Rants and Tangents à la Mom.

If it makes you feel better, you can picture me having sex

2012-06-11T19:54:00.000-07:00

I remember telling people I was trying to get pregnant and thinking nothing of it. It wasn’t until people started mentioning that they were “trying” that I began to, despite my efforts not to, picture them having sex. Those who know this about me have suggested I’m a pervert. Maybe they’re right, but I suspect that I’m actually just like everyone else.

You can’t tell me that when you hear someone announce that they are “trying”, you don’t picture them having sex. If you haven’t, after reading this post you will certainly start. To that I say I’m sorry, and also you’re welcome (ha!).

I wish I could control the images that cycle through my imagination (trust me, I really wish I could). Instead I have to try my best to conceal a grimace as I imagine, against both my will and better judgement, the bedroom dynamics that ensue between certain individuals. It’s not my fault; they’re the ones who offered up information about their sex lives, essentially forcing me to picture them doing it.

Basically saying that you’re trying to get pregnant is a discreet way of saying “yes, (insert name here) and I are having sex all the time. And, as I’m sure you’re currently imagining, by all the time, I mean quite literally ALL THE TIME.”

It goes without saying; there are some people who you really just don’t want to picture naked, let alone doing it. Sometimes when I’m at the gym I accidentally picture that the red, panting, sweaty people around me probably look and sound exactly like they do when they’re having sex. It’s an awful thing. I usually have to leave at that point.

So I guess that definitely means I’m some variation of pervert. Don’t judge though, because you probably are too. Let’s be real.

If you disagree with that, why do you suppose that literally all I’ve been hearing from my female friends is how I MUST read Fifty Shades of Grey? Obviously sex is what’s on everyone’s mind.

Hence the mental images I’m left trying desperately to push out of the way with something (anything) else. So what am I left with? Fifty F**king Shades of Grey. I have no choice but to read it. Either that or I'll have to fake my way through discussions about said novel, just to avoid feeling left out. It's everywhere!

It’s become the book that unsuspecting young men have been buying for their Moms on Mother's Day only later to realize, with horror, that it’s actually a raunchy book of delicious lady-porn. To the mothers who answered with that book title when asked what they’d like for Mother's Day (I know you’re out there), I applaud you. Hilarious! If you ask me, the looks on their faces when they discovered what they actually bought for their mothers would be the best gift ever. Again, I realize that my humour is a bit left of centre but you have to admit that would be a great anecdote at the next dinner party. And really, what’s a comedic anecdote without someone dying of embarrassment?

Anyway I had to see what all the fuss was regarding this book. So I went to Coles and skimmed the shelves as inconspicuously as possible in hopes of acquiring my very own copy. Obviously I couldn’t find it. I was then directed to the obnoxiously large display with what I’m guessing harboured about ten thousand copies. Who would have thought to check the entrance of the store? What a stupid place to put a display you want people to notice (Clearly ineffective advertising).

So I picked up a copy, flipped it over, immediately decided that seventeen dollars was way too much to spend on a paperback, and shelved it.

I left the store. Then left the mall. Got in my van, and drove home.

Later that evening I was once again filled with deep regret (you’ll recall the first time was when I was too frugal to justify the removal of two moles). I’m starting to think I might have a problem.

When I explained to Mike why I came home empty-handed, we agreed that my rationale made absolutely no sense. I would have happily paid twelve dollars, but not a damn cent more. Seventeen dollars was just out of the question. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s probably best to delve into the depths of my brand of crazy another time. For now I’ll just vow to myself and whoever might be reading that in the future I will definitely spend the extra cash on porn. Sorry, I mean “erotica”. You know, should the opportunity present itself.

On a side note, to all the couples out there trying to conceive: while I can’t promise that I’ll stop picturing you having sex when you talk about how hard you’ve been “trying” (etc.), what I can tell you is that you might want to consider being a part of the “fifty shades of grey baby-boom”. Oh yes, apparently this is something. According to the Mommies that I drink afternoon wine with while our kids play, uteruses everywhere have hung their little glowing “no vacancy” signs, and it’s all thanks to Mr. Grey.

I don’t care how many times I hear people insist that despite the ovulation kits, thermometer, and “remember to have sex tonight” written on the calendar, trying to conceive is still a romantic and enjoyable experience; I’m just not buying it. At least this book has officially, in the words of Justin Timberlake, brought sexy back.

So there you go; it’s worth the extra five bucks.

Dance like everyone's watching

2012-05-29T18:18:00.001-07:00

A little while ago, well actually a long while ago, I went out dancing with a good friend from “back in the day”. Every once in a while she and I re-enact the good old times shared when we were twenty. For the sake of this post, I should probably mention that I’m now thirty and obviously living a very different life.

I don’t often go out because finding a 'sitter is nearly impossible, as is ‘hangover parenting’ the next morning (truly a horrible experience). I hate to admit it, and it probably speaks to my age; but it’s just not worth it. Speaking of which, has anyone else noticed that hangovers get ridiculously awful with age? I don’t recall them lasting three days and feel like I should have been warned.

Anyway, the point of all this was my friend saying with a big smile “oh I remember your dancing” after I had enjoyed a few drinks and was subsequently comfortable enough to make my debut on the dance floor.

The next morning in addition to my pounding headache was the memory of her saying that. What did she mean? Were my dance-moves THAT good? Or was it the opposite? Most likely it was the latter. I’m sure it’s not just me who feels slightly (ok, very) insecure about dancing, so I decided that I should probably see what I look like when I dance.

I then did something I wouldn't recommend to anyone else: I watched a video clip from a wedding of some friends and I dancing. I’m not going to lie, it was an uncomfortable experience. There was far too much happening with my hips, my shoulders and hands were operating as two separate entities that seemed to be at war with each other, and on my face was a cross between ‘duck-lips’ and Bell's Palsy (I’m really sorry if that offends anyone – it’s not my intention as Bell's Palsy is no laughing matter...I'm just not sure how else to describe it). I suppose at the time I thought I looked sexy and alluring, but alcohol works in mysterious ways. The only thing that made the experience enjoyable was re-watching it in slow motion. In order to really appreciate the hilarity of watching yourself dance in slow-motion you would have to also try it. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard.

The disappointing realization that I dance like I have a neurological disorder surprisingly hasn't been a deterrent from further embarrassing myself. I figured it was a challenge that I could overcome with practice. That’s where having a toddler comes in handy – every day is dance-party day! So Isla and I would put on some reggae tunes and get our dance on in front of the mirror. She’s been doing what we’ll call her ‘signature move’ since she first turned two. I don’t know where she learned it (I swear it wasn’t me) but if anyone witnessed it first hand I would probably get a few raised eyebrows. Basically she puts her hands on the floor in front of her and shakes her bum back and forth in the air. Oh, it’s something. In addition to that questionable move, there is no doubt that the kid has rhythm. It’s clear from a very young age that she won’t have to worry about whether or not she can dance. Apparently for her it’s innate (much like her Dad).

Then there’s me. All I’m missing when I dance are little guns that I’ve made my hands into, pointed sporadically at the floor on the off-beat. While you’re trying to shake that image from your head, I can confirm that regardless of how hard one tries to learn new and improved dance moves, one will not change. Maybe with the help of a professional, but that might even be pushing it.

This got me thinking, where did I pick up these pseudo skills? Was I born with them? It’s basically the age old question: Nature or Nurture? Since dance is clearly something you’re born with (I know this after watching both of my kids bop their fat little legs to the beat before they were able to stand on their own), I was probably just destined to be awkward on the dance floor.

*sigh*

With the unrelenting hope that I might one day improve, I find myself trying to mimic other moves that I see first hand, or on tv (which usually doesn’t bode well). The problem is even if I find a new dance that feels and/or potentially looks OK; I would only do it for about 10 seconds before automatically and subconsciously going back to what I presume is my instinctive way of dancing. It’s obviously something I can’t control.

So if you’re reading this and worrying to yourself that if you and I go out one night, I may steal your moves; fear not, as I am apparently incapable. With that said I feel like I should mention that I probably will try, only to then promptly fail. Colour me persistent.

At the very least I know I’m not alone in my admittedly embarrassing insecurities. I always make sure to take heed to the audience at a televised concert. In one word I can sum up the crowd: awkward. No one knows whether to sway, jump, sing along, or just stand there; it’s actually really funny…and also comforting. Clearly if the entire audience were heavily intoxicated (like, for instance, at a wedding reception) then everyone would be on top of the world and showcasing their best moves.

