martinis for milk

We Are De Same

2009-10-27T22:54:00.003-05:00

Growing up Armenian meant people fell into two categories: "Dey are not like us," or "We are de same."

Canadians, for example, fell into the "Dey are not like us" category. Their kids could stay out way past when the street lights came on. The parents were never home. They could wear makeup and have parties. They let their kids out with spaghetti sauce on their faces (I don't know why, but my mom was a stickler on that one). Their house rules were way too relaxed for the Armenian parent.

Anyone who kinda, sorta looked like us fell immediately fell into the "We are de same" category. Greeks and Italians first and foremost. They also ate a lot of garlic, liked sticking to their own kind and keeping their girls locked up until marriage.

Then the Arab countries, with Lebanon getting the highest ranking. Iranians, Egyptians and such were acceptable too, but if they were Christian, well then we were practically related.

Then eventually any immigrant culture, but European cultures like Romanians were considered more like us than say, South Americans. Except Argentinians -- lots of Armenians there, so Armos view it as Armenia -- the Latin version.

Jews were viewed with a mix of disdain (they did one-up us on that whole genocide thing after all. Nevermind their stronghold in the dental profession! How's an Armenian dentist supposed to catch a break?) and respect (they managed to accumulate wealth quickly in Canada. Armos love hard-working rich people). Besides, Armos are basically like Jews for Jesus -- we love discounts and guilt trips -- because "We are de same."

All kidding aside, I think any persecuted nation survives by getting along with others and making allies. And the way Armenians do this is by trying to make you feel like you're practically one of us.

For example, the average Armenian can say at least one word in 10 languages. This is mostly to try and get special service at restaurants -- by showing you that we're down with your culture. You can never take my mother to a Greek restaurant without her saying "Tikanis" in a flirty way before she asks for her "pirzolas." Plus we love telling people that Armenian food is like Greek food, but way better. "My mother's dolma is way better than this dolmades!"

See us on a resort? We'll ask for "Dos cervezas por favor." We'll chat up the locals about family and the state of the world today, because "We are de same."

Talking about Italian stuff? "I'm practically Italian," I will often tell my Italian colleagues. Armenians are chameleons; growing up WITH another culture meant we knew enough about them to hold our own in a conversation. I know what "finocchio" is slang for and the difference between a Calabrese and an Abruzzese. Of course I'll take another piece of lasagna, because "We are de same!"

South Asian? "Are you celebrating Eid or Diwali? Yeah, I know Siddhartha puts sweetener in the butter chicken to get us white people in there man, that's why I eat here! Give me another chili pepper -- I can handle it. I grew up eating hot peppers! Because we are de same."

"We are de same" became symbolic of a nation built of immigrants, trying to raise families in a new land while keeping a foot in the old country. "We are de same" meant the same strictness at home, the same family values, the same deep love of food, the same longing for a place that was no longer home.

Fist bumps to the other children of immigrants out there. Your food, language and family story might be different, but WE ARE DE SAME!

It's not that I don't have much to say

2009-10-22T23:09:00.002-05:00

... it's that I have too much to say and not enough time. But there's more coming. Slowly. It's steeping like a good pot of tea right now.

In the meantime, if you're so inclined to see what my family has been up to, I posted a lovely article on SweetMama about our visit last weekend to the Apple Pie Trail (which I didn't know existed until two weeks ago). You can take a peek at how much my favourite little people have grown.

Hope you're all well. N

Continuity

2009-10-12T21:33:00.001-05:00

My dad. His "work friend." A cottage.

It was all so... Canadian. Such a TV, Brady Bunch version of what life should look like. Which is all a 13-year-old girl wants. To have some semblance of life as it looks like on a sitcom. An 80s sitcom.

(And ideally your parents are a lawyer and a doctor, and you live in a great brownstone with your kooky brother and sisters. And on fun nights you all do a choreographed lip-sync to Ray Charles. For the record... I was always Denise in my Huxtable fantasy...)

My mom had just had some sort of surgery when all this was taking place. My sister and I had gone to stay at my godparents for a few days while she recovered. My cousin T taught us to wear mascara really thick, then took us to see Who's That Girl at Pickering Town Centre. I'm pretty sure I was wearing a sweatshirt embossed with a duck dressed in Madonna's Like a Virgin outfit. (Hey, it was the 80s. Don't judge.)

I recall that we lied to my parents about it, because they'd already taken us to see that movie at that exact theatre a week earlier. I don't know why we thought we'd get in trouble for that, but my sister and I agreed that it was best to say otherwise if asked. (What can I say? We LOVED Madonna!) I think we sensed that little things we did might upset the apple cart.

When we got home, my dad suggested this little trip to his friend's cottage to give my mom a break. Except I remember that he insisted she make a lasagna for us to take along. That lasagna would become a symbol for everything that went wrong. (Which is too bad, because lasagna is one of the things my mom makes well.)

It normally took a lot of nagging to get my dad to take vacation days. But we didn't dare question this amazing opportunity -- a first (and only) father-daughter trip. We drove happily to Fenelon Falls, the sun streaming in the windows, listening to top 40, my dad going on and on about his love for Atlantic Starr's "Always," which was on the radio approximately every 22nd song in those days. He was positively giddy and we absorbed every second of it.

We pulled up to the cottage and I remember thinking that it wasn't as remote as I'd imagined cottages to be. The cottages were very close together on the canal and whoa, wait a second. Who was that portly blonde woman waving at my dad from the door?

Her name was Doris. She was my dad's "work friend." My confused brain was soon redirected as we met Doris's four children, two of whom were teenagers and therefore immediately cool in our books. After lasagna and pleasantries, the teens took my sister and I out on their boat.

That afternoon, A and I were in heaven. Sticking our hands in plastic tubs of wet earth to get worms, then squeamishly enjoying the sensation of hooking them perfectly. We caught sunfish and tossed them back after blinding them. And while I felt that to be cruel, there was a part of me that relished in the brutality of it.

The older brother rowed us out to a wide expanse of the Trent-Severn where the water was almost black. "It's so deep here," he said as though telling a ghost tale, "If you fell in they'd never find you." I was suddenly terrified -- of the water, of the strange company, of being out of my element.

We got back to the cottage and my dad came out of the house to say it was time to go. I now know what went on while we were on that lake, but I didn't then. I was still innocent to the awful games that adults play. I had a 'tween girl's Knot's Landing education on adult romance and the messes they make.

As we drove home, all three of us were grinning. It had been thrilling to try something so new, so different from our Armenian-Canadian existence of house parties with too much food and polite conversation. We'd done something so inherently Canadian! Without my mother there to put The Fear in us, we'd each felt the pure joy that comes with freedom. Of course my father's risk-taking behaviour was not quite on par with my first time fishing.

I stuck my hand out the window and laughed at my dad singing Atlantic Starr's "Always." The final days of my innocence were about to be forced out like the last bit of conditioner in the bottle.

