mornings watching cartoons and drinking airy cups of tea meticulously poured from a yellow plastic teapot; like no schedules but nap time; like running after laughing feet; like soothing fears and kissing tears; like being home; like being there. Always.

At the departure gate it is especially hard because so much will change on this big trip and what if I miss everything, because on the tarmac, with the roar of the engines, everything feels like everything.

And then she walked. Her first steps.

From his arms to mine. A sweet farewell.

So, I picked up my suitcase.

I'm having a t-shirt made

2010-08-30T08:23:00.003-04:00

Going back to work: This shit is hard.

I'm going to need Jeff as my interventionist

2010-08-25T20:56:00.003-04:00

Because I've relapsed.

I've relapsed hard on babies.

Lately babies have been popping up all over the place and I've been on a bender.

I'm sure their mothers were like, "quit bogarting that baby".

Because I've been holding babies too long. Smelling their heads, holding their tiny hands, watching their peaceful slumber and stuff.

Holding newborn babies has wiped my memory clean, like some sneaky memory wiper and then I am all wanting another baby and forgetting the sleeplessness and the crying and the worry and the sore nipples and the poop.

The poop! There is probably poop somewhere on me right now (and its not my own). More poop is pretty much the last thing I need, second only to another baby.

And Jeff? I need to come home and find Jeff sitting on my couch telling me to wake the fuck up, with the wanting a baby. Another baby?!

Actually Jeff, would be all calm and reverse psychologyey, agreeing with all my justifying craziness. And then? Then Jeff, like the sly fox that he is, will pass a picture of an engorged breast across the table and my fate will be sealed. He'll then gently lead me outside where he'll probably offer me a cigarette and I'll be loaded into a van, on my way to baby detox.

After becoming fully rehabilitated, I will realize that I don't need another baby, I don't want another baby. I will not be having another baby.

But if you have a new baby can I smell yours? I love that new baby smell.

for Wordless Wednesday but with words and no pictures

2010-08-18T10:57:00.004-04:00

Just when I was careening over the cliff of self-doubt and indulging in some whoa-is-me about the whole going back to work and drinking shitty coffee thing, I came to a realization. I will be making money again! Holy shit there will be money to spend!

This little epiphany has brightened my spirits immeasurably (also my kids were total assholes yesterday and I went into my classroom for a bit and it felt homey, all helping with easing the being employed outside the home anxieties that were creeping up on me, although I'm sure they will creep back up when it sinks in that I will have to pack my lunch everyday, I hate like poison to pack my lunch) Lets just take a moment to behold such a masterful comma splice, all contained within a pair of perky little parentheses. Comma splices also lift my spirits, they make me feel so bad ass! (the sadness and desperation of that statement will be addressed later on when my spirits are no longer lifting)

But for now? The whole money thing is just making me smile all kinds of secret, I'm-going-to-buy-something-just-for-me-because-my-neighbor-just-brought-over-a-big-bag-of-gorgeous-hand-me-downs-and-here-is-my-chance-to-get-something-for-just-me-and-not-feel-guilty-about-it, smiles. And so after I decided that getting a pet llama for the backyard would violate a number of city by-laws and would just exacerbate the poop problem,I have designated the money for underwear. But wait, not just any old underwear.

I want to invest in some pretty panties and matching bras.

Pretty panties and matching bras have gone the way of the dodo over the last couple of years because without getting into a detailed account of the state of one's vagina before, during and after pregnancy and childbirth, pretty panties are a fucking waste of money. Seriously buying pretty panties when you are pregnant or after giving birth is like taking a fistful of twenties and just shredding them in a food processor. Similar in that the pretty panties will be destroyed leaving you all bewildered that something you love, like your vagina or your food processor, is capable of such destruction.

But alas my vagina is back to its old self again, stunning in all its glory and since I broke my food processor, forcing Little Miss to eat her back ribs like a woman, it is safe to once again purchase some pretty panties and matching bras (because I'm no longer nursing and since I hated wearing nursing bras I would just pull the cup of all my bras down to nurse, and so now all my bras are misshapen and tired looking, also some have nipple cream stains on them which is less than attractive).

And pretty panties and bras? They are like secret self-confidence armour. Gods help the person who messes with me while wearing pretty panties. I'm all like, 'Are you kidding me with the cutting me off in the passing lane, apparently you are unaware that I am wearing pretty panties and will not be fucked with today', at which point the middle finger and the horn will be employed for emphasis, but it will have been the pretty panties that would have given you the courage to do so. Pretty panties are like Kevlar, except don't get Kevlar pretty panties because Kevlar is so not a material that breathes.

Now I was going to be all Wordless Wednesday and post a picture of pretty panties, but that would be irrelevant because my idea of pretty panties will be different then yours. The whole purpose of pretty panties is to make you feel pretty, whatever that means to you. Which I would just like to ascertain that, white cotton full brief panties can totally be pretty panties if that's how you roll and they are sufficiently rocked, just the same as a g-string. Although I will confess after pushing out a 9lb baby with an epidural so I wasn't aware of how hard I was pushing and may have pushed out along with said baby part of my asshole, I will not be subjecting myself to a g-string. That was the deal I made with my anus, if it went back to where it was before, then I would no longer subject it to a g-string. And since I am a woman of my word, no g-strings for me or my asshole.

So I guess by virtue of all these words and a number of comma splices, I am not eligible for Wordless Wednesday.

If I was wearing pretty panties right now I would totally tell Wordless Wednesday to fuck off.

the one where I'm melting down and then have some Cheetos and it gets better but then it doesn't

2010-08-16T09:19:00.010-04:00

Also where I don't use paragraph breaks because they make me anxious, and so do semicolons. So no semicolons, either. Take that, semicolons! Finally making a stand against semicolons is really empowering. But empowerment is lost on me right now, because I've just realized that I am going back to work in a short number of days. I am not going to tell you the exact number of days because that is just too concrete and I'm not sure if it would require a semicolon so better to play it safe. But lets just say less than twenty days. In less than twenty days I will not be able to have Cheetos and microwaved coffee for breakfast because that is so not professional and I have union obligations, and I won't spend the days singing songs and reading stories and involving myself in half-assed attempts at art projects (oh wait, since I'm a primary teacher I will totally be doing all those things but with someone elses kids so its not the same). Also the toys all over the place, and the diaper changes and the tantrums and the finding the lost teddy bears, all those things will be regulated into a morning or evening time slot. What about the afternoons! Afternoons will only be permitted on the weekends and I hate so rigid a schedule. I'm all mixed up and crazed, like thinking of Kevin Bacon when its really Tim Robbins, mixed up and crazed. But mostly I'm mixed up and crazed because isn't this what I've been wanting all along, to get a bit of myself back, my non-ass-wiping and Cheerio-sweeping-up-self, my wearing-actual-pants-with-buttons-and-zippers self? Hasn't that been my glass of water in the desert, what I've been crawling on hands and knees towards, dragging a kid on each leg while scanning the horizon for a lost teddy bear, hoping I find him before I reach my destination? And now I'm asking rhetorical questions and wondering where the hell is that bear. And with only less than twenty days to find him, I'm feeling the urgency in discovering his whereabouts. Lost teddy bears can be so fucking unpredictable.

toddlers -sigh-

2010-08-13T19:00:00.001-04:00

Well it has happened.

I now have two toddlers. Little Miss just recently obtaining toddler status. What with the loud shrieks and flailing when I won't let her touch birds. Flying in the sky. At an altitude of 500ft.

I know, mean mommy.

And so I mourn the loss of my babies. Because my babies? They turn into insane, teeth baring, rabid clowns at 15 months and stay that way until at least 2 1/2. Which can mean only one thing, seeing that most establishments have an insane, teeth baring, rabid clown policy. House Arrest. For me.

Toddlers are not fit for public consumption most of the time. And by most I mean all.

And today? The unthinkable occurred. The double tantrum. In public. At the zoo.

It was a pretty bad scene. Even the monkeys stopped shrieking and stared, dumbfounded as only monkeys can be. At least the camels were sympathetic.

Of course I did what any good mother would do. I ignored it and walked away.

That was about an hour ago.

I'm going to pick them up now.

I got 99 problems...

2010-07-26T20:25:00.011-04:00

...and a witch ain't one.

(Oh my gawd you have no idea how long I've been holding on to that one, I could not have possibly waited until Halloween!)

But seriously I do have like 99 kabillion problems that will all culminate in me sitting here.

Sitting here will be when my problem odometer will roll over from 99 kabillion back to zero. Because duh, look at it. It is naturey, Adirondack, family cottage awesomeness. This is not a stock photo, that is really the family cottage (camp if you're fluent in American, which I am) and I have been going there since I was a fetus. I was totally aware of its peaceful serenity even then because I was a precocious fetus.

Its the getting to that misty morning goodness that is posing 99 kabillion problems. Because the only thing suckier than travelling with toddlers and babies, is preparing to travel with toddlers and babies. Especially preparing to travel with toddlers and babies to the wilderness.

So 99 kabillion problems is what I got.

But 99 kabillion problems is peanuts for this.

And because even though I'm all grown up with 99 kabillion problems it will always feel like this.

Red bathing suits get the job done. Did I not tell you I was leggy?!

the story of my Sawyer

2010-07-20T08:00:00.002-04:00

This was a guest post I wrote for the lovely Cheryl at Mommypants. I thought it would be appropriate to repost on today of all days, it being a good day to turn 3 years old.