It seems though, alcohol aside, that the only categories of people who are comfortable enough to dance like no one’s watching are the supremely confident (whom I envy), and kids. If there’s one thing I wish I hadn’t grown out of, it would be that. Also the pants I wore in high school, come to think of it.

Do I look like a potato in this?

2012-05-16T11:53:00.001-07:00

Apparently, according to facebook, thin is no longer “in”. Instead society has once again embraced the curvaceous beauty of Marilyn Monroe, for example. This is especially good news for me because I wasn’t about to trade in my curves for protruding clavicles and bony arms. I’ve always maintained this notion in spite of the magazines constantly reinforcing, via anorexic looking models, that everyone should look like they need a sandwich. I know, I know; there's a difference between skinny and fit. "Skinny", for the record, applies to those who eat barely enough to stay alive. Hence the apparent need for a sandwich.

The problem is while people are saying one thing, and Marilyn’s picture is being posted and re-posted all over the internet; those who are designing the clothes I’m buying don’t seem to be in agreement.

After spending an eternity shopping for a summer wardrobe, it was obvious that the majority of my options were designed with the ‘stick insect’ body type in mind. Hence most things I tried on looked horrifying in the mirror, causing me to leave the store feeling somewhat defeated. Though it sounds like a sad situation (relatively speaking), it could have been worse. Like when I’m tricked with flattering lights and tilted mirrors (sneaky bastards), and buy said items only to realize much too late that the pale, lumpy stranger in the pictures uploaded to my laptop, is me. Yes, time and again, I experience buyer’s remorse when I’ve already worn an article of clothing long enough to be photographed in. Oh the camera adds ten pounds, you say? Please someone explain that philosophy to me because I think it was actually the Costco size box of drumsticks I bought on sale (they’re bastards too) which might instead be responsible. Trust me, blaming the camera is my first instinct as well; but let’s be real.

Back to the clothing options for "normal" (we'll call them) looking women. On a brief tangent I just have to point out that by normal I don't mean curvy, thin, tall or short; I just mean those who don't look like they walked off the cover of Vogue. Regarding the small percentage of women who actually fit the description of 'supermodel' it has to be said, in their defence, that they can't help that they were born insanely gorgeous. My issue is the fact that unless women fit into the aformentioned mould, they don't consider themselves beautiful and instead spend their lives trying to be something different. It's not fair or realistic.

Anyway, back to what I was saying earlier. I happen to love dresses and tend to be girly at every opportunity. Maybe it’s because I wear steel toe boots and a frumpy black uniform to work; who knows. Finding a dress to compliment my curvy self (with the extra ten pounds I’m not trying hard enough to get rid of) in my postpartum state has become an issue.

So what have sparked this entry are the photos I’ve deleted of myself from yesterday’s outing on our beautiful city’s lakeshore. Mike stepped out of his comfort zone and took a few pictures of me holding Sam. Later that evening as I perused the pictures, he found himself in the hot-seat, so to speak, as to how he could possibly have let me out of the house in horizontal stripes. Everyone knows horizontal stripes are a huge no-no. Poor Mike, standing there like a deer in the headlights, didn't know what to say when faced with my questions. After all, if he’s not going to tell me something looks awful, who will?

I’m sure this happens all the time to unsuspecting husbands, and also that it’s not just Mike who stammers through an explanation of how “it looked good” or, more commonly, just assumes a blank stare until the subject changes. In their defence, I have absolutely no idea what I would do if the situation were reversed. It’s a lose-lose trap that husbands everywhere are falling into and, I can’t believe I’m admitting this, it’s really not fair to them. If Mike had told me prior to leaving the house that maybe horizontal stripes weren’t the best wardrobe option, I might have had a different reaction than the rational one which took place in my imagination. It’s likely that I would have suffered some type of pathetic, self-loathing, extremely exaggerated meltdown about how my husband thinks I’m fat.

So instead we had a lovely day as I unassumingly frumped around in my stripy sundress. Do I regret wearing it? A bit. But why??? Was it really ten stupid pounds that ruined the dress, or was I worried about what people would have thought about me? So many questions as I try to unlock the mysteries of self esteem and women. It forces me to remember a time when I was in the best shape of my life and still somehow felt self conscious about my hip-bones, or my sausage-fingers, or my squirrel-tail eyebrows, or something completely and utterly ridiculous. The real question is why do women do this to themselves? Is it society that puts pressure on us, or is it ourselves? Did Marilyn think she was fat when the rest of the world worshipped the ground she walked on? It’s a shame we can’t ask her.

Regardless, I feel like I’m over it. I do not, and will not, diet. I eat real food like butter, and the non-light yogurt. I eat food not only to stay alive but because it’s delicious (Sooooo delicious). I do not subscribe to “challenges” of weight loss and tend to stay away from marketed products. Though, as a disclaimer, it must be said that the people who do are absolutely fine in my books. To each their own. I exercise, but not obsessively. In fact I started lunging with the stroller on a little trail behind my house. I now take advantage of the seclusion the trail offers since lunging down an empty soccer field and being made fun of by a group A-hole kids. I'm ashamed to admit this caused a tad bit of lady-rage and made me to want to fight them (hormones?). It was like high school all over again, except with a twin-stroller.

I think, at the risk of getting too deep, the world sees you how you see yourself. If you find yourself with a particularly stubborn brand of crazy; consider therapy (no shame in that). If you want to lose that ten pounds, hop on the old treadmill and you’ll feel better. Basically, if you don’t like something; change it. Sounds easy right? I’ll let you know in 6 weeks if my lunging, and 20 minutes a night on the exercise bike, paid off and that stripy devil-dress actually looks good on me. No more brow-beating of the husband though; it’s not his job to crush my self-esteem each day as I go out into public and face the world potentially resembling a potato. Some people like potatoes. Love them, actually.

So at least there’s that.

The Meatball

2012-05-01T11:32:00.001-07:00

This entry will embarrass me, but I guess that’s part of exposing yourself via blog to your friends, family, and really anyone with access to the internet. So I’ll cut right to the chase: I have a mole. Well actually, I have two moles. One is under my arm and unfortunately resembles an area that may have been overlooked at my last waxing appointment. I like to pretend that it has a mind of its own and in addition to its Italian accent, has an ‘only child complex’ and desperately seeks attention. I feel like it calls to people when I lift my arm “HEY EVERYONE! LOOK AT ME!” Obviously this has bothered me since I was a kid. In an attempt to make light of it because, incidentally, I make jokes when I’m uncomfortable, I started referring to it as “the meatball”. Gross right? It seemed like an appropriate thing to call it, especially considering it spoke with an Italian accent. If I were more clever and original I would have given it a name like “Marcello” or “Angelo”, but I was seven and had apparently settled on meatball. And so it was.

This particular meatball doesn't come out very often because I tend to avoid sleeveless shirts, unless I’m at the gym. When I’m there it becomes especially obnoxious and screams at everyone around me for the entirety of my upper body workout. I know this because I often find myself noticing people notice it. I really wish it would shut the hell up while I’m trying to exercise. It’s like I have to choose between arm-dangle (as a result of not working out) and a front row seat at the Meatball show. It’s really not fair.

The other meatball, also obnoxious, lives on my cleavage. Awesome place right? This meatball likes to scream, mostly in Italian, ALL the time and not just when I’m working out. If you recall from an earlier post, I have really big boobs. So this means that no matter what, everywhere I go, I hear its little voice screaming for everyone to look at it. I’m actually really self conscious about it. What’s worse is that my friends encourage its behaviour. It’s like they go out of their way to reassure it by saying with their eyes “yes, you’re hilarious and always welcome to join our discussion”. You would think that they’d clue in and realize that I’ve readjusted my shirt 700 times in an hour in an attempt to prevent these rude interruptions. Nope, instead they pause every so often and glance down at it so that it may contribute its bullshit to the conversation. I suppose from the meatball’s perspective, it’s rather polite and accepting of them. From mine however, it’s annoying. Like when you were a kid and your Mom would make you include your super-irriating younger sibling when your friends were over.

I know what you’re thinking; if these two are causing me this much grief, why not have them removed? Well I went to the dermatologist which was an experience in itself. In my particular city apparently there is a “shortage” of specialists and there are only two doctors equipped to handle meatball evictions. Incidentally these two doctors share an office, and have hired A-holes to answer the phones. When they aren’t putting people on hold for no reason, they are sneering at their meatball-clad patients and explaining that a 2:00 appointment will likely take place up to three hours later because they are “overbooked”. Well, I’m ashamed to say, when it was my turn to converse with these jerks, I lost it. My mind, that is. You should know that sometimes I make scenes (Mike hates and loves this about me). It doesn’t happen often, but when it does it’s quite a spectacle. So the three of us (myself and the two meatballs) actually managed to get the whole waiting room in an uproar over the audacity of this office, and blatant disregard of our collective plans for the day. “WELL” I announced loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I’m not going to sit around here for three hours, I have better things to do!”. I think I may have even flailed my arms a bit allowing the underarm meatball to have its say as well. After a small argument ensued with the A-hole behind the desk, and some threats of taking me to “collections” for the $50 fee I was refusing to pay should I actually miss my appointment; I decided to wait it out at another location and go to my appointment after all. So I went shopping, and had a coffee in Vanessa (my van). Surprisingly it turned out to be a lovely afternoon.