My Homework (Part 1)

2009-09-27T22:22:00.005-05:00

So I'm under strict orders to digest the past and then shit it out and be done with it. Flush away the resentment and the hurt, tuck my reading material under my arm and get on with it. Move forward. Yes, that's right, it's time for your weekly dose of me working through my therapy online.

The summer I turned 13 began with me being blissfully unaware. I was a TEENAGER! Finally! I had already learned the awful lesson that having your period wasn't something to get excited about, share at a sleepover, or wax poetic about in a Judy Blume novel.

I'd also figured out that dandruff, bad hair, acne and braces were not a winning combo for securing dates. But hey, I could still fantasize about River Phoenix. I was THIRTEEN!

I rode my bike through laneways and around cul-de-sacs, spending my allowance on Big Macs and a Tuesday showing of A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon or Who's That Girl? at a TTC-accessible mall-theatre of choice.

I was also in summer school. Not for dummies, but for enrichment and free babysitting. It was the first summer in my entire life where my mom had a job outside of the home.

The classes weren't at our local school, so my dad would drive me and my sister there and back. I took Computers (which meant waiting for my turn to play Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?) and Drama (which was just the beginning of my future drama nerdness).

My dad had been acting stranger than usual as of late. He'd insisted my mom go back to work. He was working two jobs himself and he was tired and cranky much of the time. My parents seemed distant. When we asked my mom about him, she would tell us he was still heartbroken over his father's death, or he was very tired. I think she knew -- she must have known -- but the truth was too scary, too horrible to face.

He was driving us to summer school one morning, exhaustion dripping from his face. I was oblivious, flipping between Top 40 stations trying to find Jody Watley. He hit the brakes -- HARD -- and the car jerked to a stop at a crosswalk in front of St. Aidan's, a startled school girl looking right at us.

"Oh my God. I almost hit her," he said. I remember nothing else. Not whether he was shaking, not whether he swore; all I remember is that I didn't think it was as big a deal as he was making it. He'd stopped in time after all. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

The phone rang at 1 am that night. It woke us in our teeny house. The details are fuzzy, but I must have asked my mom if everything was alright. "Your dad says he's too shaken up over almost hitting that girl today. He's going to his friend's cottage."

He worked nights, leaving just after dinner and coming home while we were sleeping. But it was the first time in my life where I was conscious of his absence.

We'd been hearing about this "friend from work" in recent months, but frankly, I was excited that my dad finally seemed to have a friend. He was a loner mostly, preferring books to people, and though I craved some positive attention from him, some validation, I'd come to accept that in some broken way.

The idea of my dad having a fishing buddy, like the dads on TV, brought joy to my naive heart. Sure, I wished it was me he was taking fishing. Heck, I would even gladly share that outing with my sister, but if nothing else having a friend showed that he had a heart and some promise as a "normal" human being.

Then came the day he announced we'd be going to his friend's cottage...

To be continued...

The Chinks in My Armor

2009-09-17T23:09:00.005-05:00

If you came here for laughs or random hand job talk, click away, because I'm dishing out more introspection. It's not for everyone, but it's important to me to document my new outlook and how I'm getting there. If you want to be happier in life, stick around, you might find a nugget that applies to you.

So I've been seeing a Life Coach. Particularly Carly Cooper, who writes for me on SweetMama. I wonder if this is a weird conflict of interest, but I needed help and Carly was approachable, a woman and a mom so I thought it would be worth the risk. It absolutely has been. I have learned more about myself in the past month or so, than I have in 5 years of blogging my deepest thoughts. And now I even know why!

Tonight I did an exercise that required going through a list of fears, identifying which ones apply to me and then writing down when that fear started, what negative/self-sabotaging behaviour does it cause, and what would be the worst thing that could happen should that fear come true.

I got through a quarter of the list.

A huge part of this involves examining the past to find the reasons I do things the way I do. By far the biggest revelation has been the perfectionist/procrastinator/self-sabotager one. If I can't do it perfect, why bother? Are you like that too?

The other one is the Fear of Humiliation. When I first read that I thought, nah, not me. Why I humiliate myself for laughs regularly on the interweb! But then as I thought about it, I realized that I humiliate myself to beat others to the punch. Get them laughing with me instead of at me.

My best friend has the same fear, but the opposite tactic. She wants no one to notice her. In her house, getting noticed meant getting the beats from her dad. In my house, getting someone to laugh might have saved you a beating.

Instead of noticing I'm being noticed by surprise, I want to control that element. By saying, "Look at me! I'm a goof!" I feel like I'm somewhat in charge of the outcome. Holy motherfucking cuppa crazy!

Actually, my mom's right. I should stop referring to myself as crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm human. I am a puzzle put together by events in my life, events I'm trying to understand now so that they no longer make up who I am. There's more to me than abuse, bullying, separation and eating disorders.

Going through this process has made me more confident as a mom. Oh, I am going to fuck those little shits up regardless -- and they will have phases where they will hate me regardless -- but at least I feel like I'm fucking them up slightly less. It's not a competition or anything, but if you were beaten as a child and you DON'T beat your own kids, I feel that's a heck of an improvement.

Just a note here that it is not my intention to malign my parents in any way, though it may seem like that. I know they'd both get defensive if they read this. I know they did the best they knew how and I've forgiven them for a lot of their mis-steps. I love them dearly and am grateful for their help in raising my kids. They've also grown a lot as people over the past 35 years.

I am no longer expecting them to accept responsibility for their wrong-doings. I'm not waiting for some crazy confession of guilt. I'm over it. But I want to process the past so I can live in the present. I need to be done with it all, but first I must learn to undo what's ingrained in my brain that's holding me back.

Here's to that.

Oh for those who were still hoping for a giggle, we went camping last weekend. Funny photolog to come....

I Am Not Me

2009-09-06T21:39:00.008-05:00

I've been chanting a line I heard Eckhart Tolle say to Strombo on The Hour:

"You are not the sad story in your head."

It's likely paraphrased, adapted after watching the clip into a language that would work for me. But it's working. I am not my mind. Therefore I don't have to let my mind be an excuse anymore.

I'm far from being healed, or enlightened on a Buddha level, but I feel like I've had a breakthrough.

*********************
I've had a weird week. I've gone from thinking that there is no way my marriage will survive, to finding a way back to love again and celebrating our 9th wedding anniversary with a renewed commitment to making it work.

A week or so ago we were bickering in front of Nate and his cousin. Nate turned to his cousin and said, "My parents are always fighting and I don't know why." This was a pretty big wake up call for me. I thought all our petty snipping would show him that we're not perfect, that people can disagree and still love each other. But I realized it made him feel unsafe, because we've been venturing into some scary territory.

Plus my sage four-year-old is right. What the heck ARE we fighting about? Then BOOM! I got news of several women I know having their marriages break up. All of them with two kids or more. No one wants to say it, and no one knows what the outcome would have been without them, but it's hard not to look at the having children part of all this and wonder how much it has to do with the downfall of a marriage.