To my baby boy who will always know how very wanted he is.

The story of my Sawyer's beginning is at the ending of another's. When the ache of motherhood was new in my heart and the need to fill the emptiness, left us feeling anxious and lost and wild.

And with the rising temperatures of that summer and the unforgiving sun beating down on us, we gave way to that wildness and maniac revelry in which it was easy to forget that,what was missing. Our irresponsibility, an abandonment and blatant disregard to the responsible, carried us through the months of long nights and left us in the end sunburned and tired and wanting.

The wanting being an uninvited guest who nagged and pestered and made its presence known in the wake of happy news from friends, we being at the age of happy news. Until the wanting, no longer content to stand behind wavering smiles and choked congratulations, found its way into my frenzied thoughts, driving me towards a preoccupation with recapturing what I had lost. Leaving me bewildered with my own inability, my failure.

The wanting had made permanent residence within, its consumptive nature peering out from behind my eyes. Until he, pained too, took my sullen face in his hands, looked into the green depth of where the wanting lay and said stop.

And I stopped.

In that airy, light time, leaves blew across our path and the coolness on our skin felt better. We felt better. And we laughed and embraced in the face of our new found betterment. Betterment being a more welcome companion to the wanting.

So that our own happy news, didn't seem news at all on that cold November night. Its arrival just being delayed. We forgave it it's tardiness and waited.

We waited for things to take. For it to be okay. To get past the point where it had ended before. When things had gone awry.

We were hopeful, filled with cautious anticipation, singing Beatles songs. Pleading with it to hold on. To stay.

But then there was blood. It's familiarity allowing me a sense of composure, a numbness.

And this composure carried me on wooden legs, into a darkened ultrasound room where I explained to the woman technician that this was not the first and that I expected the worst. And because of the numbness my words were wooden too, hollow.

Maybe it was that hollowness in my voice or the glassiness of my eyes or maybe it was just that she was a mom too. But whatever her reasoning, she broke protocol and turned the screen so that both her and I would see the silvery images there.

Her voice was soothing and murmuring as she moved the wand across my still flat belly, searching. She held her breath when she stopped and I did too.

"There," she said quietly, with warmth, pointing to the screen.

One blinking pixel.

One blinking pixel, until I am no more, will be the single most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes upon.

And many months later, in the glow of a summer heat, my Sawyer was placed in my arms. Where I marvelled at the miracle of him and how I thought he had been lost save for the hope I'd found in that one blinking pixel.

I give good 32 year old mom face

2010-07-17T22:56:00.002-04:00

A eye wrinkles, newly acquired over the last 3 years of smiling. Smiling at holding my babies for the first time, smiling at funny sleeping faces, smiling at first steps, first words, first bites into pickles and strawberries, smiling at inside family jokes because we are a family now, us four, and have inside family jokes even if they are about poop and toots and pirate dinosaurs. Smiling, always smiling.

B slightly off-colour teeth, stained with pots upon pots of coffee necessary to fuel this mom machine. (also red wine may or may not have played a small part)

C unwashed hair. Hair washing consumes precious showering time. With a baby screaming from the confines of her crib and trains being launched in through the shower curtain, you need to stick to the basics. Washed hair is a privilege only earned through creative parenting (giving your kids a box of 36 tampons, taking each one out and putting each one back in again gives you practically enough time for a spa treatment) and time management (waiting for nap time).

D deep wrinkle between my eyes. Acquired through brow furrowing at miscellaneous stains and damp spots on the couch. Also from contorting my face to assume the identity of each of The Three Bears, various monsters and Sir Topham Hatt.

E strong arms and broad shoulders. Used to lift breastfed babies who find themselves in the 90th percentile for height and weight. Also to bear the load of many, many hard decisions we mothers have to make. To sleep train, to not sleep train, when to wean, should I vaccinate, what about circumcision, am I doing the right thing, am I fucking my kids up by letting them watch TV, what sunscreen should I be using (I have red haired kids, skipping sunscreen is not an option)? Shouldering this burden of decision making, of being completely responsible for another's wellness, is perhaps the hardest mom job of all.

F unshaven armpits. Again with the sticking to showering basics and having to make tough decisions. Legs or arm pits? Legs if only to stop the incessant, "Mommy, you're picky". Which is usually exclaimed in a toddler whisper (adult shout) in the line at the grocery store.

G stainguarded, microfibre sectional couch. Stainguarded because, duh. Microfibre because we can't have nice things and its extraordinary ability to absorb mass amounts of breast milk (we're talking 2 week postpartum, mid-day letdown amounts) gives me a sense of well being and security I've never known with any other piece of furniture. Sectional because what the hell else are you going to use as a pirate ship.

H tank top. Part of my two piece mom body armour, the other piece being black yoga pants (and flip flops if I'm venturing farther than the yard).

I boobs. -sigh- That is all.

J I'm-32-years-old-and-its-wonderfully-awesomer-than-I-thought-it-ever-could-be eye sparkle. Which is the best kind of eye sparkle to have.

love him

2010-07-16T07:33:00.000-04:00

Five years ago today it was very beautiful.

Five years later it still is.

my face getting stepped on is not pictured here

2010-07-14T10:14:00.003-04:00

Because that is what happened right after taking this picture.

I would like to say that this was the first time my face was stepped on by my toddler. I would like to say that this was the last time my face was stepped on by my toddler.

But when you lie down on a hill to look at clouds, with said toddler, that is the risk you need to be willing to take.

Live dangerously my friends.

the smell of vinegar should have tipped you off

2010-07-12T21:19:00.000-04:00

To the fact that I am a rather large douche.

Can I just address for a moment the ridiculousness of douche. Who invented douche anyhow? I think it must have been a man, because what woman in their right mind would shoot vinegar and chemicals into their vaginas and think that it was not massively ridiculous. That has man written all over it. And not the normal run of the mill, lovely, woman-respecting, natural-vagina-loving man but a bad man, a bad, ridiculous man. But then what man who prefers the company of women, finds the scent of vinegar more appealing than vagina? Its a mystery. But I will say this, vaginas are like self-cleaning ovens kids, self-cleaning.

Now what is not a mystery is why I am a huge douche, this is very clear. And why I am a douche mainly lays in the fact that I have been ridiculous, ridiculous like the act of douching because I have received awards over the last month, maybe months and have not only not said thank you, thank you for being awesome and taking the time out of your busy day to send my ungrateful, douchey ass an award but I have not even posted my thanks in a blog entry let alone an email. I am not even going to justify the doucheyness of this faux pas, but I will say that I am flaky and given to fits of flightiness. Those of you who know me are nodding your heads right now, you damn traitors, you told me I was getting less flaky with age! I mean I really am slightly less flaky then I was, its not like I've forgotten my kids anywhere, lately.

And to prove to you that I am not that flaky and no longer wish to be a douche, I am going to tell you all about these awesome, fabulous bloggers who used to not think that I was a douche (although since practically a month(s) has passed since I have received some of these awards, their opinions may have changed) and have bestowed upon me some shiny things, knowing that I love shiny things.

Susie Kline at Motherhoot graced me with this ray of sunshine

Susie Q is darling and wears a rocking tiara. You will go for the yummy recipes but stay for the pictures of Rick Springfield. (Seriously Rick quit being a douche and follow this woman on twitter, being a douche is lonely Rick, really lonely)

The Happy Nester also sent this award my way.

The Happy Nester is a fellow Canadian, moreover she is a fellow Ontarian. She practically lives up the road in the Muskokas. For those of you who are oblivious to the Muskokas (Americans I may or may not be talking to you), it's gorgeousness is insurmountable, well except for the odd dock spider but once that bastard sees the wrong side of a canoe paddle the unsurmountableness continues. Run on over and tell her that the woman who lit a cigarette next to her while she breastfed her adorable, chubby bunny baby on the beach, is lucky to not have a burn mark in the middle of her forehead. Breastfeeding mothers can be fierce as hell.

Cheri at CheGo2 the Kitchen gave me this substancey award.

Cheri and I go way back. (She can vouch, that my doucheishness is only fleeting) She is from the Philippines and does not fuck around in the kitchen. If you are looking for an awesome recipe to wow your friends with at a dinner party but its probably only lunch for her, go there and wow away.

And guess what? Despite the fact that I regularly use the term 'ass munch' in blog posts, Jen over at Mom vs. The Boys thought I blog with substance, too. Thought this so much in fact she also sent this award my way. Jen does know me in real life and knows that I am not a douche. I mean are people who open bar tabs with there Visa at office Christmas parties douches? That is what is known as a rhetorical question.

Alright now if I were you I would go and read the following two blogs (I am not you because you are probably not a douche, but lets just be hypothetical for a damn minute, its not going to kill you!) These blogs are deserving of millions of awards because their awesomeness is as insurmountable as the Muskokas minus the dock spiders. Read away. And ladies feel free to pick up both awards because you are like substancey sunshine, which is not smoggy at all.

Nattering Nic she is awesome and she will listen to NKOTB full volume. Also she blogs about Charcot Marie Tooth, which is not a dental affliction but is her reality and she just moms her way through it all.

Average Girl over at The Highly Uninteresting Misadventures of Average Girl. If this woman is not going to write a book I will find her and bite her oh so attractive earlobes.

There I feel cleansed and no longer douchey. I am self cleaning like that.

this isn't no Alanis Morissette song

2010-07-09T10:34:00.007-04:00

Although it is ironic. Motherhood, that is.