Later, when finally in my appointment, I was told by this dermatologist that yes, she could remove my moles for THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS! Sorry for screaming that – but seriously, three hundred dollars for a procedure that she explained would take “minutes”?

I. Don’t. Think. So.

Damn you, OHIP. Damn you.

It wasn’t until after I left when I reflected on my saying “thanks, but no thanks” that I was filled with deep regret. That was my chance, and I blew it. And for what? Three hundred dollars? What is my problem?

So, as it sit here typing, my cleavage mole is peeking out over my shirt and obnoxiously crowding my periphery. My only options at this point are to go back to the dermatologist, where I imagine I’ve been blacklisted, or continue explaining to people that no, there is not a fly on my chest, it’s actually a mole. If I choose the route of acceptance and not remove said mole, I suppose I’ll have to also come to terms with the horrifying inevitability of someone confusing it for spilled food and trying to wipe it off.

Apparently life is full of difficult choices.

By the way, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever written. I hope that, if anything, it's brought you solace should you have an unsightly feature that you’re too cheap to do something about. After all, if we can’t laugh at ourselves than what the hell are we doing here?

Have you met my daughter "Keyser Söze"?

2012-04-25T11:28:00.001-07:00

I feel the expression “terrible two” wasn’t a fair warning to what Mike and I were up against with our daughter. I never imagined I could ever feel so helpless, angry, and defeated all at once. What’s worse is that I’ve heard it just gets harder and the “trying threes” (or whatever the horribly misleading name is for that age category) are even more brutal. Don't get me wrong, most times, Isla is lovely. The problem is, quite simply, we just weren't prepared for how quickly and easily she can transform from lovely to evil genius, and then back to lovely. It's truly amazing.

For those who haven't watched 'The Usual Suspects' (a great movie from the 90's), the title of this entry won't make any sense. Since I'm not a fan of spoilers, I'll just go ahead and encourage you to watch it. For those who have seen it - yes, Isla is a much cuter, sweeter, and not at all evil "Keyser Söze".

While Isla was screaming bloody murder in the park the other day because she was TERRIFIED to go in the swing she just got out of, a kind mother said that her daughter went through a similar phase. This was a tremendous relief to me as Isla clung to my dress, pulling it down with her death-grip just enough to expose my less than flattering, enormous, nude-coloured nursing bra (what? It was laundry day). How on earth could she possibly be this scared of something she was literally just enjoying? Seriously, I needed to know. My brand new mom-friend assured me that her daughter was the same, and had very similar public meltdowns disconcerting enough to seek medical attention for. Apparently when her little girl was Isla’s age (nearing three), she decided the bathtub was petrifying and wouldn’t go in for months. Again I was relieved because Isla has been showering since Christmas due to her fear of bathtubs, shadows, and worse: shadows in bathtubs. Bless this Mom and her ability to instantly make me feel better. She went on to explain that after speaking with her physician, she and her husband were informed that this is especially common with children who are highly intelligent because they tend to over-think things. Well then, it was decided. After hearing that very philosophy weeks earlier from a close friend; this mom confirmed that these wild, unexplained tantrums are simply due to the fact that my daughter is a genius (cue smug expression).

So the next day when Isla decided that she was absolutely beside herself with terror over getting dressed; instead of biting my lip in frustration (the way I keep from launching her out the window), I coddled her. After all, I thought, the poor little genius is just over-thinking the hole in which she’s to put her head. Sometimes putting a shirt on can feel a bit suffocating; she’s probably just going to require a bit of time and patience with this one, I thought to myself.

This went on for a few days and, while it was getting to be a little much, Mike and I continued to be patient and sympathize with the issues obviously out of her control. “Poor little monkey” we thought. “Hopefully she outgrows this soon” we would say to console each other through our frustration. That is until our good friend “Auntie Cat” came over. Isla’s known her for a very long time, so she tends to not get away with as much. She pulled the same routine she’s been getting attention for over the last few days and, while explaining to Cat that “she’s just terrified of getting dressed”, Isla began to act up slightly worse. This resulted in time out, and a few empty threats of staying home which ultimately just ended up slowing us down and changing our destination to something local (that’s what I get for thinking I could have a nice afternoon walking around IKEA while Isla played in their “daycare”).

Anyway, Auntie Cat stepped up to the plate and, while Mike and I were distracted in the kitchen, attempted to get Isla dressed. Wouldn’t you know; her shirt went on like nothing. No screaming; no tears; no terror. Really? Really??? After all of that she was FAKING it? Amazingly these 'freak-outs' had all been for attention. My hat goes off to her because, evidently, she is quite the little actress. Here we are thinking that we’re this united front, impenetrable to the powers of manipulation, and she’s actually been running the show the whole time. *Sigh*

So a little lesson to my friends with toddlers; apparently they’ve got us figured out. We all knew they were smart, but this is just ridiculous. It seems, much like how a celebrity views publicity, that any attention, good or bad, is still attention. I suppose Isla's officially entered her "it's all about ME" phase. I'm not really sure what to do about it because, up until this point, I thought I was doing everything right (or at least not 'wrong').

I guess all I can do is hope that it doesn't last much longer, and that I have the patience to keep my towel-screaming to a minimum (effective coping mechanism). Oh, and also that the slack-jawed bystanders, who apparently enjoy staring at my family during one of Isla's public meltdowns, actually turn back around and focus on whatever it is they were doing. Gah!

One thing that will always make me feel worse during what I will gently refer to as a "power struggle" is feeling like everyone's watching. Dear society: please stop doing this! We're already having a hard enough time dealing with the situation at hand; the last thing us poor parents need is to feel like we're being judged. I tend to think that the ignorant people forming an audience are childless because no parent, aside from the A-hole variety, would ever make another feel worse during a time like that. If you're going to do anything, a sympathetic "you're not alone" smile will suffice. Or, even better, you can go fetch me a glass of wine, disguised by a take-out coffee cup (in case it's the afternoon); your treat.

"Promise you'll tell me if my baby is ugly"

2012-04-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

I had a funny conversation the other day with a friend who is planning to start having children in the near future. She shared with me a topic of concern that I’m sure many people can relate to, but tend to not talk about. She was worried that she might give birth to an ugly baby. Obviously getting this off her chest warranted the next question, which I’m certain has been asked by many soon to be mothers in the company of their most trusted friends: “You’ll tell me if my baby is ugly, right?”

While every parent holds the health of their unborn baby paramount to everything else; until they see that sweet little face for the first time, many are worried that maybe they will give birth to a mutant. Does that make them a bad person? Of course not. Vain? Not at all. I think, having worried about the same silly thing when pregnant with both of my children, that you just want them to be “normal”- for their sake. Remembering how awful and mean kids can be (especially if you were the victim of bullying at some point in your life), can make one overly anxious about whether or not their children will experience the same angst. I think parents just want to protect their kids from anything which might hurt them, so worrying about their physical appearance before actually meeting them all comes down to the hope that they won’t stand out for the wrong reasons.

Unfortunately kids tend not to discriminate when choosing who to ridicule. If in someone's opinion they're too pretty, too tall, too short, too smart, too energetic, too anything; they may, at some point, be a casualty of playground bullying. All you can hope for as your children go off to school each day is that the teachers are paying attention and taking action. Also that you’ll have the self-control to side with your better judgement and not punch an eight year old in the face if they've made your perfect little son or daughter cry; as that might land you in jail. I suppose threatening them, unfortunately, may have the same ramifications. It's doubtful that the police, as well as the parents of that little jerk, will be in agreement with your rationale for telling a child that you will "find them" if they continue harrassing your son or daugther. That was only partially a joke.

Just while we’re on this subject, if your child is a bully (and this is something all parents should be on the lookout for), it’s up to you to do something about it. It might come down to involving a third party who is qualified to address their inner psyche; but either way, if you’re not taking the steps to correct it, you are most definitely part of the problem.

Also, in my experience, it seems the characteristics of a bully don't fade with time. I can think of a few adults who still act like that mean little brat on the playground.