As one woman put it roughly in an email, "...it is inevitable I think, it's not their fault, but it does place so much stress." It's completely true of course, but the thought of my dear sweet children, who were both created out of great love, being the cause of that love's demise breaks my heart too much. I can't give up yet.

There's another phrase that's been going around in my head. Something along the lines of "Every horse thinks his load the heaviest." I would say that thoughts like that account for a lot of the discord in co-parenting right there.

Of course that's not all that I have to say on this subject. I'm working through a lot right now and (not to get all Oprah on you but) I've had a few "a-ha" moments. I've had to lay low, be quiet around here until I understood what was going on. Normally I would just spew, but I have to take into account the potential feelings of the three other (human) members of my family.

(Not Scout. Scout could handle it. She'd just look over at me and continue licking her puckered asshole. But I can't suddenly turn this into a cat blog.)

*********************

I've just spent two amazing days with my beautiful kids, revelling in their blueberry muffin batter scent, big brown eyes that engulf my heart, giant mouthed smiles and bedtime giggles. They are so sweet with each other these days.

I lived through my parents' mis-steps. It is the sad story I've played in my head forever, wearing it like a security blanket, thinking I had to carry it to identify myself. I would say it made me who I am today, but that would be wrong. It made me who I thought I was for a long time; the person I'm working very hard to shed now, to separate myself from.

The idea of separating from myself might sound like weird hocus pocus, but it's the key to keeping me from separating from my husband. I know for many couples there are few choices and this is not a comment on anyone else. I can only speak to my own experiences.

No one ever wants to break their children's hearts, or to let their children watch as their mother's (or father's) heart gets broken. I'm sure my mother had no such intention, but couldn't stop herself from falling apart in front of us. (My father on the other hand was too sick with midlife crisis in the brain to notice the consequences of his actions.)

When Sly Stone sings, "It's a family affair..." it's always held a different meaning for me. Every choice we make as adults impacts the lives of our children to some degree. Maybe because I watched my mother fight for, and then forgive my father, I am hard-wired to keep going. Maybe because I didn't like seeing them act like children, I am forced to finally grow up for my own small family. These are stories for a book, or another day.

Regardless, I'm not carrying those old wounds with me anymore. I don't need them. But I need to fix this, fix me, for the sake of my kids. That's the only truth I've got right now.

Happy Birthday Miss Lucy!

2009-08-25T00:16:00.005-05:00

Mystery girl, you confound. You delight. You inspire belly laughs and midnight giggles at the remembrance of the clever thing you did earlier that day.

You lay in the sand like it's gold. Eating it. Inhaling it. There is no body of water (you currently call it wala) that you cross that doesn't beckon your feet for a dip. I can see the joy rise up from your toes through your spine and shoot out your finger tips as you hurtle yourself forward, fearless, exuberant, knowing the thrill awaits.

It frightens me, but I celebrate it too. You are bold, strong and as a good friend made me realize tonight, I admire these traits in you. Wish I was like you a bit more.

"Peels of laughter" was a term invented for you. You are loud, like your mom, especially when happy or when no one is paying attention to you. You command it, refuse to yield to my protests of "after the dishes" or "just one minute," taking my hand forcefully and dragging me to your destination of choice. "LOOK Mam!" "WATCH Mam!" "MAM!"

Your spurts of frenetic energy are tempered with quiet moments of pure concentration. "Halp!" you cry when you get stuck, but I can tell the need to ask for my assistance wears on your pride. You must see everything, do everything, know everything -- yet you keep your own secrets guarded.

You love, immensely, but on your own terms. Like a cat, you dole out affection when YOU feel like it. Your brother will be sullied for life, drawn to women who tease him mercilessly and push him away when he seeks an innocent hug or kiss. He wants to protect you in his feeble, giant-brained way, but you will have none of it. If he's lucky, you might be the one defending him one day.

Some days I think that you are smarter than all of us. That you have this love thing figured out. Like it can never hurt you, because you don't always need it. Yet another trait of yours I wish I had.

You're insistent, willful, demanding. But I dare anyone who loves you to be able to turn you down. You just won't have it.

You defy me, knowingly. You look into my hopeful eyes with the devil's grin and I know in an instant that you will break my heart.

The world is your oyster and by God you will develop the perfect shucker by the time you're old enough to slurp the salty sea flesh of life, tossing the shells behind you. Giving a coy smile when the person behind you steps on your leftovers. They can never stay mad at you for long girl.

Of course I knew that when I made you. Knew it the second you were born. You would challenge me. Test me. Make me wonder why I chose this path. Make me wonder who I will be after parenting you and will there ever be an end?

I pray to a god I know longer know how to refer to that there won't be.

PS: I am reading your birth story and crying, remembering all of it. If you google your way to this in the future, you may think it's gross, but I could read it a thousand times over. You are my gift, my treasure. I love you Lucy and everything you've brought me in these past two years. The good and the bad and all that's to come. Happy Birthday.

Fashionista goes camping -- a photolog

2009-07-31T23:08:00.009-05:00

The way there: Torrential downpour in Toronto made me freak out a bit and mass broadcast my apprehension about the trip on multiple social media outlets.

But the rain at the campsite ended up not being so bad (last year we survived a night of monsoon conditions while IN the tent!) and the ride was a sweet gas guzzler. (Hey, even us eco-loving lefties can appreciate the occasional need for a massive motor -- not to mention the cargo space.) We had to rent a monster truck because there is no other way to fit a 12-going-on-13-year-old in the backseat between two car seats.

Hi, I'm almost two and I beg to sit in the driver's seat any chance I get. New rides are sweeeeet!

Hi, I am disgruntled because my sister gets all the front seat action AAAAAND my mom says we have to give this truck back and I don't want to because I can climb into it all by myself.

ZZZzzzzzz. One of these two nappers is not wearing a diaper. One of these two nappers had a very big Dora thingy of orange juice and no one thought to tell him to go pee before hitting the road. You do the math.

'Pakka has to come with us everywhere. Sometimes he drives. Mostly he drives me crazy, but the kids love him. Surprisingly, they don't fight over him... very often.

The things that almost did us in -- in the first 12 hours:

Oh yeah Chippy, you think you're so fucking cool with your stripe down the back and your Rescue Rangers attitude. You think we stupid humans didn't notice the hole you suddenly created right into our dining tent. You think we.. we... agh.

My husband's brain goes like this (in Yodda voice of course): Camping equals fire. Fire equals life. Therefore camping equals life. (Then in quasi Captain Caaaaaaaveman voice...) Must make FIRE! Fire makes man! Oonga boonga!

Me: Wood equals wet. Fire equals no go. Why spend three hours making smoke when there are air mattresses to fill? Whaddya mean you only packed the batteries and didn't put them in the pump?! If you'd tried to put the batts in the pump, you would have noticed that I stupidly bought a plug in!

My niece and I spent an hour with a borrowed foot pump before I freaked out and requested the rest of the campsite be polled for possible battery operated air pumps. It was 10 PM and the kids had no where to sleep yet!