Motherhood has irony by the buttload. For those of you still being all empirical, buttload is not quite as much as shitload but more than a hell of a lot. So needless to say, the buttload of irony in motherhood is quite daunting.

I first began to reflect on the irony of motherhood in the most ironic of places, while a 120 watt bulb was illuminating my cervix. Because you see I used to dread pap smears, dread them. They're messy and cold and 120 watts is not the best lighting for my cervix. To sum it up, pap smears suck. Or they used to. But now, while getting a pap smear? It's kind of relaxing. Like going to the spa but not, because your cervix is exposed and you're not wearing those disposable, foamy flip-flops. But its pretty good (my doctor has a very light touch). Laying there with my feet in the stirrups, I didn't have to fix anybody a snack, no one needed their nose or butt wiped, it was silent, well except for the sound of a speculum being cranked, but quiet none the less. And just then, it was all about me. It was kind of relaxing in a twisted, sad, desperate way. Seeing the relaxing quality of a pap smear when I once used to break out in a cold sweat at the sight of stainless steel and lubricant is the first irony of motherhood that I had considered. Was I on to something?

Because, once I started thinking about it, the ironies that can be found in being a mom are everywhere. Hiding behind corners and jumping out at you all over the place, leaving you wishing you had a panty liner in your purse because you might have peed a little it took you by such surprise. Motherhood is ironic as hell.

Like once your B cup (but perky and cute) self finally gets huge gorgeous boobs, I'm talking you could hold billboards up with these boobs, use these boobs as foundation pillars for apartment complexes. Once you finally get those lovelies, they hurt so fucking bad you don't want anyone to look at them let alone touch them and even if someone did, milk would instantly squirt out at a range that could only be measured in metres, maybe kilometres depending on time of day and that person could be injured in the eye or something. So now that you have these awesome boobs they are like painful deadly weapons and so you can't even use them for your own personal gain, unless you count nurturing your child as gain, which I guess it is. But finally having big boobs only to blind someone with them? Ironic.

Also now that you have reached an age of wisdom and self-assuredness, a time of being comfortable in your own body. A time where you might consider wearing a flirty little dress because you finally appreciate your long legs and have gained a little self-confidence in realizing that long legs are pretty hot and not chicken leggy at all. Now? Now you have a huge pulsating varicose vein right behind your knee that takes flirty dresses out of the equation regardless of how lenghthy your legs are. Gaining enough self-confidence to wear sexy clothes only to have your body ravaged by stretch marks and varicose veins? That is fucking irony for you.

And another thing about self-confidence, it is so wasted on overtired mothers. Because now you are at a point in your long term relationship, where you are comfortable as hell. Yeah that's right leave the lights on because I know I will rock your world and we can be all crazy and dirty and wild. No one's going anywhere, we are solid, so lets have some awesome we're-comfortable-with-each other sex because we've put in the grunt work and know what we're doing, what its all about, we're pretty much professionals at this point, unionized and shit. Well now during this time of awesome sex, we're too damn tired. At the end of the day? Done. This might be the hardest irony to bear, having the tools and knowledge for awesome sex but not having the energy. -sigh-

That brings us to knowledge. After recovering some wherewithal and gaining some ground on the constant loss of brain cells experienced over the four years of your liberal arts education, once the smoke and haze has cleared, you are ready to start forming some opinions and arguing some points beyond whether the vacuum solo in the middle of Phish's set was conducive to the harmony of the vocals and light show, delve into some issues with meaning and weight. Maybe discuss the absurdity of protesting against the evils of capitalism using fire bombs and face masks, um unless you bartered your own services for those goods, you are participating in a capitalist economic system ass munch, or how the exclusion of homosexuality from the Ontario health curriculum is not only negligent but also a violation of human rights, you know real heady stuff. Well just as you are becoming all wise and politically opinionated, the onslaught of braincell loss begins again, but this time at the hands of pregnancy and sleep deprivation and hormones and just being too tired to give a shit what's happening beyond the confines of your own house, alright maybe I'd go as far as the back yard but this is coming from the woman who let her child shit in her backyard, let the poop hammock be a testament to the limit of boundaries in the realm of giving a shit. Becoming wise and experienced enough to have some thoughts and opinions about important issues, only to see your brain cells drain away into the confines of a nursing pad and being to tired to really care? How ironic is that?

What's ironic is just as I'm finishing this post, I hear my kids waking up from their naps. Or is that coincidental?

Whatever. And what's more? I've missed them.

Motherhood. Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?

june, you're a punk ass

2010-07-04T19:53:00.006-04:00

June almost kicked my ass.

It seems that I'm always narrowly escaping an ass kicking whether it be at the hands of , out of control toddlers,potty training stomach flus,poop hammocks, whatever. Its always something around here.

But June, June is a whole 'nother kettle of fish. June is a damn big kettle. I mean its probably the biggest kettle I've ever seen. It makes me crave tea that's how big of a kettle, June is. Except then the tea would probably taste like fish, which just won't do. Not when June is being a big stupid head. The last thing I need is fishy tasting tea.

As I've said before, the fertility patterns in my husband's family are extraordinary, so extraordinary in fact that every single family member has a birthday in June. Every single one. Resulting in a lot of celebration. Now I am so not against celebration, I'll snap on a birthday hat with the best of them. Its cake fuelled toddlers I abhor. There is nothing worse than a toddler all amped up on cake. Well maybe dock spiders, but after dock spiders cake frenzied almost-3-year-olds. Cake-frenzied-almost-3-year-olds are intolerable.

So needless to say June has been an exercise in shit shows and various scenes of chaos. In looking back at June, getting a pap smear and going on a few job interviews were the most relaxing parts of the month. -sigh- But then came July.

July with its hot, humidity, sitting in the backyard with your feet in a kiddy pool kind of days. Welcome hazy, lazy days (yes I am fully aware why the days appear so hazy but for fuck sakes I live in Canada where a summer is a summer and a little smogginess is not going to stop me from summering it up). Come stay a while.

Living in Canada with the Vitamin D deficiencies, the summer worship, the affinity for sitting outside with frosty beverages and everything else that living in Canada entails, I feel that I should make explanation for my goneness. Because I will surely be gone.

Gone fishing.
Gone sitting on the dock.
Gone reading books in Adirondack chairs.
Gone breaking up sandbox brawls.
Gone to family reunions.
Gone napping in small, wood-panelled rooms with whispery curtains.
Gone listening to Jane's Addiction, because Jane Says.
Gone drinking red wine on the deck.
Gone riding trains.
Gone holding hands and kissing.
Gone to the land of dial-up and no connection.
Gone blowing out birthday candles.
Gone cuddling water-logged babies.
Gone to the zoo to watch the otters.
Gone listening to the blues in sweaty bars.
Gone being all not caring, wearing flowy sundresses, in and out of reality because its summer and that is what one does in the summer.

Of course I'll promise to write when I can.

Wish you were here.

I am mommy

2010-06-29T15:21:00.003-04:00

I am not a babysitter, a childcare worker, or a nanny
I carry a diaper bag not a purse
I live in a home filled with toys and stain guarded carpet, not an Ikea catalogue
I use a train table for a coffee table
and drink from plastic cups, not glasses
I answer to no one, not Barney, not Thomas, not Dora
I follow no rules and adhere to no schedule (except nap time)
I go to the park not the mall
and eat Cheerios and highchair left overs for lunch
I don't know where the potty is
...but we'll just pee right here in the parking lot
I own a mini-van not a Honda civic
and it comes fully loaded with diapers, wipes and snacks
Its called a sucky not a binky or a pacifier
And that smell, its Penaten
My shirts are stained, my hair is dirty
and I own 12 pairs of black yoga pants
I cook macaroni and cheese because that's what my kids like
I push strollers
I hold hands
I sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star
and that is his indoor voice
I breastfeed, wipe bums and check my email
all at the same time
I kiss boo boos, I check for monsters
and yes we will have a time out in the grocery store
We say penis and vagina, not wiener or bun
I have read Good Night Moon 11,329 times
now its 11,330
I will proudly feed my baby where ever I want
and it won't be in a public washroom
No I won't cover up and yes you can see my stretch marks
My kids are not angels but
I reserve the right to tell you all the cute things they say
in a baby voice
I will count to 3
and I will use my grumpy words
I finish sentences with, "because I said so"
and "I'll wait for manners"
I can stop a whine with a look
I recognize the dangers in silence
and will discipline your child if the situation arises
I go to bed at 9:00 but don't go to sleep until 9:30
and I always remember to turn the baby monitor back on after sex
I appreciate the appeal of a nice pair of cotton panties
and will never go bra-less again
I was not born into motherhood but I'm really starting to like it
to one little girl and one little boy I am everything
to them
I am Mommy.

all I really need to know I learned while potty training

2010-06-27T19:47:00.004-04:00

He's potty trained.

I've come through the other side.

Everyone is alive and accounted for. There may or may not be a red wine shortage in Southern Ontario that I may or may not be responsible for. And it is a good possibility that my son has learned how to use the word 'shit'. Not in the context of poop but 'shit' as in, 'shit I just dropped the potty bowl full of pee all over the kitchen floor.' I always thought I would encourage my children to expand their vocabularies whenever possible and am happy to see that some of my parenting goals have come to fruition.