So if your child is a bully and you don’t intervene by teaching them how to properly conduct themselves, it might result in a problem that follows them into adulthood, and will likely affect everything from their relationships to their career. Sorry to be so direct, but bullying is a bit of a sore-spot for me (you guessed it; I was picked on quite a bit throughout the years). I digress.

Back to the topic of ugly babies and what an oxymoron that notion is. I can’t help but wonder if there is such a thing. Of course I’ve seen my share of questionably cute babies which yes, I’m ashamed to say have generated a private little snicker here and there– but that doesn’t make them ugly.

So, regarding the question asked by ‘best friends’ everywhere about whether or not you will be honest and tell them “yes your baby is ugly” – for me, the answer will always be “no; he/she is perfect”.

Usually this question is followed up by the half-joking declaration that they will already know if their baby is ugly so, consequently, they’ll know if I’m lying. I used to think the same thing and, hence the worry, was certain that I would be able to recognize whether or not my qualms of giving birth to an unsightly creature had come true. Having had two children, I can tell you this concept is nothing but a load of Bulls**t! I fell so unbelievably in love with my babies the second they entered the world that even if they were born with antlers and a snout, I would ever so proudly share their perfect little faces with the world. Not only that, I would secretly feel bad for everyone who didn’t have children as beautiful as my own.

It’s the way we’re programmed; hence the expression “a face only a mother could love”. We are incapable of recognizing a flaw within our own babies because, to us, they truly are perfect. That’s why whenever that friend, with the furrowed brow and concerned tone makes me swear that I will tell them if they happen to give birth to an “ugly baby”, I tell them they are ridiculous and recite the essence of this blog entry. It’s just not possible and, despite the fact that you think you’ll “just know”, trust me; you won’t.

Maybe worrying about this ludicrous topic it’s a way to defer anxiety from something as important as their health because, deep down, I think that’s what can be consuming. To joke lightly about the physical appearance of what will certainly be the most beautiful person you have ever seen, keeps you from spending too much time worrying about something serious. I can appreciate that because, on top of hormones, the last thing you need is to be brought down by the fear and apprehension of a real issue.

So with all of that said; no, I will not tell you if you have an ugly baby. I will agree with you that they are gorgeous, and will vote for them in the “world’s cutest baby contest” because, along side with my kids, they are right up there with the world’s cutest babies. If you’re pregnant, or hope to soon be pregnant, please don’t worry about what your baby will look like. I promise that you couldn’t, even in your wildest dreams, imagine anything so incredibly perfect.

Fancy a nap, A-hole?

2012-04-08T12:03:00.003-07:00

Babies are so funny. Their limited ability to communicate has parents everywhere utilizing desperate measures to give them whatever it is they’re in need of. Since it doesn’t take long to get to know your baby; a routine is quickly put into place. Sam, like clockwork, announces his imminent need for a mid-morning nap every day at 11:00 sharp. I’m still in awe at what an easy baby he is and am so thankful to have such predictable children. As long as I’m in anticipation of their not-so surprising mood-swings, and take appropriate action; we’re in good shape. Most days.

This morning I was quickly yanked from my daydream, as I attempted to make a banana bread, to the sound of Sam demanding his first nap of the day. The only other time he cries is when he’s hungry; it’s a little bit too easy if you ask me. I can’t help but fear a sudden transformation because, after all, they say a good baby will be horrible toddler (and vice versa). Oh, you’ve never heard that? That tidbit was shared with me dozens of times during Isla’s difficult stage. Interesting how something that was once so reassuring has suddenly become a source of anxiety. I try not to think about ridiculous things like that; although if “they” said it – it must be based on something (this sarcastic reference will make a lot more sense if you read my last entry).

Anyway, back to Sam and how funny it is that he needs a nap after being awake for only two hours. This abrupt change in disposition got me thinking: maybe some adults are stuck in this phase of development. And by adults, I actually mean A-holes. Yes, that’s right, I’m suggesting that maybe A-holes aren’t actually A-holes. Maybe they just need a mid-morning nap.

Mike and I joked about this concept after I secured Sam in his swing (the only way he’ll sleep during the day). We wondered what the ratio of A-holes were in Spain, where they have Siesta. Sadly when one googles Spanish A-holes + ratio, one might not get exactly what they're looking for (ha!).

That aside, it amazes me how similar we adults are to babies. In spite of Mike’s preference to not be mentioned in my blog; I have to tell you it’s like Jeckyl and Hide when he’s hungry. Just the same; if I’m tired, you could say that I morph into quite the A-hole myself.

What should we take from this? By acknowledging that the fundamentals of our personality are evident in babies, maybe we could intercept a change in mood before it happens. Go to bed early, eat every two hours, and include more fibre in your diet. If we catered to our own needs in a similar fashion to that of a baby, I think overall we’d be a happier and healthier society. Or, at the very least, there would be a few less A-holes running around.

"they" are idiots.

2012-04-03T09:28:00.000-07:00

Mike and I were talking about the day we will finally be rid of diapers. Of course that means we will have to potty-train Sam, who currently is only five months old. For obvious reasons I’m dreading that time in our lives. Mike on the other hand, informed me that they say training a boy is much easier than a girl, so we shouldn’t encounter too many issues with our son.

This started an interesting discussion because, based on what I’ve heard, I have always thought the opposite. Obviously girls are easier; it’s boys who will give you trouble. Why you ask? I have absolutely no idea! Why would Mike have assumed one thing, and me the complete opposite?

This got me thinking: who is this “they” everyone casually refers to and what the hell are these “known facts” based on? What do “they" know and, really, who cares what they think? I picture it to be one person, at some point in time, perhaps agreeing with another – and now suddenly whatever they decided on has somehow become a standard. Passed on from generation to generation; inherited like an old family recipe. Either that or one person said it, nine agreed, and now not only is it constantly repeated, but now somehow bears truth.

I then started thinking of all the things “they” say – things that society has just accepted as facts. Like, for instance, “they” say that a good baby will usually result in a bad toddler, and vice-versa. I can’t tell you the number of times that line was delivered to me by a sympathetic voice while my infant daughter had a full on tantrum in public. This almost always happened while surrounded by other mothers who, incidentally, had perfectly calm and collected babies. I would joke that it’s the universe providing balance; the louder Isla screamed, the more peaceful her infant playmates would become. So I suppose if these mothers were right, basically Isla’s temperament would improve with age, and these sweet little angel-babies would transform into monsters. It had to be true – I can’t imagine “they” would lie about something so important.

So, back to my original question: who are “they” and where did they get their facts? If I had to venture a guess, I might assume that these subjective snippets are nothing but old wives tales, based entirely on one’s opinion. For instance, I think baby-talk is stupid. If we’re going to teach our kids how to speak, how about we teach them the right way? That would save a lot of time and confusion later on when they discover that a cookie isn’t a “num-num” (or whatever the case may be).

If I can convince one other friend to join me in this ideology, and two other friends perpetuate this as fact (and so on); I think I could possibly become this “they” everyone refers to. Next thing you know, mothers everywhere will be reciting to their mommy-groups that “they” say baby-talk is redundant and confusing to children.

Now here’s an idea: maybe, just maybe, “they” don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Maybe it’s all crap. Maybe every child is different and instead of trying to conform to a social norm(that we aren’t even sure is an actual ‘norm’), we should just let our kids be. Screw ‘them’.

Guaranteed that whatever the topic; there’s little research supporting it. Generally speaking, we tend to not ask questions when it comes to things “they” say. Instead we either take comfort or become anxious, depending on how it affects our current situation. Sam is a good baby; does that mean he’s going to be an awful toddler? Should I worry? Probably not – but I can’t remember what “they” say about worrying.

Damn.

"honest"

2012-03-26T16:07:00.000-07:00

I’m sure everyone’s heard of “baby brain”. I’m also sure that those who haven’t suffered from it assume that it’s a make-believe disorder coined by mothers, in an attempt to make themselves feel better about their sudden inability to speak and/or perform simple tasks. Having personally suffered from this condition; I can confirm that not only is it real, but apparently also permanent. Mike is a big fan of baby brain and sums up the multitude of symptoms by referring to them as TIAs (which is basically the short form for mini stroke). These occurrences happen all too frequently and, because it’s me we’re talking about, usually in public. A recent example took place while paying for an item at Coach (which is dangerous in itself). The saleswoman thanked me for my purchase at the same moment I was about to thank her. At the last millisecond I decided that it might end up sounding weird. Kind of like when I ask someone “how are you?” to which they usually reply “fine thanks, and you?” causing me to say something brilliant like “great! How are you?” – And so forth. So I changed my mind. In the brief moment it took me to decide against ‘thank you’ and whether or not ‘you’re welcome’ was suitable, what instead came out was the word “honest”. Yes, honest. Later when I described this TIA to Mike, he assumed I would have made a joke to divert the awkwardness. Sadly I did no such thing and instead watched her puzzled face as she repeated the word back to herself in her head. I said nothing, grabbed by bag, and left. Sometimes you just can’t come back from something like that and it’s better to just carry on as if it never happened. File it away in your memory under ‘cringe-worthy’; subcategory ‘baby brain’.