Hi, I like to party. I also like to try and do everything myself. I have yet to master this zipper thing after four months of daily attempts, but I feel like I'm so close. Kinda like my dad and that fire. Sometimes I fall down. Sometimes these falls cause injury to my mama, like clawing her eyeball as I fall. Hey. Does anyone have some cheddar in this joint?

Injury sustained around 10:15 PM meant all night tears running down my face (therefore all night nose-running, therefore no sleep). The burn! Ack. Had to drive into town to get some Polysporin drops. Felt like a battered woman who lies to the pharmacist -- "My daughter fell and..."

Hi, I went to fill up the air mattress with my dad but it was dark soooooo I fell. I tripped on a log. Then I cried so hard the whole campground wished we weren't there. Then I didn't tell anyone I had a sprained ankle and two wrists full of splinters until the next morning. Then my mom freaked on my dad for not noticing earlier. Then my dad suggested he take everyone to a motel and stay at the campground on his own. Mom vetoed that. She busted out the super sugary cereals to get us all to shut up. Notice the snot on her sleeve...

Hi, do you know I get up at ten to six when I'm excited? I call, "Mam, mam! Wake! WAKE!!" until my mommy opens her eyes (or in this case, eye). Then my mama tells my dada it's his turn to take me and she goes back to sleep. This makes me cry until the entire campground wishes we weren't there. Oh, and I lurv pacifiers, especially when no one remembers to make me breakfast.

The Things That Make Me Want to Go Again:

Everyone bonded with Lucy. She had hugs to dish out for all and I swear this stage is the sweetest. I know Terrible Twos are coming, but so far the answer to the tantrums is hugs (like her mama) and it's the best thing ever. Also -- yes, I am wearing Crocs. Not even cute ballet flat or Mary Jane ones. Plain ol' ugly Crocs. Not even real ones. Mocs. Also, I look like Buck from US of Tara in that hat.

Hi again. I'm not sure about these swim shoes, or how deep I want to get in this water, but I'm working it out.

Also, talkie talkies are awesome. No wonder Bob and Wendy use them all the time. Niece takes kids to the beach, we call lunch without having to move. Wicked awesome.

We were way better set up this time. Had some good tarp action going. Plus the "dining shelter"... I could get used to this. Just need less gear that's about J going into Algonquin with the boys (single burner butane thingy) and more family camping gear (Coleman camping stove).

Being outdoors ALL. THE. TIME. is good for the soul. Also, I don't get BlackBerry reception in the park. Which is a good thing. Next time I'm going to bring Eckhart Tolle with me and really blow my mind.

Our second annual "moment" on "the rock." Sparklers and marshmallows and giant disks of Caillbaut dark chocolate (OMG I LOVE the Bulk Barn so much I want to marry it!). My daughter saw the moon, one of her favourite things, and said, "Moon!" Her name means moon. I cried. I rarely feel so alive as I did in that moment.

Hi, me again. I think this outfit is pretty badass. I mean, there's a farking unicorn on my shirt dudes. The shorts are borrowed from my brother's hand-me-downs (because I only weigh like 5lbs less than him). All two-year-olds should wear all black with pink rain boots. Seriously, go make your moms buy you an outfit like this. And then force her to play Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend" 30 times in a row.

Team Silverthorne rocks the campsite yo. Also, if the kid who won't swim wants to wear his Aqua Swim floaty trainer thing over his clothes, let him, because that shit's glow in the dark. He totally lit the dusky path to the bathroom.

Absolute bliss.
(Aw yeah, Pucci headscarf!)

Is it a vacation if you have to survive it?

2009-07-30T14:56:00.004-05:00

Hi! I'm home! I have bathed! Phew!

I am brewing a photolog like I did last year, but in the meantime you can sneak a peek at a photo from the trip, plus the camping list I promised here.

Check back tomorrow here tomorrow for the full story.

The Camping Gods Hate Me

2009-07-25T21:19:00.006-05:00

I'm trying to embrace Mother Nature. I'm really trying to get into this whole camping thing by using it as a means to shop (if they call it a "dining shelter"I can pretend it's like outdoor furniture shopping).

But really, other than the being with my family for four days straight with no BlackBerry reception (OK that part has me panicked, but it's necessary), I could really think of better ways to spend my summer vacation. Like on a bed. That's not inflated by air.

Last year at this time, I was at BlogHer in San Francisco (oh how I am missing my Amazon Arnie opposite twin right now). Our inaugural camping trip didn't happen until August. This year I thought, "Hey! Let's book the camping in July, just late enough to avoid the bugs, but early enough to avoid the chilly nights." I should have known that the camping gods just detest my kind and were going to fuck me over regardless.

The kids were at my moms all week, so I managed to get a decent leg up on work, as well as adequately prepare for the trip. Lists were made (I'll be posting my highly anal list on my Sweetmama blog Thursday the 30th). I consulted with Andrea Fishbowl (all bloggers have blogs for last names) who had recently returned from a backwoods Algonquin yurt trip (ah the joys of older kids) and who is generally good at all things creative-thinking and organizational (she and Marla are my go-tos for these kinds of considerations). She did not disappoint with her AWESOME list and menu, from which I cribbed and tweaked to my family's needs.

Our 12.5-year-old niece is coming with us to lend a hand with the kiddos, so we needed a bigger vehicle (she can fit between the two car seats, but a 2.5 hr. drive would be extremely uncomfortable). So we went onto Expedia and got a deal on an SUV -- minivans were cost-prohibitive.

J went to the Enterprise car rental place today at 2, only to learn it had closed at noon -- FOR THE WEEKEND! I knew at that moment that the camping gods were indeed fucking with me, but I kept my head cool. Thankfully, our reservation had not gone through properly and we weren't charged for a vehicle we didn't have. A quick call to Avis went like this:

Me: "Yadda yadda yadda, we were hoping for an SUV."
Avis lady: "I'm showing a rate o $560 for three days. That includes 800 kilometres."
Me: "Whoa! That's way more than we were hoping to spend!"
Avis lady: "Do you want me to see if I can get you a discount?"

WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND IS GOING TO SAY NO TO THAT QUESTION?!

In 15 seconds she came back with this offer:
"OK, I can offer you $260 including tax and unlimited kilometres. How does that sound?"

How the fuck did that happen? Note readers: Never take the first offer on a rental car. Clearly the markup is just to see if you're desperate enough to take it.

I was half-tempted to see if she'd go lower, but never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I accepted it and took down my confirmation number. Of course, I have no faith that this giant 4x4 will be available tomorrow, because really, that's just not the way my life works, but for a moment I was buoyant with hope. Maybe this trip would be great after all...

Then I went to www.theweathernetwork.com and saw this:

Motherfuckers.

Followed by this:

Just a note here that we actually come home on Wednesday. See all those bright sunny bobbles towards the end of the week? Well I'll be back at work to enjoy those from my window seat.

To top it ALL off, my period decided to arrive a farking full 10 days before it was supposed to! Just to fuck with me with that rumour that bears can smell menstruating women. So I'm going to have wet curly bangs, maxi pads and a panic attack about bears and another one about lightning hitting the tent. (Way to be a positive thinker Scarb!)