Now that the dust has cleared and I don't hate my life anymore, I'm reflecting on this little milestone in the hopes of helping others who find themselves in the potty predicament. Because potty training almost kicked my ass, until I looked it in the eye, cussed it out, distracted it with my boobs and then punched it in the ear and ran away. After being roughed up a bit, potty training started to see it my way and we pretty much got along after that. That's when things really started to improve.

And during the whole experience did I swear and stomp and take out my frustrations on my husband? Yes, I did. But after I was done compensating my husband for my bad behaviour (which is a win win situation because I love kissing and kissing while smelling like your own child's urine is not as appalling as you would think) I re-evaluated my potty training experience and have come to the realization that I am wiser for it and that there are some real life lessons to be learned here.

Whenever possible let someone else do the dirty work. If you can swing it let your child's Childcare do it. I am not being funny or sarcastic, I am being so serious, I have a very serious face on. I am looking at you seriously. These people are trained professionals and are probably incarnated saints or Buddhist monks with the patience they have. Patience that I do not have after throwing away the sixth pair of poop filled size 3 briefs because I just could not deal with it. One pair was so bad I burst into tears and had to lie and say I stubbed my toe. It was that bad. And again with the corn. It would appear that I feed my son inordinate amounts of corn. I do not. But there it is none the less. Oh and if you decide to go this route you better be slipping that Childcare professional an envelope filled with like $50,000 and even then you probably are being cheap.

The best quality time is spent in small confined spaces. Possibly while one of you is on the toilet. I've known this a long time as I can read a mean story while sitting on the toilet, captivating audiences for minutes at a time. My toilet rendition of Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Dance, is brilliant and has garnered international rave reviews. I think there was even a write up in the Village Voice. So while potty training, Monkeybone and I really had some deep conversations. For example I've learned that I am in fact his best girl, that he really likes the 'spicy crackers' (cracked pepper and olive oil Triscuits) we had for snack a couple of days ago, he aspires to see a snake and ride a train, sometimes his penis tickles when he pees and that he enjoys pooping. Thank you potty training for strengthening that mommy-son bond.

Know when to let go. I'm talking about underwear here. When first potty training your child, their underwear may resemble an accident scene, skid marks everywhere. Consider yourself warned. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses and throw them away. I would advise you to buy like 378 pairs of little underwear and budget to throw about 300 of them out. Its just easier that way. I did have to take a part time job to finance this decision but I think it was really worth it in the end.

Always be prepared and plan for setbacks. When you decide to potty train your child if you are not stocked with at least 50 cases of paper towels you are fucking delusional. I am just trying to be real here. And that is a conservative estimate. Mother Earth and I have made our peace and she is understanding, after all she is a mother herself but to not be a total ass you better compensate for your mass paper towel consumption by being extra vigilant with recycling and composting, walk instead of drive or at the very least kiss your lawn or hug a tree (lawns and trees need love too). You'll feel better for it. Also a word on expecting setbacks, you might be getting somewhere with the potty training thing and then explosive diarrhea will hit and you are fucked. You're fucked. Just keep your chin up, literally a toddler with explosive diarrhea is well, explosive. Be on guard. This setback however could just be me, obviously I was someone horrible in a past life and karma is coming back to get her revenge.

You pay for what you get. Don't cheap out on toilet paper. Just don't. Take out a second mortgage, sell your least favourite kid, do what you need to do. Cheap toilet paper has no place in the home of a potty training toddler. Because if you think skid marky underwear is the worst of it wait to you experience your first poke through because you tried to cut corners with the cheap toilet paper. I use three-ply, but I'm sensitive and not much of a risk taker.

Shit happens. Its a hazard of the job. And when it does happen, it is usually on the carpeted stairs.

the difference between bears and balls

2010-06-23T14:55:00.000-04:00

Alternate post title: Motherhood fucks with your head.

That could be the title of pretty much anything I've ever written on the subject of motherhood, hell that could be the name of my blog! But it does, fuck with your head.

Just when you think you might have figured out your way, indoctrinated a particular set of values, come to terms with your new role and position, you're thrown for a philosophical loop and end up ass over tea kettle. Philosophically speaking of course.

Its hard figuring it all out, who you are as a mother, how you want to mother, where you fit in. Maintaining your youishness. And it all changes with each new stage, each passed developmental milestone. And you change too and how you see yourself, how you see the world, how you see yourself in the world.

So I sit, fancying myself a great philosopher, which is rather ridiculous because in that long list of great philosophers, of great thinkers of the past, vaginas are hard to come by. Which does add to the ridiculousness of it all because everyone knows vaginas are smart as hell.

And that most recent philosophical loop thrown at me and my vagina? That loop was not getting a coveted job. A job that involved working with kids who are at risk of becoming non-readers. A job at which I would have excelled. Because those are my kids, the kids who get into grade 1 and aren't reading, who don't recognize letters and sounds, who can't identify basic sight words. Those are the kids I live for, I am all over those kids. I can make those kids readers. I know this.

So when reading the job posting, I figured I had it in the bag, being awesome and all. And it fell nicely in sequence with my career goals, the path I want to move towards professionally. But then I started filling out the application, and on this application my awesomeness? Not so apparent. Because it would appear that my awesomeness checked out in and around 2007. My awesomeness had taken a leave. It on paper had taken a leave three years back and had not made an appearance since.

Oh I knew where my awesomeness had gone. It was creating and nourishing life, my awesomeness was delivering babies, changing diapers, breastfeeding, cuddling, singing, playing peekaboo, reading Goodnight Moon, holding little moist hands, kissing chubby nibbly toes. My awesomeness had escaped the classroom and had descended on the world at large.

I looked for the spot where I could record all this awesomeness down on this particular job application, to fill in the blanks, but had difficulty finding it, probably because it doesn't exist. Probably because I had fallen into the maternity leave black hole, that may or may not be an actual HR term but don't quote me on it.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I sent that application in, holes and all. The inevitable occurred. I didn't get the job. I didn't even get an interview. I expected it, but it was still a shot to the ego, and my used to being at the topishness was replaced by wishing I was still the bestishness.

And with all that mixed up ishness rolling around in my head, I sulked. I sulked shamelessly about the choices women have to make, and how do we choose and the sacrifices mothers make and the guilt we feel about those sacrifices and is there ever a right answer, the right road to take. Will mothers always be a step behind, is it always necessary to choose between our children and our careers? Do penises feel this way? Do I really feel that staying at home with my kids has affected my career? And where the hell are all the women philosophers, was it there vaginas that kept them off the list, prevented them from getting the job?

There I sat with my vagina, all sulky and moody and mad feministy and feeling all mixed uppity, like I wasn't on the listy, that I had been past by and for what? What did I have to show for it besides holes on a job application?

At this particular moment of dark complicated vagina feelings, over crawls Little Miss, a downy ball of strawberry curls and baby chub. And what does she have the nerve to say to me? In all her baby wisdom, the depth and complexity of which is beyond me (she is sure to make the list of great philosophers some day), she looks me straight in the eye and exclaims, "Ba-ah."

And that is all it took, to shake me from my black, selfish, stupid mood, "Ba-ah". Because you see, 'ba-ah' is Little Miss' word for bear, most specifically a favoured brown bear wearing a red shirt, the bear of which I had been stonily sitting on. But what shook me from my revelry was that even though her word for ball is also 'ba-ah', I knew she meant bear when she said,'ba-ah', I understood. I knew this because I know Little Miss. Of her 423 days on this earth, I have spent 420 of them with her.

Suddenly there were no holes, or difficult decisions for my vagina to make, there was no feeling left behind or not being on the list. There was only the difference between bears and balls, which turns out to be everything.

sometimes

2010-06-20T19:42:00.002-04:00

Sometimes there is no father because mothers have to make decisions that are right and do it themselves.

Sometimes mothers are better than fathers.

Sometimes in the absence of a father little girls look for a surrogate and call these surrogates, uncle or grandfather. And sometimes from these fathers, is learned the strength and softness of men.

Sometimes fathers hold little hands and walk slow for little feet, never leaving them behind. Telling them all that they know of the land and animals and things.

Sometimes there are men who love women and love their children too, because they come together. With some ceremony and little preamble, some men become fathers to forever remain so. And to little girls this is everything.

Sometimes fathers sigh. Over their daughter's math grades. Over the honks of a saxophone coming from the basement. Over car loads of giggling girls. Over missed curfews and first boyfriends.

Sometimes fathers let their daughters. Let their daughters, get liberal arts degrees, rent apartments in seedy (eclectic) neighborhoods, dye their hair black, pierce their tongues and their noses. Sometimes fathers let their daughters be.

Sometimes fathers call David Susiki an asshole to bait their idealistic daughters.

Sometimes fathers let their daughters go. To find their ways. To follow their paths. To fall in love.

Sometimes fathers smile at daughters in black gowns and caps. And hold their hands in white dresses and veils.

Sometimes daughters of good fathers, find good men and watch them become good fathers. The birth of a father, being a beautiful thing.

Sometimes daughters become mothers of great big, bouncy, bubbly babies.

Sometimes mothers of great big, bouncy, babies become tired and turn their pleading eyes to fathers who smile and carry these babies off so that mothers can have a minute of peace.

And sometimes in the quiet that is left behind, mothers can hear fathers singing to babies, softly over the monitor. With an energy that throughout the course of the messy, diaper-filled day has escaped her, and she is thankful.

Sometimes fathers are better than mothers.

choosy moms choose this

2010-06-16T08:33:00.006-04:00

T.V.