Speaking of which, one of my favourite moments took place last month. I pulled up in Vanessa (my van), just as the Purolator truck stopped at the foot of my driveway. Maybe it’s the child in me, but every time I see a delivery truck on my street I get this excited, butterfly-like feeling and hope that maybe someone sent me a parcel. Usually it loops around the cul de sac and drives past, but this time it stopped right in front of my house. You can imagine my level of enthusiasm as the delivery guy said hello and then stood up to retrieve what I knew would be for me. There was no mistaking it. So, without thinking, I said “please tell me you have a big package with my name on it”. Oh yes; that happened. Obviously. Much like my experience in Coach, I just stood there like an idiot and watched my words register across his face. I could have made a joke – honestly I don’t know why I didn’t – but instead I signed for my “big package” and went inside. I’m sure it happens all the time – especially with perverts, which he likely assumed I was. Come to think of it, my address has probably been flagged and I’m going to receive some kind of sexual harassment pamphlet in the mail.

Anyway, in case you know a mother and she does weird things like fills her car up while it's still running (yep, did that one while 8 months pregnant with Isla), or leaves a stove element on all day long (did that one too), or forgets how to spell the word ‘who’ (“hoo”); wait until she leaves the room to laugh at her. It’s not her fault. She used to be smart – and maybe one day will be again. Kids are like shop-vacs, sucking the intelligence out of those who gave them life. I’d like to say it’s temporary, but clearly I’m still its poster-mom. Time will tell, I guess. In the mean time I'll just try to look pretty and hope no one listens to the words coming out of my mouth.

texting alot make me feel bad.

2012-03-19T10:58:00.003-07:00

My grandfather (in law) was griping last summer about how the world is growing away from basic conversation. In place of eye contact and body language are texts, emails, and facebook messaging. He joked that over time humanity will have evolved into a group of speechless drones who will be permanently hunched forward and, in place of fingers, will have ‘super-thumbs’ for texting. This of course will be due to the fact that humans will no longer have face to face interactions and will instead communicate entirely through texting, or whatever will soon replace texting. Far fetched and sarcastic as that is, I think he’s on to something.

I can’t tell you the number of conversations I’ve had in the last year which have involved the person I’m trying to talk to, completely enthralled with their cell phone and unable to focus on what I’m saying. What’s the point in even pretending? I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume the reason that driving and texting is illegal is because you simply can’t pay attention to both. The same goes for conversations; you can’t possibly hear what I’m saying to you if you’re simultaneously involved in another social media based conversation. There’s just no way. Not only that; it's rude. And if you've read previous entries, you may remember how strongly I feel about manners and self-awareness. I posted something on facebook to that effect a few months ago and the response from those on my ‘friends list’ was powerful. If everyone agrees with how awful texting during a conversation is, why does it happen so often? Everywhere I look there is someone texting; most times it’s in the car next to me which, as a mother, I find infuriating. When my kids are secured safely in my mom-van, there are few things that frustrate me more than looking over to see ‘Johnny-Douchebag’ glancing down at what I know is a cell phone. Just FYI to everyone who texts while driving; you’re doing a horrible job at hiding it.

Anyway, now that I feel a bit lighter having ranted, I’m going to go ahead and completely contradict myself by sharing a story which took place last week. I was sitting in my mom-van (whom, for future reference, I named Vanessa VanVanningon – I obviously excel at mom-jokes), and decided to answer a call from one of my friends. I know, I know; according to the law, driving and chatting on a cell is just as bad as texting. I was at a red light and planned on talking for only a few seconds (mostly because I’m overly aware of my ‘daytime minute’ restrictions). The guy in front of me was LOSING HIS MIND in the rear-view mirror. Either that or there was a bee in his car. For those of you who are Seinfeld fans, his wild gestures made him look exactly like Coco the Monkey. I briefly interrupted my friend to inform her of what was going on, and that I had to lock my doors in case this lunatic decided to jump out and punch me in the face. Why you ask? Having deduced the meaning of his chatter box hand sign, I’m pretty sure it was due to my talking on the phone. Wow; some people are really concerned with what others are doing. I wasn’t sure how to react so, in my obnoxious ways, I waved at him. Apparently he didn’t like that and continued with this performance. It made me think of two things: One; that I should really listen to Mike and stop “poking bears” because one day I realy will get punched in the face, and two; this poor guy probably shares the same frustration with my grandfather. The world is being taken over by cell phones and in place of personal interaction is social media. I know this guy probably just has anger-management issues, but for the sake of this blog entry I’m going to go ahead and assume he’s longing for some good old fashioned human connections without the aid of a cell phone.

I know I sound like someone’s ‘Nan, but if I had a nickel for all of the friends I’ve witnessed have incredibly important and emotional conversations via text, I would probably have….well, I guess about a dollar. That didn’t quite have the impact I was hoping for. The point of this is that I think as a society we’ve begun to rely too heavily on technology. For instance, if you’re having marital trouble; why on earth would you ever assume that settling your differences via text message is appropriate? Think of how much is lost without eye contact, body language, and tone of voice. Texting is for things like "I'm at the grocery store - do we need milk", etc. Not "I think we should see other people", etc. Humans are supposed to communicate with their voices and I think if we carry on like this our bad examples might cause our children to grow up without social skills. Not only that; their collective ability to both spell and form sentences will be far worse than ours ever was. That’s saying something because, since the explosion of social media, I’ve become painfully aware of how terrible most people write. I realize this is making me sound like a patronizing ‘B’, but this is one of my biggest problems with facebook. If I see someone write the word ‘congradulations’ one more time I think I might lose it (perhaps even worse than that passionate driver I happened upon at the red light). There is, and never will be, a ‘D’ in that word – that goes for “congrads” as well (*shudder*). Also, while we’re on this subject, a lot isn’t one word. It just isn’t. My computer won’t even let me type it as an example. Apparently this pet peeve is something my laptop and I have in common. There are a lot (see how nice that looks?) of things that we need to be aware of when writing – but I can’t communicate them all to you without sounding like I need to be medicated. Just quickly I’ll say that if you don’t know the differences between ‘to’ and ‘too”, and “there”, “their” and “they’re”; perform a google search immediately and stop embarrassing yourself. Or, if spelling doesn’t mean anything to you, stop contributing to the nervous twitch I’m developing as a result of this incessant ignorance of the English language.

*Ahhh* that feels better. I promise my next entry won’t be as hot-headed. Well actually I can’t say that – we’ll just have to wait and see. It’s not a coincidence that I decided to incorporate the words rants and tangents into the title. With that said if you take anything from this, please never participate in another text-war. If you have a problem with someone, texting will only make it worse. Get in your car, stop at the LCBO for some Baco Noir, go to their home and have a nice little face to face. Your relationship will be better for it. If not, you'll at least have that bottle of wine you picked up.

Yeah I'll take a Big Mac, with a side of Kudos. He'll have one too - hold the Kudos though.

2012-03-14T14:16:00.001-07:00

I recently found myself explaining to one of our best friends why it’s important for him to fall off the wagon, so to speak, and gain a bunch of weight in support of his very pregnant wife (incidentally one of my other best friends). While he was “cheating” on his fitness & nutrition regime by having a beer, I mistakenly gave him props and assumed he typically wasn’t drinking because his wife couldn’t. When he explained his commitment to Crossfit and accompanying dietary restrictions, I took heed to how good he looks. Like his gorgeous wife, he’s someone who is typically in shape so I wasn’t taken aback by him looking fit. I decided to take the opportunity to tenderly scold him for not being aware of the “rules”. Maybe it’s just me, but when I was pregnant I made sure Mike clearly understood all of his responsibilities as my supportive partner. These included obvious things like getting me Big Macs in the middle of the night (should the mood strike), telling me I looked beautiful, not questioning my somewhat frequent (hormone-induced) irrationality, and making sure to not make me feel bad by parading around with a 6-pack. I’m talking about the abdominal variety, as well as Heineken (which happened to be my incredibly unfair craving when pregnant with Sam. Thanks for that, Universe). Now before you think less of me by assuming that I’m a bossy, control-freak; it’s important to know that I’m not at all suffocating or oppressive. Though admittedly I am biased in saying this, I’m sure that those who know us well would support me by agreeing that Mike has it pretty good. Regardless of whether it’s because I’m a Libra or maybe it’s just do to the fact that I’m a woman; I like things to be balanced and equal. I also don’t like being told what not to do – which, in terms of the negative aspects, is essentially pregnancy in a nut-shell. So, along with the aforementioned understanding he and I shared, I would not have been in support of him losing the weight I happened to be gaining. It’s important to know that I packed on well over 60 pounds for each pregnancy, and while I did embrace the miracle of life taking place; I also resented the moon-face staring back at me in the mirror. Not so much with Sam as with Isla, but pounds are pounds, and there were days throughout each pregnancy that I felt like an extra pale, beached manatee. A buff husband scampering around the house may have pushed me over the edge.