Internets, my family could really use a nice break together. So I don't know what kind of magic you do, but you've done it for me in the past. Could you just put a second of your thoughts towards turning this around? Maybe you could envision us on a sunny beach? I will repay you with a proper post about the outcome and fabulous pictures of my cuties.

(Ooh, I forgot how much I like blogging for myself! Going back and reading last year's camping and BlogHer posts made me so glad that I kept a record of my life somewhere.)

Speaking through pictures

2009-07-22T22:53:00.003-05:00

So it appears I am using images to speak for me until I know what I would like to say and where I would like to say it. I'm still chatting up a storm of embarassment on Twitter, albeit at a twee 140 characters. If you're not on Twitter yet, what are you waiting for? Sure, it's kind of pointless, but it's also pretty fun.

In the meantime, J finally added the film he made of how we weirdly, awesomely got engaged, to YouTube. I can't watch it without thinking about how we made it; what our relationship was like when we got engaged, and then later when we made this film. By the time we premiered the film in Winnipeg, we had a 2 month-old in tow. And I can't help but think of that experience too.

Things are lovey dovey around here. Not the unknowing, all-consuming lovey dovey of our engagement NINE POINT FIVE YEARS AGO, but a mutual respect lovey dovey that hasn't been in this house for a while. It's quite nice really. Like fresh Ontario raspberries on vanilla ice cream. Simple and sweet. I know that, like the raspberries, it won't last, but I'm happy it's here now.

While I'm Ruminating...

2009-07-19T09:24:00.003-05:00

Thanks for all your suggestions on how I can continue blogging in light of the changes in my life. I'll be finding a way to start over, but in the meantime, perhaps I can entertain you with a little glimpse into my entertaining family life. The huz likes to make these little movies after a day with the kids. The make me laugh to no end. Hopefully they'll do the same for you.

Stifled

2009-07-12T13:00:00.002-05:00

I'm stuck peeps. I've been hiding in the real world as a result. You see a took a great job that has made me a professional and a semi-public figure -- but my online voice is completely stifled.

The old me would have been OK with everyone knowing my business. But the reality of colleagues' faces when they've just read about your relationship with your husband, well it's beginning to make me uncomfortable.

Worse still is the fact that any PR person can Google me and find out that while I smiled throughout their event, I found it hilariously weird to be putting a piece of sausage in my mouth just as the massage portion of the event was beginning (I cannot do this justice without possibly hurting my career).

I am completely stifled. I cannot mock anything, barely even myself any more -- not publicly. Even on Twitter I find myself censoring what I want to say. Those of you who have been coming here a long time know that my honesty is my best asset. I have to write things EXACTLY as I feel them. If I can't comment on the world as I see it, what the heck can I write?

I'm completely stumped. And sad. I have loved my online home. It's may way of documenting my life, my family's life. But how can I blog with rules? Do I just continue to put it all out there and deal with the repercussions later? I can't risk losing my job in this economy -- not worth it. But do I just have to find a way to deal with the knowing stares of people who know and read me? Or do I have to tear it all down and start over again, finding a new way to write publicly and another way to write anonymously?

I really need your help on this one Internets. I chose the path of editor of a website (that I am forever an ambassador of at all times) over trying to make a living as a blogger. Do I just suck it up and decide I've made my career choice? Help?!

Wish I was here

2009-06-15T14:33:00.002-05:00

I have a million posts in draft and a lot of funny stories to tell you. But life is getting in the way these days. Which is good and bad. I miss you guys...

In the meantime, I HAVE to blog over here, so I hope this tides you over...
****************

Last weekend, my daughter, my sister and I embarked on a leisurely stroll through Leslieville for ice-cream sampling. We debated on the great big line-up at Ed's Real Scoop, blew bubbles on the delightful patio at Nathalie Roze and Co. (try the Vanilla Fig), wondered if the neighbourhood really needed a soon-to-be-opened new place and then decided YES as we treated ourselves to more ice cream at the newly opened Leonidas.

My husband got Nate a reliable and affordable scoop at The Film Buff and we met in the middle at Leslie Grove park to compare notes. The kids played happily (thanks to their sugar high) and as I was formulating dinner plans in my head, Lucy wandered over to the sand toys where a three-year-old girl was playing.

Any mom at an urban park has probably experienced this: The toys are there for everyone, but one kid doesn't want to share. The three-year-old would not give up a single toy. Not wanting to be a "helicopter mom" I stood back and figured I'd let them work it out. Plus I need to round everyone up so I could get dinner started. I turned for a second to get Nate's shoes on when I heard crying.

Continued at Sweetmama.ca: Woolly Bully

Fear Factor

2009-05-28T22:42:00.007-05:00

"Ok buddy, it's good night time."

"Can you stay for a bit? And can I stay in your cosy bed?"

The light is dim, the comics have been read. It was Free Comic Book Day recently and we've hit the motherload and veered away from our standard DC SuperFriends and Tiny Titans (the greatest comic book ever written for wee kids). I read an excerpt from a hilarious Simpson's comic, but made a deal that I wouldn't have to read the horrible Futurama one that follows and traded for some Robert Munsch instead.

We sleep head to head, his too-long bangs grazing his mink-thick eyelashes, my bobby pin typically askew. I don't mean to fall asleep next to him, but the scene is often so peaceful, so full of absolute love that I am lulled to gentle slumber, knowing full well in the back of my mind I have a story to file for tomorrow.

Not quite two hours later I wake slightly, examine the clock and wearily decide that I will wake up early to sneak the story in. I pull on the chain of the bedside lamp that's glaring in my eyes and soon I am back to sleep.

I do not consider the detrimental effect this extinction of light will cause moments later. I fail to remember that his sleep is precarious; that the sleep gods do not like to be disturbed and often take hold of his brain in protest.

I awake to terrified screaming. He's calling for me. I'm right here, I assure him, but we are not in the same dimension. He is trapped in a world I cannot see. His eyes are open, his face heart-breakingly fearful, body trembling. He tries to grasp something where the pillow lays. Briefly, he seems to see me, except I am the headboard. I stay constant, recalling my husband's advice, wracked with his own night terrors 30 years ago: "Just be tender and comfort him."

His eyes are wide open, tears of fright streaming down his face. He moves around the bed, trying to escape a phantom menace, tearing at his face. I rub his back. "I am here lovey, Mommy is right here, you are safe, you are safe, it's just a dream..." I try a variety of word combinations, wondering if there is some magic safe word that breaks the spell and returns my son to me.

Tonight Batman was there too, in this wakeful dream. Or he wanted Batman, I'm not sure. One thing is consistent with the terrors, he is always calling for me. It's the part that makes me feel the most helpless, as I am right there to provide comfort, yet he is so far away mentally and can't connect with my physical presence.