Sometimes its a necessary evil and by sometimes I mean almost everyday so you can sit without being touched or talked to for five glorious minutes. Its necessary I tell you! -reaches out hand imploring for a lifeline-

These are my kids on T.V. (not on as in actors, on as in getting their fix)

This is an old picture, but probably the T.V. is on right now. For no other reason then there are distinct fertility patterns within my husband's family, the result being that there are 50 gazillion June birthdays and I am all over it.

Although I'm only admitting to you that my kids are watching t.v in this picture, to everyone else I will say that we are parodying the Simon and Garfunkel album cover for Bookends.

(shhh it will be our little secret)

Today is also the day you have all (well all four of you) been waiting for. The day I have lost my fucking mind and decided that I will bake a cake with a toddler.

I could make an assault and batter joke here but I just don't have the appetite for it.

Also if you don't head over and wish Bibliomama a happy 40th birthday month (the actual day was yesterday) then you are most definitely an ass munch. Chocolate cakey kisses to you my dear!

well I'll be a monkey's uncle

2010-06-11T09:58:00.004-04:00

I was as surprised as anyone. Toddlers are pretty fucking hilarious. Or mine is anyways.

You see Monkeybone (whose humble beginnings can be read here) is a spirited toddler. Spirited being parentese for he can be a complete asshole a lot of the time. And by asshole I mean running around the house screaming "NO", sitting on the cat, throwing catastrophic tantrums in public places, refusing (just refusing everything and everybody), you known textbook assholey stuff. I forgive him a lot because he's not yet 3, he's pretty cute, and anyways he's my asshole, so there.

Also I read somewhere that geniuses were often spirited toddlers, so there's that.

However as he gets older and becomes a bit more civilized (and by bit I mean he doesn't sit on the cat anymore) his assholishness often gives way to comedic gold. The shit that comes out of this kid's mouth is unreal, also I can see the light at the end of the tunnel of Terrible Twos (which started at 14 months so its been a long time coming) so maybe I just have more patience. Whatever it is this kid is hilarious. So here are a few adages from the Tao of Monkeybone:

"Mommy I love pooping. Pooping is so great.", said after pooping on the potty for the sixth time that day. Seriously if there was ever any doubt who this kid's father is there isn't anymore.

"Nana you have big underwear.", said to my Mother on her last visit. He's nothing if not observant. Also I have hidden away all of my underwear, I'm premenstrual and can't handle that kind of criticism right now.

"Mommy look, look I can touch my penis.", said this morning while I snoozed in bed and he lay next to me watching TV (yeah I'm that kind of mother and I will fucking snap your head off if you judge me, as I've just said I'm premenstrual). Not wearing diapers has given him a whole new lease on life.

"Daddy look at your big penis!", said every morning that he sees Daddy get out of the shower, causing my husband's ego to grow exponentially.

"Let's hear Goo-Goo Ga-Ga!", said every time we get into the car after repeated playings of Lady Gaga's Telephone. (there is an adult in this house that really likes this song, I don't want to mention any names but that adult is not me, however I will chime in on Beyonce's part because, duh) And if you try to switch it up with Madonna, he indignantly cries, "This isn't Goo-Goo Ga-Ga!", demanding he is.

And finally this. In my own defense, while trying to watch my language (I'm being serious here) around impressionable ears, when my sister and I get together sometimes things just slip, as was the case here.

My sister being a sneaky bitch has gotten herself out of an upcoming family event, not even considering my own well being during such an affair. She probably doesn't love me anymore and so I was just outlining the obvious for her by shouting, "You are such a dick," forgetting that Monkeybone was quietly eating his lunch in the kitchen. My sister protested, "No I'm not!" To which Monkeybone's prompt reply was, "Yes, you are a dick."

Finally, someone who sees it my way!

special sauce makes all the difference

2010-06-09T09:28:00.004-04:00

Because it totally does, and so does Cheryl over at Special Sauce in the House.

There are no words for the fantasticness that is Cheryl, so when she asked me to guest post I abandoned the kids on my mother-in-law's front porch and headed on over.

I can't quite say how we found each other and formed a friendship within the vast expanse of the blogisphere. But now we are like macaroni and cheese, her being the sleek, shiny, curvy macaroni and me being the messy, gooey, stringy yet strangely delectable cheese that just sits in your gut until you vow you won't indulge in it again but you always come back for more. Cheryl is way easier to digest.

Also we both have Sawyer boys.

This is my Sawyer boy, fresh in this world.

Read his story here and also bask in the glory that is Chery but don't get too comfy because she is changing up her site to showcase her fabulous ass, you will love to hate her.

date night should not smell like gravy...

2010-06-04T10:25:00.006-04:00

Or should it? Because ours did, what with this and all...

The sex afterwards was hot. You would think stopping halfway through for a Rolaids break would kill the mood, it doesn't. I guess gravy and cheese curds call for good sex.

Also I'm a bit worried that now I have a gravy fetish, which just doesn't work for me. I'm a mother to small children, I have no time for fetishes, least of all those that induce heartburn.

For my non-Canadian brethren, this is what we up here in the Great White North call poutine or what I call fodder for hot sex. It is what it looks like, fries topped with cheese curds then covered in gravy.

I also occasionally call it dinner. As was the case last night, which turned into a quality date night.

Now to decide whether this being our date night was alluringly funny or just sad. I'm going with funny given the hot gravy sex. You just can't look at sex that smells like gravy any other way.

this was so predictable

2010-06-03T09:49:00.007-04:00

That one day I would be engaging in a threesome for all the blogisphere to behold. I prefer menage a trois because I eat a lot of poutine and consider myself francophone but threesome does make me sound younger and slims out my thighs, so I'm going to go with it.

Where is this threesome occurring? Over at The Dirty Mommy Club where she features two additional blogs to her own (hence the threesome, clever like a fox she is) on what has now been coined Threesome Thursdays.

So saunter on over there wearing your prettiest panties under your yoga pants and discover some more awesome bloggage (in addition to my own of course but that goes without saying). The other blog she is featuring sounds like it is cool bananas (I watch a lot of Zigby, fucking Australians they're just so endearing) and there may or may not be Cool Whip involved. That is the only hint I'm giving, you are just going to have to go check it out yourselves. How's that for tough love. Was it believable? Did you really think that I meant business? I am trying to practice so that I am ready for the teen years. It might need some work. -sigh-

Also I have been racking up the blog awards as of late, from some lovelies who just brighten the world with their extreme coolness and mad blogging skills. I'm feeling a bit sheepish that it has taken me a while to send out my thank-yous, please forgive me my assholeness. And with out further adieu (I know you are all on the edge of your seats).

The Empressover at Good Day, Regular People nodded her crowned head my way and graced me with this beauty,

Allow me to kiss your bejewelled hand your Highness.

Heligirl as well took it upon herself to send the love my way. She is hellagood like that. She thinks I am trendy, which is true as I am trying to bring back sweatpants and heels worn together as a fashion statement, so I guess you could say I'm a bit of a trendsetter. She gave me this bad boy to seal the deal.

Nodding nonchalantly your way, Heligirl. Exuberance and unabashed joy is so not cool, which is why I am probably not usually considered cool. Alright what the hell, waving wildly and throwing kisses at you Heligirl! Cool be damned.

The third and final award was passed on to me by the ever infallible, always hilarious, chastiser of boob popcorn eaters everywhere the incomparable Mayor of Crazy Town. Once her blog quits acting the fool with all its 404'd malarkey I will post this shiny sparkly award, for all the world to see and envy.

It will be right here:

Finally, I have been recognized for the Uber I am.

So now in the name of good Karma and because I think these blogs will rock your socks off, here are the blogs that make me curl up in the fetal position crying because I will never be as bad ass as they are. Oh alright I don't cry not being a cryer and all but I do drink wine and rock while humming the theme to Twin Peaks in the face of my mediocrity in comparison to their awesomeness. Here they are, ladies feel free to choose the award that best suits your tastes, or that coordinates with your outfit. If you want, be a greedy gus and grab all three because you're cool like that. Or just stick it to the man and not take any at all but secretly thrill to the idea that you are great. Whatevs I'm not judgey.

Little Green One Kermit the Frog was a damn liar when he said 'it ain't easy being green'. Frogs are just so untrustworthy!
Mom vs. The Boys Head on over and assure her I won't be drunk at her son's first birthday party. Hung over is fair game though.
Pregnant with Anticipation She just had a baby and I loves the new mama drama! Show here some love and convince her blogging is where it's at.
Special Sauce in the House Because I love her, that is all. Also because she lives in the OC and looks like that naturally.
Taming Insanity Read her! But don't take her last soda, girlfriend will cut you down for that.
Pretty All True I wear a panty liner when reading her, because she is really funny and I am slightly incontinent.
Mommy of a Monster and Infant Twins She's really pretty and I like pretty people. I also like people who call their kids monsters, it makes me feel not so alone. Hold me.

Off to wear these shoes around the house and pretend that I'm Giselle Bundchen. Although I will draw the line at getting a Brazilian, I've a low tolerance for pain and cannot abide the smell of hot wax.

Bundchen, out!

Holy Shit! Shoes!

2010-06-01T14:08:00.005-04:00

Goodness me who would have ever thought that I would have fallen madly in love with shoes so late in the game (doesn't life end after 30? No? Oh. Well then. Who would have thought it none the less).