I’m reminded of a funny story (although not so funny at the time) which took place at one of my midwife appointments. Basically Mike thought it would be a good idea to hop on the scale after my ‘weigh-in’ (the dreaded commencement of each appointment) and declare, surprised, that he’s lost weight. I’m not sure if it was the inevitable aftermath of me sobbing in the elevator that made him clue in, or if it was my cartoon Bambi eyes welling up while trying to book my next appointment, but he knew without being told where he went wrong. I know Mike’s been worried about me blogging this one because it makes him look incredibly insensitive so, in his defence, he really had no idea how stupid this was until after the fact. He apologized profusely and admits wholeheartedly that he was just wasn’t thinking. Now looking back I can’t help but wonder if his immediate realization had something to do with the fact that he was aware of the “you’re not allowed to look amazing while you’re wife is pregnant” rule. I wasn’t completely devastated and the tears were almost entirely a result of those awesome pregnancy hormones I keep mentioning. So it didn’t take long for this to become a funny story which, to Mike’s dismay, would be shared with friends for years to come . The real doozies take a bit longer to evolve into comedic anecdotes and are usually associated with an argument of sorts. Those ones need to cool down for a while before they’re funny (I’m sure anyone in a relationship knows exactly what I’m talking about).

Anyway, back to my friend and his horribly timed pursuit of fitness. His wife is just about the most supportive and loving creature I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, so it’s not surprising that she hasn’t gone up one side of him and down the other on this issue. That’s where I come in. I took the liberty and explained, with the help of my weigh-in story, why it’s important to be supportive in all ways including getting fat. At least this ensures that the task of getting back into shape is less daunting because you know your partner will be right there beside you; red-faced and dry-heaving at the gym. All things considered, I don’t think this is too much to ask for.

Now before I make it sound like I hated pregnancy, I have to be clear and illustrate that I actually loved having been pregnant. At the risk of sounding like I work for Hallmark, I will treasure the memoires for the rest of my life. Women who are fortunate enough to know what I’m talking about would probably agree, and also wouldn’t trade it for anything. The sense of triumph after giving birth is second to none – especially having done it naturally. Yeah, I’m one of those A-holes who inadvertently make you feel bad about yourself if you’ve had an epidural. Trust me, had it not been for the back pain which resulted from the epidural I had with Isla, I would have had it again. Maybe I would have even asked for seconds, just to be safe. If I recall, during my labour with Isla, the armour-clad anaesthesiologist rode into my delivery room on a white steed. Although, now thinking back, that may have been a pain-induced hallucination. Who knows; who cares? Point is, I got the drugs and I loved them. It was the seven months of spinal pain that deterred me on round two. Having experienced both the natural and “unnatural” I can honestly say it wasn’t so bad dealing with the pain; of course it’s easy to say that now that I'm jacked full of amnesic hormones which apparently are responsible for me wanting to do it all over again.

At least I will always have the fact that I delivered a nearly ten pound baby. Mike loves when I bring it up; which is often. And honestly, even if I had been under general for the birth of my kids, and had never experienced a contraction; I would still find ways to bring up the fact that I carried each of them around for 10 months. Basically no matter how you slice it; mothers are entitled to a lifetime of kudos.

Thanks, 'Tips'!

2012-03-04T10:30:00.000-08:00

I once read a quote about all parenting advice you once had, going out the window once you actually had kids. I wish for the sake of this entry I could remember the quote, or who wrote it, but I’m not the most organized person on a good day. Anyway, I found this to be particularly amusing as Mike and I had many discussions throughout the years of how we'll parent. Not only that, but most (if not all) ended with the incredibly naive assumption that everything will go according to plan. While I have applied some of our theories (like tricking Isla into thinking applesauce is the junkiest junk-food around), most are laughable now that I look back. For instance, I remember saying that I would never tiptoe around when the kids are asleep. After all, how would they avoid becoming light sleepers if they didn't get used to someone vacuuming beside their heads during a nap? Mike agreed with me on this one – that is until Isla was born. Isla, though wonderful right from the moment of conception, was not an easy baby. WHEN she would finally fall asleep, Mike and I would transform into ninjas, terrified to make even the slightest sound which might wake her. Not that she had ever demonstrated that she was a light sleeper; it was just too risky to test her limitations. So each and every time she would fall asleep, there we were, trying desperately to not make a sound beyond inhaling and exhaling. Of course, much like when you’re trying to hurry and only end up slowing yourself down, staying quiet is virtually impossible. It’s times like these I would accidentally knock the broom over and, in a desperate attempt to catch it before it clangs onto the tile, end up kicking it mid-air and, like a javelin, it would end up firing into the glass door. That scenario has taken place several times, I swear. You would think I'd learn to stop trying to sweep during "quiet time", but I rarely learn from my mistakes. It's a wonder the door is still in tact.

Then there’s Sophie (anyone with a baby knows exactly who I’m talking about). She’s a little rubber giraffe equipped with an internal squeaker; extremely popular with the infant demographic. I don’t know she how does it, but Sophie always manages to find her way onto my chair or under my feet. When I inevitably sit or stand on her, she screams her little head off for the duration it takes for her to fill back up with air. It’s anything but quiet and always seems to happen when I’m tiptoeing around the house during the much anticipated (by me) afternoon nap. Anyway, that was a bit of tangent. The point is I didn’t realize know how difficult it would be once there was actually a sleeping child upstairs to carry on as if there weren’t one. Since nap-time is really the only time I can get anything done, I try my hardest not to disrupt the kids. Of course now that I have two, the whole concept is out the window. Isla won’t sleep in the afternoon and, bless her little heart, instead sings at the top of her lungs until I come and get her. Since her room is beside Sam’s, I’ve had to stagger their naps. Can’t win 'em all, I guess. Much like the "sleep when they sleep" theory; if you're a mother and have managed to followed this advice, I'm thoroughly impressed. Trust me, I've tried; but the anxiety of waking up to 17 loads of laundry keeps me from achieving the much-needed rest. In spite of this I still find myself passing this same advice on to others. I just make sure to include how impossible it is, and it seems to ease a bit of the associated pressure. It's almost become sarcastic advice, sharing a category with such gems as “make sure your kids don't watch TV until they're two". HA! Clearly the genius who thought that one up did not have kids at the time. If not for the delightfully captivating antics of Mickey and friends, I would never shower.

While unsolicited advice comes from a sincere place (I would hope), it can sometimes be a little bit overwhelming for mothers – especially new mothers. There’s this fear that we’re not doing what we’re supposed to be doing, but really who knows what is right and wrong? My advice to new mothers, unsolicited I suppose, is that they should do what feels right. Every baby is different, just as every mother is different. Also try to remember not to take out your frustration on the poor soul who offered their two cents. After all, they’re just trying to help. Unless of course it’s that friend; you know the one I’m talking about. We all seem to have one and probably by age 30 have weeded her out of the circle. She’s the one who apparently just can't help herself and, probably due to a combination of insecurity and a lack of self-awareness, seems to always be in passive-aggressive-critic mode. She’s the one who will mention, in a light tone to suggest a joke (but you know it’s not) the calorie count of the glass of wine you’re trying to enjoy. Rule of thumb: when it comes to wine, back off! Everyone knows those calories don’t count. Like chocolate, sometimes you just need a glass of wine. And by sometimes, I mean most times. They are calories for the soul and not meant to be counted. Don’t listen to that friend; she probably has no idea how she comes across and would be devastated if you shared with her your internal commentary while she states, time and again, what's on her mind. In her defence, she may suffer from that self-declared ‘missing filter’ syndrome I mentioned in a previous blog (although I still think that’s basically just a polite way of saying “I’m ignorant”). Regardless of the reasons why, this friend is exhausting and everything feels like a competition. She probably calls you fat, without actually calling you fat, on a daily basis. She likely implies you’re a crappy mother, and that she’s better than you in every way. My advice if you haven’t yet weeded her out: do so immediately. People like that will give you an ulcer and, trust me, if you’re a mother you don’t have time for stomach ailments. Life is too short.