"It will be over soon, it will be over soon," I chant to myself. I mentally go through pages of websites and readings on the differences between night terrors and nightmares. If you don't know, you've never witnessed a night terror. A nightmare is an annoying disturbance in the night. A night terror happens within the first two or three hours of falling asleep and scars a parent for life.

He finds his thumb, soothes himself and I am elated. It's over, I think, but no sooner do I think this then it starts anew. House-shaking shrieks. I try to hold him and rock him like a baby. It seems to help. When he seems calm enough I take him to the bathroom. This I remember from my own childhood nightmares, which plague me to this day. The body's urge to pee must be obeyed, and in a deep sleep the nightmare is sometimes the body's way of trying to wake you up.

He sucks his thumb and puts his head on my shoulder, his limp body letting me know the worst is over. I gingerly place him in his bed beside mine, realizing that we can't get rid of the gates lest he hurt himself during an episode, wondering how we will deal with this once he and his sister are back in the same room.

I lumber downstairs to my laptop.

Down with Sickness

2009-05-19T21:12:00.000-05:00

First it was that runny nose that made us think her molars must be coming in.

Then it turned to pink eye.

Then she had some funky green that appeared to be coming out her hoo-ha.

I thought it was nothing. I figured that she had so much mucous it had to come out somewhere.

I polled my mom friends with daughters. No one had heard of such a thing. Still, I let it go.

On Mother's Day she was so sick and clingy that I could go nowhere. She had a fever, I was mildly concerned.

My mother, on the other hand, was mega concerned. "She definitely has to be seen by a doctor!"

After two days of being cooped up in my house with a daughter that would not leave my arms and a son that needed to act out because Mommy was giving all the attention to Lucy, I was done. My brain was fried.

"I'll just make a quick call to Telehealth," I said, partially to appease my worried-looking parents; thinking that the nurse would say it's no big deal.

The nurse was stuck on green stuff out the hoo-ha. "That doesn't sound right. She needs to see a doctor in the next four hours." We raced to the Children's Clinic. The doors were locked. I'd missed last call by 10 minutes. The attendant told me to go to emerg.

Fuck. Fuckity Fuck Fuck.

Great, I thought, now we're all going to get swine flu for this thing that's probably nothing. Then the panic devil that sits on my irrational side said, "Wait. Maybe she has an e-coli infection from jumping in Lake Ontario last weekend. Maybe you're a bad mother..."

In the hospital triage she touched everything. Every potentially swine flu covered object was interesting to her. So she touched them. And then she stuck her hands in her mouth for good measure. They gave her Tylenol for her fever. This made her hyper and before long she was running through triage, lying on the floor and then hi-fiving every potential swine flu victim in there.

Greeeeeat.

J called to see if he should go grocery shopping while I waited. I told him my anxiety couldn't handle that. I needed his company to keep me sane. He arrived to find her sliding down a mini slide in the kids' waiting room and then dancing a jig when she saw him. I looked like a moron.

The doctor finally looked at her three hours later. Viral infection. Just what I thought. Happy Mother's Day to me. I got to be right. Bloody hell.

We are on day 70-some-odd of the snots and the crustiness and I am so. over. it. She's approaching the terrible twos with lightening speed and this crap isn't helping. We've been indulging her sweet sick self with ample TV time, all kinds of night time visits, juice -- all the bad stuff. Over the next few weeks there will be a reckoning my friends. Here's hoping I'm not the one waving the white flag at the end.

My lovely lady lump

2009-05-12T09:23:00.000-05:00

I was interviewed by Amy Verner for this weekend's Globe Style article on modern maternity fashions. Of my (I'd like to think hilarious) 10-minute interview, I ended up with the print equivalent of a sound-bite, but that's to be expected.

What I didn't expect was the readers' viewpoints in the comments on the piece. Many people felt that pregnant bellies are not something to flaunt. Some even view the modern, fitted maternity styles as obscene. I disagree. As I often quipped during my two pregnancies, "I've spent the last 15 years sucking my belly in. This is the one time in my life where I don't have to and I'm totally taking advantage of that fact."

Read on: Sweetmama.ca: Belly-issima!

The Sacrifice

2009-05-10T08:52:00.001-05:00

I've often judge my mother and harshly. As I was growing into womanhood and deciding who I wanted to be, I looked at her housewifey, homemaker past and considered it not very exciting. I didn't want to be like her: A Yes-man, a people pleaser, someone who kept up with the Jones-ians.

The truth is, I had no clue.

I was always the good child, the Yes-man, the people pleaser. I think as I approached adulthood, I resented my mother for instilling this passive, Geisha behaviour in me. Be smart, but never let them think you're smarter than them. Nod and say yes, even if you know better. (Which, as you might have guessed, I've never really been able to do.) Why didn't I take more chances? Why didn't I move out, or move to England with J when he left a decade ago? Why did I never want to rock the boat? Why did they hold me back?

The people-pleasing child has become a total asshole in these past few years. As my mother helps to raise my children, I often seem ungrateful, letting my tiredness and stress get in the way, saying horrible things and hurting feelings. Old wounds resurface and I am critical (especially around issues with food), micromanaging, constantly suggesting things that I've read in books or on websites, instead of trusting my mother's instincts, years of experience and the fact that she loves my kids as much as I do.

Lately I've been thinking about things differently. I've been trying to figure out why my mother (the most important relationship of my life) and I rub each other the wrong way. Okay, okay -- why my mother rubs ME the wrong way. I've been trying to figure out how I can just let all the nitpickiness go and learn how to enjoy my mother as a person again.

And then, the other day, it struck me.

I started to think about my mother, the youngest of four, the accidental child. I began to imagine her growing up in Turkey, being the first woman in her family to get a job outside of what was acceptable (you could teach before you had children, but then all bets were off). Being the only one to push the boundaries of the sexual revolution, with her mini-skirts and her weekly trips to get her hair did and her job as a bank teller.

I remember my mom telling me that she had wanted to be an engineer. That she enjoyed math. But there was no real way for her to afford the schooling, nor was it acceptable back then. So she took a job at the bank, working with numbers, counting more money than she'd ever had.

My mother moved to Canada in her late 20s. Already considered a spinster back home (she was picky -- there's more to it, but that goes in a book in the future), she joined her eldest sister and her family in Montreal, then moved with them to Toronto when the nation's economy changed.

I can only imagine the immense heartache she felt at having to move away from her parents and other siblings. From her friends and the world that she knew. But I now know why she did it.

I have never had to hold myself back because of societal implications. I live in a country where it's acceptable for a girl to go to school and achieve the highest level of education possible. I live in a country where I am free to speak my mind (and clearly I really use this priviledge to its fullest) in any forum, without fear for my life. I can wear what I want, eat what I want, think what I want. I can marry someone just because I love him. Or I could have not married him and just lived with him in sin (though there's a people-pleasing Armo in me that vetoed that rock-the-boat option). I can be a mom and a workaholic editor, and although people might judge me for my choices, they will still smile and lend a hand when needed.