Not I said the fly, who has been bearing witness to all the gastric-intestinal horrors that have darkened the doors of this house. I have been wiping bums (just the kids, thankfully the adults have been spared thus far)and doing loads upon loads of sheets that look suspiciously like Rorschach inkblots, the diagnosis being that I have laundered way to many shitty sheets and vomit covered pajamas for my own good.

These are the things that just amble around in my mind as I move from room to room with a spray bottle of lavender citrus oil, which really only makes the house smell like a pile of shit in a lavender field, the lavender is nice but the shit smell is still there. Also my inner voice keeps quoting Shakespeare, "A plague on both your houses". I don't know where this other house is but plagued we have been at my house. And channelling my inner Mercutio seems appropriate. Until I find myself stabbed and bleeding in the middle of the street, this flu bug being the culprit, as it makes its hasty getaway to assault some other mother farther on down the street. "Arm yourself woman," I yell.

I am only moderately impressed that while most inner voices demand some sort of intoxicant or persuades one to commit crime, mine seems to favour literary classics. I'm trying not to be too boastful about it given the present circumstances and the smell of puke heavy in the air. But it probably means that I'm smarter than you or at least infinitely better. No not really, but then I remember my new shoes and think that it is true. I am better, but only because of the shoes. Not because I'm smarter or anything. Although, I do have two degrees, but I did forget what 8x6 was last week. Its 54, but it took me a really long time to remember that.

So no I'm not smarter than you but I am better because I have new shoes and they are fantastic (I'm resisting the urge to say 'fan-fucking-tatic' because it sounds a lot like Big's 'abso-fucking-lutely' and I don't want you all to know how much I love Sex in the City, it not being very post-feminist of me, but then I remember that I am gushing over a pair of shoes that may or may not ellicit sexual arousal just by looking at them and I figure my cover is blown anyway).

So shoes and I go a little like this. Birkenstocks and clogs for most of my liberal arts educated twenties with the occasional black ballet flat for when I'm feeling particularly chic. I'm a clothes horse of the horsiest kind, pulling rein at any and all thrift shops that I may stumble across. But shoes, strangely enough have alluded me up until now. Well its not strange really, there is a perfectly good explanation for my relationship with shoes not progressing past the friendly acquaintance stage, that being I am 5'10 and most hot looking shoes make me feel like I'm walking on stilts, really trendy stilts. Now while I love towering over my inferiors, I am not a fan of falling on my ass so sadly all the fun shoes never go beyond brief flirtations in the store.

That is until this past Sunday. My mother having whisked me away from the gloom and doom of home, implored my sister and I to join her on a day of shopping. The thing about shopping with my mom, is she just chooses the store and my sister and I load her up with outfits to try on. Its like playing Barbies only with no Ken and its your mom so you can't name her Tiffany or Brooke or any of those other grandiose Barbie names (again that's probably just me).

Having tired of playing dress up with my mom, I wandered through the aisles of a shoe store we were browsing in, when my eyes fell upon a pair of shoes that left me breathless. Should I try them on? Should I wear them around the store for 30 minutes while my mom shopped? Should I catwalk down the aisles and booty dance for my sister just to experience their effect? Are you fucking kidding me of course I did!

These shoes, while having a heel and easily making me 6 feet tall, felt like a second skin, a blue, snakey textured with a peekaboo toe second skin. My spirits lifted just wearing them. I probably was stunning and the sales guy I think had to hold the pricing binder strategically in front of him whilst I pranced around. But alas I knew, this love affair would be short lived as purchasing shoes of such frivolity couldn't be presently justified.

I slowly took them off and put them back on the shelf and as I bent over to put my flip flops back on, someone brushed by me, reaching for my shoes. I looked up ready to cut the bitch who dared take my pretties away. But I put away my switchblade, because that bitch was my mom who was carrying my shoes with here to the front. Where she proceeded to buy me my shoes and turned deaf ears on my protests. -Sigh- My mom is just so much goodness it hurts my heart.

However I really only reflected on this for but a moment because I had my shoes! I wore them home and into the house and I might have vacuumed with them yesterday

Behold their loveliness.

Feel free to go touch yourself after looking at them. I won't be offended and am certainly in no position to rant about the dangers of shoe porn.

this is not funny

2010-05-28T10:07:00.007-04:00

I'm waving my white flag today.

I'm weary of this week, it having beaten me.

There was puke in the night from a little boy who has never puked. And it was scary and smelly.

Luckily puke in the night is an effective remedy for going to bed angry with one another. Puke being a good cement for cohesiveness and unity.

My funny is hanging on the line with a teddy bear and a Thomas the Tank Engine pillow case. It will be back shortly, all sun streaky and fresh airy smelling.

Until then here is a little Shel Silverstein, because that is what we do when there were angry words and puke in the night and when a little boy is laying next to you on the couch.

And because V is decidedly better than no V at all.

true dat

2010-05-25T10:32:00.008-04:00

In my decades of motherhood, alright I've only really been a mother for 3 years but it feels like decades and I'm a glorious exaggerator which I'm told is endearing so decades it is.

As I was saying, after centuries of motherhood, I've come to recognize some truths of mothering (or parenting but I'm a mom so get off my ass and quit arguing semantics). These truths are the constants of motherhood, the adages which reveal themselves through the challenges and obstacles we as mothers face every day, every damn day. And once these truth are recognized and reflected upon, they are filed away in the artillery of mom wisdoms and if deemed worthy are coined, Rules of Mum.

Rule of Mum #87 Fibre is your friend, you don't have time for this shit (literally).

Rule of Mum #21 Babies hurt, seriously they fucking hurt but mostly they hurt your vagina, don't ever forget that.

Rule of Mum #383 When you have a fully stocked diaper bag it becomes extra baggage, when you decide to leave it at home just to run to the store to get bread, shit will be all over the car seat.

Rule of Mum #109 If your period is late just go grocery shopping without a tampon in your purse if this doesn't work you are screwed.

Rule of Mum #921 Babies are really sneaky, especially when they are sleepy and cuddly. Do not let them trick you into thinking this is the way it will always be if you have another one. Refer to pictures of yourself 2 weeks postpartum and remember Rule of Mum #21.

Rule of Mum #453 Just when you are about to have the big O, I mean the torches are lit ready to ignite the fireworks, the cannons are being rolled out for the playing of the 1812 Overture, you got your O face on, at this moment a baby will always cry out over the monitor, babies have no fucking sense of timing.

Which brings me to Rule of Mum #454 Always turn off the monitor first. Always.

Rule of Mum #74 Where there is a mess there is a kid.

Rule of Mum #621 A clean tank top now constitutes as lingerie, be wary.

Rule of Mum #58 When lunch is all over the floor, your toddler has spilled juice on the cat and the phone is ringing, someone will have shit their pants.

Rules of Mum are essential to the preservation of my sanity and are important tools in forging forward as a mom.

This sunshiny long weekend (Oh Canada) was but another opportunity to add another Rule of Mum to the ever expanding list. Our long weekend was filled with sunny days playing in the backyard, cool evenings drinking red wine by the fire and late mornings spent snoozing in (its difficult to sleep in with two kids driving cars on top of you in a Queen-sized bed filled with said cars and a snoring husband, but snoozing is do-able). Rule of Mum #951 became apparent on Monday night as I climbed into bed to feel a familiar grittiness. Was that sand? In my bed? The marital bed?

Rule of Mum #951 Never let your kids play with cars from the sandbox in your bed, even if it does afford you some snoozing time.

Subsequently Rule of Mum #952 was found to be, when life gives you sand have sex on the beach.

if I wasn't married already, I'd never get laid in this neighborhood

2010-05-21T10:49:00.002-04:00

And just when my reputation was recovering after being seen eating popcorn off my own breast by the house full of university kids next door, now this happens. The poop hammock. I've just given up on the dream of ever becoming a block parent.

I might of mentioned once or twice that I am potty training my son. I'm sure I must have said something about it, a tweet or two, a facebook status or four. Anyways, to anyone left in the world that is unaware, I am potty training this week and it is the bane of my existence, the pain in my ass, the thorn in my side. Sorry for those of you who haven't yet reached this milestone, but I am just going to lay it down straight as an arrow. You might as well stock up on red wine by the crate, kiss your partner goodbye because after what you are going to see and do it will take a while for you to get your sexy back, and self-medicate using some form of barbiturates.

So having been bound to my house all week to get the potty thing under control, we've spent a lot of time playing in the backyard with the potty within bums reach. However while my son gets that you need to go on the potty when its time, he is not a pre-planner and is often caught off guard by the urge to purge. And when I hear that warning bell I need to move fast to get that butt on the potty.

This was exactly the case on the afternoon of the poop hammock. My son bolts up out of the sandbox and announces loudly that he is pooping. Now after carefully covering that very sandbox every night so that neighborhood cats do not use it as a litter box, I was not about to go down like that. Not on my watch. The potty was in my sight line and I knew I could make it (I ran track in high school). I grabbed him, whipped his pants down but alas my previous mediocre attempts at the 100m were all for not. And my son laid a big patch right there in the grass, next to the patio. In full view of the next door neighbors' (nerdy university kids) living room window, where I am sure they were all sitting around on lawn chair furniture debating Sudoku strategies until their revelry was interrupted by the kid of the boob popcorn eater taking a shit 25 feet from their door.

This thing was monumental, obviously my son has a very healthy colon and obviously I feed my kids too much corn. So now I'm standing there having to deal with this problem, this rather big problem, this drift wood sized problem. I couldn't just leave it there and hosing it down might have endangered the water supply on our street. So I did what any other self-respecting mother at the end of the day, wishing that her husband would for once get his ass home before 5:30 when shit (no pun intended) like this always seems to happen. I made a poop hammock.