While we're on the topic of 'unsolicited advice', in spite of my brief tangent, I have to offer one tidbit I wish someone had given me: do not choose lottery numbers. Mike and I did this several years ago, with some minor variations to reflect the birthdays of our children. Now that we have these "winning numbers" (which have proven to actually be losing numbers), I can't pass by the lottery kiosk at the grocery store without having heart palpitations. You see, I’m not much of a gambler and I rarely buy lottery tickets. Unfortunately now since I chose these numbers, if they win I will obviously have to drive my car off of a bridge. Of course I'm not being serious because life is about so much more than money; but can you imagine your numbers winning on the day you didn't buy a ticket? Unless you're going to subscribe and play each time; do not torture yourself with the "OMG I hope my numbers didn't win" weekly panic attack. It’s the worst. The lotto 649 commercials don’t help as I would love to quit my job (I love being a paramedic, but not that much) and live on a private tropical island. Talk about a mind “F”.

Pardon us; it's just your haircut that makes you look old.

2012-02-22T09:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, after several failed attempts, I finally made it to Shoppers Drug Mart to mail out the last of my thank-you cards and send back the size “6 month” NY Giants hat I ordered for Sam (apparently my four month old has the head of a 12 month old). As we were walking through the store, Isla kept anxiously saying “Mommy there’s a boy following me”. In the span of about two minutes she must have said it at least 6 times. “The boy” she was loudly referring to was in fact a lady. Visibly annoyed, this lady corrected my daughter and exclaimed “I’m a GIRL and I’m NOT following you”. Isla was not buying it. With her little nose crinkled, she then basically implied this lady was a liar and said “no, you’re a boy”. To make things even more awkward, this conversation took place with Isla peeking out from her hiding spot behind my legs. It was then we discovered that this lady was on her way to the post office as well and, naturally, would take the place in line behind us; thus confirming Isla’s suspicion that she was being followed.

I’m sure every parent has had these embarrassing and awkward moments as a result of their toddler. While I could see the humour in this situation, I was surprised at this woman’s reaction. In Isla’s defence, she did kinda look like a boy. It didn’t help that she had on a big, square coat and weird little beanie. Honestly, if you ask me, she could have gone either way; but that’s beside the point. What I thought was strange was the look this woman gave me while repeatedly insisting that she wasn’t a boy. It was as if she was telepathically saying “she’s your daughter – shut her up!” I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but when it comes to the absent filter of a two-year-old, there’s not much that can be done aside from inadvertently creating an even bigger spectacle.

Kids say ridiculous things; sometimes embarrassing, sometimes awkward, often times endearing. I think it’s unfair for society to place a responsibility on the parents to somehow sensor the perception of their small children. Of course teaching them manners and self-awareness takes time, patience, and the acceptance that you will sometimes have those mortifying moments when your barely two year old calls the woman at the bank (far too young to be a grandmother) ‘Nana’. That was Isla’s favourite thing to do when she was learning to talk. Unfortunately my ability to perform damage-control has always been lacking and after a few seconds of nervous laughter I would always say something stupid like “oh, it’s probably just your haircut”. Yep, that's right, best course of action when a person suddenly feels insecure about their appearance is to find a way to insult their haircut. Write that down.

Experiencing cringe-worthy moments on behalf of your innocent children is all part of being a parent. If I had some good advice on how to handle it, now would be a good time to offer it to you. Unfortunately all I can say is that you’re not alone. I imagine one thing you can do is to hope the person victim or witness to the words of your toddler realizes that it’s silly to be offended by them. What I can suggest is that you go home and write it down because, looking back, it will one day be hilarious (if it’s not already).

Isla once insisted the bearded man sitting at the table next to us at Cora’s was Santa. She literally wouldn’t drop it. I’m sure the poor man trying to enjoy his breakfast thought it was cute at first, but enough’s enough. That’s kids for you though; they just say whatever is on their minds. Come to think of it, I know a lot of adults who suffer from the same affliction. Maybe it’s a lack of self-awareness that prevents one from outgrowing this stage. Regardless, the only time you can really get away with not having a filter is when you’re too young to know any better. After a certain age I think you evolve into plain and simple ignorance. And really, while many often blame the fact that they “don’t have a filter” when they say something stupid; unless they’re two, it’s a terrible excuse.

Desperation is a stinky cologne - and I like it!

2012-02-17T08:20:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if it’s because I have a daughter or if it’s because I’m a woman, but the TV show The Bachelor makes me uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, much like the car-wreck analogy, I can’t seem to look away. I know editing has a lot to do with how the ‘contestants’ (I’m not sure what else to call them) come across, but I can’t help but shake my head at the amount of available footage they have to work with. My husband and I actually share in this guilty pleasure; though it took him a few seasons to actually tune in and realize what I’ve been saying since it first aired: The Bachelor is a comedy! I think that’s the problem; no one really knows how to take it. Many of my friends have expressed to me that they just “can’t” when it comes to that show. They list the obvious reasons including the terrible premise, the irritating, over-used “will you accept this rose” question, and basically the overall cheese-factor. I get it, really I do. I think the problem is those who hate this show might be taking it all a bit too seriously. Incidentally many of these friends who can’t bring themselves to watch spend their entire week eagerly anticipating “Jersday”.

Ask yourself this: Why is Jersey Shore so popular? I’m sure everyone would conclude that it’s because it’s absurd. If you were to compare the two shows, the only variation is that there’s actually more fighting on The Bachelor. Also I’m sure anyone would agree that a bunch of women desperate and crazy enough to go on that show in the first place; at each other’s throats and pulling out ALL of the crazy, is much more entertaining than watching a bunch of self-proclaimed “guidos” GTL. Just saying. By the way, before you assume I’m a hypocrite and like only one of the two shows, I happen to enjoy both equally. Basically I don’t discriminate when it comes to mindless entertainment.

Out of curiosity I did an online search to find out how much time these women actually spend with their ‘Prince Charming”. I mostly just found articles/blogs encouraging women to hate the show based on what are pretty obvious reasons. All of which happen to be the reasons why I watch it. Is it mean if I say that I like watching a bunch of lunatic women fight over a man they hardly know, a man they wouldn’t look twice at in an ordinary setting, all while being followed around by a bunch of cameras? The fact that cameras are in their faces on these “dates” is hilarious in itself. Imagine being on a first date and having some (presumable) riff-raff camera-crew perched up on the side of the hot tub you’re making out in (HA!). I always picture the sound guy with his little headphones on holding that giant sound-boom over their heads. No, that wouldn’t be awkward at all. As terrific and entertaining as all of that is, the icing on the cake is that they’ve managed to make it even better by allowing these women to combine their personality disorders with copious amounts of alcohol. Man, this is TV at its finest.

Who wants normalcy in their television shows? I’m so tired of everyone’s muppet-critic commentary. In my opinion, the whole point of TV is to be preposterous, mind-numbing, entertainment. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’m a paramedic and I sometimes feel the need to offset the extra dose of reality that comes with my job with a silly TV show. Basically I feel that we live in real life. Do you really want to come home and watch more real life? Oh hurray! Loved that episode last night about another mom with unwashed hair marinating a pork tenderloin. That part where she had to answer the phone and do a load of laundry really hit close to home. Spot on. Fascinating stuff!

Alright, so maybe that’s a little far off but seriously, if not for people doing open-heart surgery in elevators, the world being taken over by sexy aliens, or a bunch of crazy, drunken, desperate women sobbing over Mr. Awkward; I probably wouldn’t have cable.
Now going back to the original statement I made about this show making me uncomfortable. Yes, I suppose the depiction of women could be viewed as offensive, especially to those who generally take life too seriously. What I find particularly bothersome is the fact that I have a daughter; which reminds me that these women have parents. How awful for their poor fathers to have to sit through a two-hour episode, week after week, and watch their beautiful and (sometimes) successful daughters literally throw themselves at a man. One of the women from this season is a Ph.D. student for goodness sake. Not that I’m implying education coincides with rationality, but one might typically assume that women of that calibre are out of place in the world of reality TV romance. Or maybe, on a slightly darker note, it was their “Daddy-issues” which landed them on this show in the first place. Something has to be wrong with you to think that after a few weeks of ‘group-dates’ you’re ready to be publicly engaged. I guess Chris Rock said it best (of course this is slightly out of context): If your daughter is falling all over herself on The Bachelor, you F#%ked up!