Somewhere, in the back of my young mom's mind, she must have known she'd have two mouthy, ballsy daughters who would not be afraid of squeezing Life's lemons to make lemonade, each in their own way. She had to have known that if she birthed even one daughter with half of her own headstrongness, she would have to get out of Turkey.

Thanks mom, for coming to Canada for me. Thanks for loving me even when I'm an asshole; thanks for patiently smiling, knowing I will eventually come to my senses and realize my wrongs. Thanks for always being there in a heartbeat to help me out -- even when you're not feeling well -- and for loving my kids as much as you do.

Happy Mother's Day Mom. I love you. (Now don't get all smug and "I told you so" about this confession!)

Before I was a mom

2009-05-08T20:42:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I'm wistful when I think about all the things that have changed since I gave birth to my incredible human beings. I get caught up in what is no longer: The freedom, the spontaneity, having a full-night's sleep or an uninterrupted meal. I don't sugar-coat it: Motherhood is not always a sweet gig.

But then I feel bad, because many of my childless Sweetspot and Sweethome colleagues might be rethinking their reproductive decisions based on my complaints. How do I convey that it really is amazing; that the rewards completely outweigh the downsides?

Toronto Mamas

2009-05-07T08:12:00.002-05:00

Hey all, I just wanted to get the word out about my fabulous friend Sam Lamb's art show this Friday night. You can get a feel for the wonderful work of my talented pal at her blog. I'll be going with my hot date, Nate. Details below. Hope to see you all there.

Date:	08 May 2009
Time:	19:00 - 22:00
Location:	LE Gallery
Street:	1183 Dundas Street West
Town/City:	Toronto, ON

Opening Reception: May 8th, 7-10pm
Gallery Hours: Wed-Sun, 12-6pm

Stamps. Linen. Embroidery. Dolls. And a handful of dirty thoughts.

Modern life is not easy for today’s working mother. The daily struggle to balance full-time employment while raising children inevitably takes its toll on a woman’s personal identity. Using domestic materials and handcrafts, Lamb explores this struggle by setting up marked contrasts between material and message. Inappropriate sexual desires are delicately spelled out on dolls, while traditional samplers reveal weighty confessions in place of the expected motivational Psalms.

Reclaiming these materials and crafts as a canvas for expression while carefully respecting their history and practice is at the core of the current movement towards a New Domesticity. Swallowed Words places Lamb’s work within this larger dialogue, and reveals a new opportunity for domestic materials to communicate modern issues of identity.

Training 'em early

2009-05-05T20:31:00.004-05:00

Two weekends ago, I took advantage of the rainy weather and decided to take a break from our overscheduled lives. After trying desperately to schedule a trip to the beach around lunch time and nap time the day before, (which, in true Toronto style, was like summer) I just didn't have it in me to attempt another big outing.

Between daycare, grandparents and weekend insanity, it feels like my kids are never home. So they were pretty excited about it. Except the more we stayed indoors, the more apparent it became that my house was in need of a good cleaning. With my cleaning lady out of the picture due to finances (sniff) I felt I had to tackle it before I put it off for a whole month.
Read more: Sweetmama.ca: Multitasking

(A new Martinis for Milk post coming soon. Hang in there. Looks like we're dealing with a fresh case of pink eye 'round these parts. Mercy. Uncle. I give up.)

Tank Girl

2009-04-21T19:45:00.003-05:00

Lucine,

I don't get to write about you as often as I'd like. I think about what I might say often, but don't get the time to put it down with the pretty prose I think you deserve.

Tonight Dada and Nana were out at the ball game and I got a very rare few hours with you all to myself. Don't tell your brother, but I'm looking forward to Nana going to school in the fall. The few days I have off are spent with both of you, which is great, but I don't get the one-on-one time with you that your dad does.

You and your dad are spending a lot of time together these days. He's home a lot and therefore your primary caregiver. He may not be working very much, but the wonderful plus to that is that he gets to spend these glorious spring days with you, wandering the neighbourhood, hitting the drop-in, delighting in circle time and blueberry-stained hands.

I come home to your glorious "Mama, mama" and take a moment to take you in. Your wispy, flaxen hair all shagga-shag around your adorable face. Your big brown eyes and delicious unibrow. Your red lips outstretched in the biggest smile on the face of the earth. "Hallo!" You greet me with your unique blend of enthusiasm and aloofness. "A kiss for Mama?" I ask hopefully. "Naaaaa..." you reply, squeezing your eyes shut until your eyelashes stand out straight as matchsticks.

You love Elmo. WTF dude? What do you see in him? The first thing you say after denying me my kiss is "Elmo?" Then you run to get the remote, hand it to me and sit in your brother's Batman chair, waiting for me to do your bidding. Should I try to ignore your request, you melt into a puddle of tears, then rush to my arms to be comforted.

If I spend some snuggle time with your brother, you will drop what you're doing, say "Mama" and then rush over, trying to peel him off me. If he refuses to get out of my arms you will punch him in the face. If I try to make room for both of you on my lap, you act all snuggly and then you kick Nate until he cries or leaves. One time you even grabbed his hand and bit it vengefully.

I try to scold you, but it's futile. You look at me sneakily and do whatever it is I am asking you not to do. Or you fall into despair, burying your head in my knees, begging for redemption. I HAVE to act mad because that's my job. But I secretly champion your naughty streak, because there's something about bad girls that's so awesome (in the true sense) and fierce (and so unlike me).

The hilarious part is that you and your bro absolutely adore each other. Each night after you bring me countless books to read you, you beg to say goodnight to him one more time. You hug him and kiss him and wave "Ba-ba" to the boys before you and I get our special time together.

You have a little OCD bedtime ritual with me and if I don't do all the steps in exactly the right sequence, you won't go to bed easily. If I do manage to get the bedtime code right, you happily hug your Blablas and wave goodbye to me.

You are in love with books -- one of the few things we have in common. I love our bedtime ritual because it's the only time you are content to sit still and share an activity with me. I get to smell your freshly washed hair and feel your wee feet kick against me with excitement.

For the "baby book's" sake I'll write down that your favourite books are:

Anything in the Mr. Men series, but particularly Mr. Funny because Mama makes a good funny face.
Amy Krouse Rosenthal's Duck! Rabbit!
A plush version of Pat the Bunny (where you get to move a mini-bunny through the story).
Papa Small, which makes me feel guilty that I'm not a 1940s country housewife.

But because you're funny like that, you probably read three totally different books with your dad each time.

The mornings are rushed and sometimes this upsets you. From the moment you wake up calling for me, it's a battle between you and your brother. Who will get the hugs? Who will get Mama all to themselves before she hops in the shower? You are both clingy and I am frustrated, trying to prepare for the stressful day ahead and swallow down my guilt at leaving you.

But oh, your little hands on my face... your chubby body as you tremor with giggles... your raspy whisper as you make a stuffed bunny "Hhhhap" or want me to call up your "Popop." How I relish these days at the end of your babyhood, on the cusp of your girlhood. This is the most perfect you, before the problems of life start, while your innocence is still unblemished. You are loving life girl and it's impossible not to be swept up in your glee. The world is better for having you in it.