How does one construct a poop hammock, you ask? Well first I should inform you that I do have two degrees and a more than casual knowledge of quantum physics (I watched Quantum Leap in the '80s which is pretty much the same thing). First you lay done three or four paper towels to act as the actual hammock. Then you grab another three or four paper towels, this of course being your extracting device. You are then ready to extract your target from the grass and gingerly place it onto the hammock. Then and only then are you ready to carry it into the house to be disposed of in the proper receptacle (the downstairs powder room).

Now kids safety first, so I buckled on my back brace before actually lifting up the poop hammock. And I must admit I thrilled to the danger of the whole ordeal. I felt like a World War 1 field officer carrying wounded soldiers from the trenches, only this was way more dangerous because I buy the cheap brand of paper towels and I new anything could happen on my path from the backyard to the toilet.

Needless to say I was victorious on my mission. There was a ticker tape parade and I was given a key to the city. And finally I just might have eradicated The Boob Popcorn Eater moniker I had so deservedly acquired, it being replaced by Poop Hammock Wrangler is moot.

So you have something funnier than a Poop Hammock, well bring it bitch. Head on over to Crazy Town and Link up. You gots to get that shit out in the open.

I have no words, only this

2010-05-19T09:38:00.003-04:00

It is empty, as are all paper towel rolls in this house. That is all. Also, fuck!!!

its like a vacation but not really at all

2010-05-18T10:19:00.004-04:00

I'm nailing a sign written on a Huggies size 6 diaper to the front door. Desperately scrawled in a shaky hand, with my own tears, (look closely) are the words, "Gone Potty Training".

As soon as I get this kid potty trained, I assume I'll be able to collect my 'Mother of the Year' award. So the bell has rung. I'm back in the ring, looking lean, looking mean. I'm weaving in and out of arced streams because I forgot to put on the penis guard, I'm armed with a spray bottle of vinegar and water and a roll of paper towels, I'm shuffling a little butt over to the closest available potty (which sometimes turns out to be in the backyard). The neighbors are going to think we've adopted a large dog, like a lab or something or one of those mastiffs. (I kid, I kid! I'm a firm supporter of scoop and poop by-laws).

In the mean time feast your eyes on these bad boys. No, your eyes aren't deceiving you, those are double Sunshine awards! I'm only going to copy and paste one because I'm trying to reduce my carbon footprint, but imagine two of them in all their sunshiny glory.

Who would house such awesomeness in but a mere humans body, of course it's

Real Mommy 365
Who has a family of 8 kids, the kind of kids that make you momentarily consider the possibility of maybe being able to do 8 kids, some of the time (right now down in the basement my husband is tilting his head wondering, 'Did I just feel a uterine tremor'). Rest assured my love, I am however, seriously considering asking to be adopted into the Real Mommy 365's family.

and

Stacy, Miss Farrell if you're nasty, over at My Perspective. Cuteness personified. She'll rock a Taco Bell run after a night on the town and has officially joined the ranks of parents who have been walked in on while having relations with their significant others. You are not alone sweetie, my son is stealth, I need to put a bell on that kid.

So skip on over and love them up.

Now is the time when I revel in my omnipotence and pass these awards on like biblical plagues. If I was you (which I'm not, I'm me, meaning right now I am waist deep in a pile of wet 3T Thomas the Tank Engine briefs and am no where as awesome as you are) I would stomp on over to the following blogs:
The Dirty Mommy Club, who doesn't like to get dirty every once in a while and her post-it notes always makes me think that she perhaps is looking through my kitchen window and witnessing the horrors of my life first hand, well get in line Steph (we're tight like that) I have a passel of university kids next door to impress with my full bosoms and yoga pant clad bum (I didn't say a*s because the next award recipient is a minor).

Baby E over at Good Day Regular People. Baby E is the offspring of the Empress, who is fantabulous in her own right, and has commandeered his mother's blog on Mondays. The thing about Baby E is he is awesome (I have a weakness for awesome kids) and has mad writing skills. The kid keeps a journal all week long and then just spills the beans on all kinds of topics from Asian beetle infestations to his mom's fake nice voice. Mondays are definitely sunnier because of Baby E. And he is probably going to be the future president of the United States so I would get on his good side a.s.a.p.!

Alright I've said my piece. I am currently taking offers to come to my house and potty train my son (email me for my address) we could play beer pong with the potty (that being the most use it will have seen yet) and take turns reading 'Everybody Poops' in foreign accents, just because.

see ya, wouldn't want to be ya

2010-05-17T07:53:00.000-04:00

Okay, I don't have much time because the Echo is packed up and idling in the driveway. (we have idling bylaws, because we be green like that) I am on my way to Crazy Town! Its like I'm coming home! So walk, run, hop, skip, crawl, stumble because you are still a little tipsy from Saturday night. What? Oh, that's just me? Well then, just get your ass over there by whatever means you deem appropriate. The Mayor and I could be related, blood tests are pending. See what you think.

My Awesomeness at Crazytown!

psst... there's a picture of a mummy and a mommy, can you tell the difference?

the magnificent princess

2010-05-14T09:38:00.005-04:00

Its Friday Funny over at Crazytown, so if you have something funnier than boob popcorn (which is pretty unlikely, boob popcorn being hilarious and all) then hop on the Friday Funny bandwagon and let the whole world laugh at you.

First of all I must confess that I am nude in front of my children a lot, being that I haven't locked a door since 2007 and have been known to pee with a baby on my lap. Also we are all about the proper names for our genitalia, you might say we are pro penis and vagina. So there is a lot of penis talk being thrown around lately. And since we rock the double bath on occasion the vagina has worked its way into conversations as well. Vaginas are sneaky like that.

Despite our constant babble about penises (is that right or is it peni, I've only had to deal with them one at a time, so I don't know) and vaginas, Monkeybone is still working it out, what belongs to who. "Mommy, where did your penis go?", is a question I have to field a lot.

So I was not at all surprised, when walking out of the shower, to have Monkeybone look up from his trains and ask, "Is that your penis?". Taking this as a teachable moment, I explain, "No girls don't have penises (peni?), what do girls have?"

What was his reply, this child whom I have been very careful to be gender neutral with, who as far as I was concerned had escaped gender stereotyping up until know.

His reply was, "Girls, have princesses."

Well, you said a mouth full there, my boy.

And so let it be known throughout the land, that a princess reigns supreme in this house. My husband is, as of yet, unaware of his past brushes with royalty.

I thought you should know

2010-05-09T13:59:00.003-04:00

That there was a time when nothing was funny, when there was no jokes, no smiles. When the technician standing in front of the monitor, holding the wand shook her head, just slightly but I saw it. And she said to go home and wait for my midwife to call. And so commenced the longest I had ever gone without laughing.

There was a time when I sat on my couch and learned that it was not to be, as sometimes happens. When I cried into his chest and could not look into his blues eyes. When we held each other and were silenced in our mutual loss.

There was a time when women hearing of it, reached out their hands from near and far as women are apt to do when one of their own is hurting. When hands folded me into arms, hands wiped my tears and sometimes those of their own, hands laid my head into laps and stroked my hair, hands picked up phones and whispered comforting words.

There was a time when my mother was called and said she would be there in two hours, which is extraordinary because she lived three hours away. And she sailed through my door like a Spanish galleon in full mast. I'm stealing from Lucy Maude Montgomery's description of Cornelia Bryant here, but such a description is fitting to how my mother descended upon us, cleaning and cooking spaghetti sauce. And she put me to bed and sat with me until I found sleep. Not once did I see her cry, which I was thankful for. There are many things of which I can endure, my mother's tears not being one of them.

There was a time when I did not go to work for many days and it was over. The midwife came and held my hand, touched my cheek. She took my blood reasoning that it would already be done for when I got pregnant again. I was grateful for the when instead of the if, sometimes conjunctions make all the difference.

There was a time when I lay in bed and when that was over I worked in my garden. Gardening as therapy is solely underestimated. I planted a clematis and moved iris bulbs from the patch behind the shed. The clematis never grew, clematis being finicky until they take root, only then will they become hardy. Iris bulbs are different, only needing of gentle hands to place them into the soil where they will bloom just as though they had always been there. Finding happiness in iris being a sweet foreshadowing of things to come.

There was a time when my grief was surprising, the difference nine weeks had made. And upon hearing this a friend with more motherly wisdom than I would ever have, said that for some of us we as mothers emerge at the sight of two pink lines and are forever changed because of it.

With motherhood comes great joy and great sorrow.

There was a time four years ago this May, at the cusp of twenty eight, I only had had the sorrow and it changed me. For without it I would not be the mother I am today.

And now is when I go snuggle babies, sleepy from their naps. And nuzzle their heads which will smell of spaghetti and feel their hands on my cheeks. Because that is what time it is now.

please read, unless you have a crack addiction

2010-05-07T07:48:00.002-04:00

Gather 'round lambs, its time for Friday Funny. Its the only bloggy themey thingy that can contain a free spirited, wild child such as myself. So if you have a funny to share and want to stick it to the man (you rebel you, I love the smell of danger) then hop over here and link it up at Crazy Town, so that your notoriety will be known throughout the land.

While off on my little sexcapade earlier on in the week, I left my two and half year old son in the care of my mother.