Doubtless, you will blaze the path to your destiny, while I sit on the sidelines wishing I was more like you and holding my breath as you push the limits of every rule, boundary and obstacle that appears in your way.

The Mountain

2009-04-17T00:22:00.007-05:00

Wednesday night we headed out to the Ray Lamontagne concert at Massey Hall. I'd never heard of Ray until I started working at Sweetspot and my colleague Ashley brought him to my attention. Then we got his new CD, Gossip in the Grain, in the office and now I can't look back.

The man sings folk songs based on themes of love and pain. He has a dark past and it comes through in one of the most soulful voices I've ever heard. Of course J poo-poohs anything I like first, but even he couldn't deny how good Ray is and instantly became a fan.

(Also the story is that Ray quit his factory worker job upon hearing a Steven Stills song. My resident gee-tar player loves that story.)

The concert was full of woo-hoo-ers, American Eagle couples and girls who watch One Tree Hill. These are not my people. When a performer is so shy that he prefers to sing in practical darkness, I think it's best to leave the Woo-hoos at home. Also, probably a good idea to turn the flash off the digital camera when a man is singing about his heart on his sleeve bleeding onto the floor.

"Weird crowd," I said to J while we snacked on Sesame Snaps and waited for the streetcar home. "There weren't any hipsters there.... it was like a crowd of Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews fans."

J: "You're right! I saw two guys wearing Dave Matthews t-shirts!"

OK, so it's kind of mainstream folk and there's a snooty, cynical part of me that wants to be too cool for that. But these songs about love, well they did their trick. I can honestly say that I've never been at a concert (or anywhere for that matter) where J and I were wrapped in each other's arms, swaying like a cheesy cliché (remember our last live performance outing?), but that happened last night. And I think we FELT in love for the first time in a long time.

I'm attaching a few videos here so you can get a feel for what I'm talking about. When he sang "Trouble" it was as though he were singing to his wife (they live in a farm house in Maine with their two kids -- how's that for romantic sounding?) and so powerful that I got goosebumps. Amazing. (You can thank me for this reco on your next nookie night!)

Cougar Crossing

2009-04-14T20:19:00.005-05:00

*This post has been edited since its original posting.

Full disclosure: On my "work from home" day, the huz and I try to grab a coffee at the cafe where I sometimes go to work. We drop Nate at school, take the Goose along and try to have a bit of husband and wife time (while she tears the place apart and we futilely bribe her with a chocolate chip cookie). Then they walk home while I get some work done. It's a sweet ritual actually.

Some weeks it's packed in there. Others, not so much. Last week it was just us and a pair of moms avec enfants nearby. Lucy was, without a doubt, in their way as they were leaving. J wrangled her wriggly self out of the way and the mom was all, "That's OK. She's so cute..." and then the reckoning came.

"Oh, I recognize you from the drop-in," said the mom blushing. I subconsciously narrowed my eyes in her direction and she was quick to recover. "--Your daughter! I recognized your daughter... ahem... from the drop-in."

I am not the jealous type. I don't entertain the thought that my recently un-jobbed husband will end up in some kind of Little Children-esque neighbourhood tryst. (OK maybe I do sometimes, but then I kind of giggle. Because really? The huzzle? He generates enough belly button lint to knit a sweater. Only I could still find the sexy in that.) But I was totally offended by this woman trying to play me like I don't know what goes on at the drop-in centre.

Bitch, you think I don't know? You think I didn't spend the last five years checking out the hot dad ass at the music class, the gym class, the library? You think I don't have the lake to the Danforth covered? You think I haven't given a select few worth mentioning nicknames like Bon Jovi Dad and Chandler Dad? Shiiiit.

I have always said that my husband's target market was gay men and cougars. Those are the two groups who are wise enough to see his awesomeness. They have been around the block, battered around and know a nice guy when they see one.

This was not an issue in our twenties -- for me at least -- except when we'd go one cottage benders with our gay friends and some bold acquaintance would inevitably try to crawl into bed with J. Yes, with me in it. But the cougar drool would only appear if we were at say... a Huey Lewis concert at Casino Rama. (J LOVES Huey Lewis! His CHFI taste in music only makes him more appealing to cougars.)

But now that my peers (and myself included) are on the doorstep of cougardom (perhaps we're still pumas), I've been wondering whether women my age would start noticing my husband as a catch. Add the boredom of motherhood to the mix, a pinch of the huzzle's amazing way with kids and ding ding ding -- this cake is baked. The huz suddenly has the appeal of a Cinnabon with extra frosting on the side.

J, of course, eats this up. "Oh, we're on our way there right now!" Say what? After years of being "just a friend" he's loving the "hot dad" neighbourhood celebrity status. But drop-in mamas, watch your backs. This cougar's got sharp claws.

Rhymes with Joke

2009-04-13T22:04:00.004-05:00

So my husband seems to be out of a job. At least... he is home for the next couple of weeks without pay. The official "lay-off" has not happened -- yet. But it's not looking great. While I am trying to stay positive, I can already see the signs of trouble.

Sign #1: We had to let the cleaning lady go. Remember my dear sweet Rosanna? She's out of a bit of money now thanks to this recession crap too. This will inevitably lead to future fights. Guaranteed.

Sign #2: My husband has joined Freecycle. Have I told you about his obsessive "clean ups" in the past? He throws out gift certificates, brand new toys waiting to be given away as birthday gifts, etc. The Freecycle addiction he's developing has me considering storing things at my parents' house.

Sign #3: Freecycle addiction garnered him a guitar on the first day of trying. I see where this is going. Days upon days of learning how to play Neil Young songs, while I'm at work. Perhaps he could try busking? Except...

Sign #4: We are approaching that frightening time where the summer daycare plans must be made. And hi, guess what? We can't afford the second mortgage that is two kids in daycare. Meaning, guess who will be Mr. Mom? Meaning, guess who will be very, very jealous?

I'm angry. I feel like, "Dammit! He finally found a job that he liked after more than a decade of having jobs he didn't. After trying to be self employed and not liking it. After riding the ups and downs of maternity leaves and spotty employment. We were finally making two incomes! We were finally making a dent in our debt!"

And I feel like an ass. Because of course he's upset. And really, do I need to have my hair done professionally? Does it matter that all my pants are four-years-old and out of style?

But what good is working so hard and being apart from your kids if you can't spend your way into temporary happiness? Those little surges from buying something new make all my hard work rewarding. I know I sound like a pretentious, shallow asshole right now, but come on -- doesn't every mama need a little retail pick me up once in a while?

I just find this whole thing a bit of a downer. And I know, I lack perspective. Babies are dying. I have two healthy children and a husband who is at home with them, loving them, doing right by them. Shut the fuck up, I want to say to myself. You are ridiculous Nadine. (There, I said it for you.)

And maybe now that I've gotten that off my chest I can focus on a new perspective... let's see where this world of saving and frugality takes me.