Monkeybone, as he is so affectionately referred too, has a bit of a soother addiction. We're talking A&E Intervention addition. Raging like a meth head addiction. Trading in his teddy bear and offering up cuddles just for one suck addiction.

Yeah he's closing in on three and still uses a soother and is not potty trained. I'm comfortable with being a parenting FAIL.

Now I've weened him, by way of a 12 step program, to only using it at night. But him being the wily little fox that he is, sneaks a quick suck here and there from the soother he keeps under his pillow. Now having routinely witnessed this phenomenon and as well as having seen my fair share of Intervention episodes, my sister and I jokingly call this (out of what I thought was earshot)'taking a haul' off his soother. Much the same way a crack addict would desperately take a haul off a crack pipe, he sneaks up to his room, takes a quick suck and then comes back out looking all guilty and sheepish.

Whilst I was away, Monkeybone snuck away from my mom. My mom having called his name, discovered that he had gone into his room. When she asked what he was doing, he replied, "taking a haul off my soother".

Note to self:
1) even though Monkeybone appears to be hearing impaired when asked to pick up his toys or to stop sitting on the cat, he does in fact have some sort of superhuman ability to hear low murmurs from metres away
2)do not use drug lingo when referring to the activities of your children
3)mentally catalogue what other unsavoury things you've talked about while assuming your children were not listening
4)when you assume, you make an ass out of you and me

it just got a whole lot dirtier around here

2010-05-06T07:41:00.001-04:00

I cleaned out the closets and swept all the Cheerio crumbs and cat hair under the rugs. I've made an attempt to corral the toys in the appropriate bins but there is only so much one can do while wearing one of those french maid get-ups!

Isn't that what you're supposed to wear while housecleaning? No? Well that's what my hus...wait a minute, are you saying that my husband has purposely misinformed me about the suitable attire one should wear when cleaning the house, to suit his own perverse sexual desires? I don't believe it! And he was such a sweetie bringing me home this battery operated personal massager. Well I must go have a word with him.

While I do that, The Dirty Mommy from over at the The Dirty Mommy Club has graced us with her presence (hence all the cleaning in the first place). She's lovely with capitals and italics. But if the phone rings while she's here, don't answer it, girlfriend has a wicked late charge at Blockbuster and they are out for blood. But its probably best to keep that hush.

Ode to Moms

Years ago, I ran into a girl I used to go to high school with in the grocery store. We hadn’t seen each other in ten years. Ten years! So much had happened to each of us in that time it was hard to decide where to begin. So I asked her what she had been up to. I was expecting an abbreviated synopsis of her life. Instead, her first sentence was “I’m a mom to two boys”.

What?! Excuse me? In ten years, all you have managed to do is reproduce? Seriously, I didn’t know where to go from there. Obviously she had been living a very sheltered life.

This occurred in 2001 BC, or ‘Before Children’ as I have come to name those fondly remembered years. I was out in the world, making my mark, living it up, getting educated, getting drunk, and getting jobs. The world was my oyster (with a slice of lemon and a dash of Tabasco).

In all of my BC years, I could not have ever envisioned (even with narcotics) what AC years were all about. Keep up, I’m talking about ‘After Children’. But here I am, in my AC years. And now I get it.

When I ran into that old high school friend, she wasn’t telling me about her boys because that is all she had done with those past ten years. She was telling me about her boys because her entire universe had shifted when they entered her life. They were her abbreviated synopsis.

So, for all of you in the AC club, this is my ode to you…

Here’s to cracked nipples and saggy boobs,

Celebrating flabby bellies and fallopian tubes,

Nine months of weight gain and nine years to lose it,

Cesarean, epidural or natural – you can’t choose it,

Incontinence, mucus plugs and the bloody show,

Waddling and chaffing wherever you go,

All this for the chance to never sleep again,

To ask of your teenager ‘Where have you been?’

To first lose your hair and then it turns grey,

To covering those bags under your eyes each day,

For the battle against hormones and cravings and such,

It can really all appear to be just too much,

And just as you’re about to yell ‘I’m through!’

Come the hugs, the love and the kisses too,

All of this rejuvenates you heart and your soul,

And simply getting through the day is no longer the goal,

So bring on the puke, the tantrums and shit,

Because this lady’s got a job that she won’t quit,

I’m someone’s Mom, and I’m proud to say

That you Moms all rock! Happy Mother’s Day.

ahhhh...that was good

2010-05-04T20:18:00.011-04:00

I brushed it off, that piece of advice given to us by the officiant at our wedding. "Put yourselves, your marriage ahead of everything else, even your kids."

At the time, with my still silver-screened perception of motherhood, I thought fiercely, "nothing would ever come ahead of my children, nothing."

This was the time before round the clock feedings, before potty training and diaper blow-outs, when parenting seemed so predictable and not all-consuming. A time when mothering was so black and white, so literal, so linear. That mother bear attitude, in my mind was how it's done, what's expected. To put everything second to your kids. My naivety, my inexperience is all I can offer up as excuse for the dismissal of such sage advice.

It's stuck with me however, the making your marriage, your relationship a priority, the priority. And though he didn't get into the logistics, what he meant was, when things get real hairy, like when your breastfeeding every twenty minutes, when you are covered in excrement for over 75% of the day, when you are crying in the shower because its so hard, when sleep only comes in 90 minute intervals, when you've only eaten what was left on the highchair, when you have to bandage your first bloody head wound, when you drop a whole 10oz bottle of breast milk on the floor (the only spilt milk I have ever actually cried over), when there's no heartbeat on the ultrasound, when you're stitched up, when you don't have the answers, when you're unsure, when you're tired, when you're done, it's then when you will need each other the most. It is then, when even though it just seems like one more thing added to the long list of one more things, that maintenance of the partnership, the sense of cohesiveness while adrift on the rough waters of parenthood, will make or break you.

It isn't a ticket to self-indulgence, this advice. Its about creating and maintaining a solid foundation, to weather the storms, to remain uncracked through the frosts and thaws. Happy parents equals happy kids. Its such a simple equation. And if our marriage is the basement of our family unit, then we just got renovated.

Maybe it was the sitting by the lake,

or the hot tubbing,

it very well could have been the wine,

or the sleeping in until the ungodly hour of 10 o'clock,

or maybe it was the spa treatments,

it could have just been the dressing up for two hour dinners, with coffee and creme brulee.

Whatever it was, we have that new marriage smell and I like it.

what, what!

2010-05-03T21:32:00.000-04:00

Mom of the Perpetually Grounded is pretty much good. Like Tim Horton's double double good, or eggs benedict good. She is a good writer, a good mother, a good daughter, just good. If you want to soak up some goodness then run over and read her. Also she is good because she recognized my bad ass with an Honest Scrap award, with no strings. See? Good.

The thing I just love about these sorts of things is spreading the word about other great reads. I'm an avid reader both on and off line and I wouldn't want to say I'm a bit snobbish when it comes to what I read, but I totally am. Especially when it comes to blogs because normally I have some can't-put-it-down book on the go (right now I'm nose deep into Carol Shields' Unless and it is some serious business) so a blog has to be worthy of my at a premium, napping-when-I-don't-have-a kid-in-my-arms time. If you can tear me away from a book then consider yourself having arrived. Not really but it means I like you, which is almost as good.

So here are some blogs that right now lure me away from Carol Shields (um just so you know that is pretty cool, her being a Pulitzer Prize winner and all, and if I'm reading you instead of her then maybe you should give up the 50 bones entry fee and throw your hat in the ring too, just saying). So if you want to read some possible future Pulitzer Prize winning material in the non-existent category of blogs have at it.

For coolest Northern Ontarian: Shanunadnauseam.

For making getting your period on an amusement park ride sound exciting: alabaster cow.

For singing Leonard Cohen lullabies: My life as a Libra.

For having the ability to live with me in a 20x15 room and for being an uber-mom: Are We There Yet?

For effective use of a sock monkey in her profile pic, and for being decidedly hilarious in Edmonton: Mommy By Day.

Alright ladies, so here's the deal, if you are all about the blog bling and want to copy and paste this award in your own space so that everyone is jealous of your brilliance and obvious betterness than those around you, please do so, if you have some reads of your own that you want to shout from the top of the blogisphere, do that too, if you want to be more subtle and just print this award out and pin it to your bra so that you are reminded of you accomplishments all day long then that would be appropriate as well. Its what I would do.

take your protein pills and put your helmet on

2010-05-01T20:19:00.004-04:00

I bid you adieu.

I am going. I won't be here, because I will be having sex. Lots of sex. Sex not in our house. Sex hundreds of kilometres away from our baby monitor.

I might eat some yummy food and maybe sit in a hot tub beside a lake, drinking wine and reading a good book. But then I am going to have sex again. And its going to be fantastic.

We honeymooned here (5 years ago this July) and now we are going back for a couple of days of sex. And eating yummy food. And hot tubbing. And more sex.

Look at us. I miss my hair -sniffle- and my ass -sob-.

If you need me I won't be here.

Because I will be having sex.

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

2010-04-30T09:30:00.006-04:00

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

2010-04-28T14:14:00.005-04:00

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

2010-04-23T10:16:00.003-04:00

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

2010-04-21T08:00:00.005-04:00

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

2010-04-18T14:16:00.011-04:00

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

2010-04-16T13:38:00.000-04:00

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

2010-04-16T10:44:00.008-04:00

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

2010-04-12T09:22:00.017-04:00

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

2010-04-09T10:50:00.009-04:00

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.