If you happen to be a ‘hater’ of this show, I wonder if going into it knowing that it’s a comedy would change your outlook. If you can’t get past the premise, try picturing the sound-guy. If you don’t think that’s funny, then I guess when it comes to comedy television we’ll just have to agree to disagree.

If you need me, I'll be in my PH

2012-02-12T17:00:00.000-08:00

Since most of the people who read my blog are friends or family (ha! let’s be honest, at the moment ALL of the people who read my blog are either friends or family), I was fortunate enough to receive some second-hand feedback. My good friend, incidentally the one who first convinced me to start writing, mentioned that her partner that night (to be clear, I’m talking about paramedics on a night shift) was explaining how nice it is to be able to speak honestly about the challenges of being a mother. I guess she agreed with an earlier entry I had written about how it seems like everyone is involved in some kind of competition. It’s like no matter how hard you try, you will always be made to feel like you’re not quite as put together as so-and-so down the street, who happens to make everything look easy.

Really, what it comes down to is perception. When you arrive at someone’s house for a visit and think to yourself “wow, I wish my house were this clean and organized”, you really have no idea (and there’s no way of knowing) what this same house looked like 20 minutes ago as they were running around like a half-dressed lunatic in preparation for your arrival. Just the same, you have no idea that they may have spent five whole minutes screaming into a towel in the powder room because they simply couldn’t find a better outlet after losing a battle of wits with their toddler. The point is, we all have bad days and good days (even the perceived supermoms).

There are some days I actually can bake a banana bread from scratch, put together an entire Disney princess puzzle (I really hate puzzles), take my poor, overly-energetic (to no fault of her own) boxer to the park, steam clean the entire main-floor (if you don’t yet own a steam-cleaner, you are missing out on a world of awesomeness) and make the world’s best lasagne. All with a smile on my face (maybe a smile that suggests I’m bordering on crazy, but a smile nonetheless). Those are the days that I feel like I’m on top of the world. It usually takes several coffees and, if I’m lucky, a really short shower while Isla is plugged into some God-awful show on Treehouse (speaking of which, am I the only one who wants to slap the cartoon face right off of that whiney little brat, Caillou?). On these particular days I wish I could bottle my energy and ration it out.

That’s an example of a good day; a day that I would be more than happy for one of those “I was just in the neighbourhood” drop-in visits. Alternatively there are the other days, which unfortunately happen far more frequently than my ‘supermom’ days. It’s these days that I’m most likely to actually have someone stop by to say hello, and also accidentally have a boob out when I answer the door (Murphy’s Law). Let’s call these days ‘regular days’ (I’m choosing not to refer to them as ‘bad days’ because they’re not at all bad; they’re just ordinary). On those days, in spite of my efforts to catch up with the laundry “situation”, I always fail miserably. In my defence, it’s simply not possible to keep up when the laundry entering the room is twice that of the laundry leaving. I also feel, and this is entirely my opinion, that it’s both unfair and unrealistic to expect that after washing and folding the laundry that I then also have to put it away. What am I, some kind of machine? Speaking of laundry, the room once known simply as the “laundry room” is now referred to as my personal hell or “PH”. I don’t know if it’s Huggies fault, or maybe my little thanksgiving-turkey of a son is just too big for the bulk size 2’s I bought him (thank goodness for Costco), but every single time Sam fills his diaper, he also happens to fill his pants, onesie, and my lap (this is the main reason for owning four pairs of lulu lemon pants). The first couple of times this happens in a day aren’t so bad. I’m actually used to it, and have a pretty effective little system in place. It’s when, for the eleventh time, immediately after changing him into his last clean outfit, he gets that look in his eye, followed by sounds comparable to that of an earthquake; that’s when it starts to wear on me a bit. And just like that I’m back in my ‘PH’, scrubbing like a maniac in the set-tub. For the record, I’ve tried many different stain-fighters all promising miracles short of solving world hunger. Truth be told, and surprising as you may find this, the best thing for scrubbing baby poop is a bar of ivory soap (you’re welcome).

Again, I digress. Most days are the like this, hence calling them ‘regular days’. There’s Roxy (the aforementioned boxer) with her sad eyes and hyper little nubbin of a tail ready to wag right off of her body, begging me for a walk but knowing full well that she’ll have to wait for Daddy to get home. Still the guilt I’m faced with for not taking her when “all the other neighbourhood dogs are out for a walk” (the quotations represent her telepathic guilt trip), totally sucks to say the very least. Usually on these days we don’t get dressed. Not only that, I’m lucky if I’m able to find a clean bra (which is a must because my boobs are really big….not “nice-big”, more like “scary-big”). I will give myself a bit of a break and mention that even on these days, one thing I always manage to do is make what I think is the world’s best dinner. Ok, so maybe not the best dinner in the world per say, but pretty damn tasty. I’m able to do that because if not for the relaxing and fulfilling experience of cooking, I might spend a lot more than five minutes screaming into a towel. Pretty hilarious, I know, but it works. Everyone has a little steam they need to blow off every now and then. Since I can’t quite “bring it” at the gym because of a back-injury (thanks to my brilliant career choice, but that’s another topic altogether), I have to take what I can get when it comes to energy outlets. So a few little towel-screams here and there, for now, will just have to suffice.

While I’ve only provided you with a few examples of an ordinary day and its respective chaos, I’m sure you get the idea. It’s these days that you probably wouldn’t recognize me because I literally look like Bride of Frankenstein’s ugly sister. Alright, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say about myself, let’s instead say Bride of Frankenstein’s slightly more attractive cousin. Turns out, in my imagination she has a big family to work with. Anyway, the point of this rare insight into the life of a Mom (a real Mom), is to shed light on the fact that being a Mother is not only the best job in the world, it’s also the hardest. That’s why I think that instead of acting like we’re all contestants on the ‘who is the better parent’ hidden-camera TV show, we should just give ourselves a break and accept that we all have good and bad days. No one is perfect and there is absolutely no contest! A good friend of mine dreads going to her Mommy group because of how the other mothers inadvertently (as I’m sure it’s not intentional), through this sense of competition, make her feel inadequate. I think ultimately it’s important to remember that there will always be the perception that other people are perfect. It would be nice if those who feel the pressure to be awesome all of the time would just realize that they don’t have to work so hard to impress those around them (before you read too far into this please know I’m absolutely not referring to anyone in particular). If you happen to be someone who can relate, hopefully you take some comfort in knowing that I will no longer run around like a mental-case 10 minutes before company arrives. If my house happens to be messy, my guests can just deal with it. Friends and family don’t come to see the house, they come to see you. This pressure moms feel is both unfortunate and unnecessary and a lot of it can be alleviated with a little bit of realism, especially from other mothers. I think as long as your kids are warm, fed and, most importantly, loved; you’re doing a great job. Trust me; in spite of the fact that most days are the ‘regular days’ I talked about, in the midst of the chaos I still manage to high-five myself for having such wonderful kids.

SURPRISE! It's a.....baby.

2012-02-10T08:50:00.000-08:00

A co-worker of mine was recently thrilled to find out that he and his fiancée are expecting is a boy. We chatted the night before about the excitement and anticipation of the moment his child would have an identity. Not to take from his enthusiasm, I asked if he was given a hard time by those who believe finding out the gender of ones baby is ‘cheating’. He agreed that there appears to be a clear line dividing the two schools of thought; those who wouldn’t find out in a million years, and those who insist on knowing. I suppose there is a third category made up of people who just go with the flow and seem to be accepting of both options. This is my favourite group, and also significantly less substantial than the other two.
I subscribe to the second category of parents. Not only do I like to be prepared, but I couldn’t fathom resisting the temptation of not finding out who is in there for the entirety of those long 40 weeks. Not only that, I truly enjoyed the countdown to the date of the ultrasound and I found it just as exciting as the anticipation of our due date. I remember my little pep-talks in the car on the way to the appointment; begging the baby to cooperate and to please, please not keep us in the dark for another four months. I remember lying on that uncomfortable table, trying to crane my neck around and make sense of the images on the screen I could barely see. All the time wondering two things as I was being poked and prodded with the ultrasound ‘thingy’; if we would leave knowing my baby’s name (because, prepared as always, both kids were named long before their birth), and whether or not my bladder would literally explode. Seriously, after not being allowed to pee for hours (while pregnant), we’re then expected to pee “for 10 seconds” because said bladder is now TOO full? Seriously?? Once again, I digress. Completely off topic, my bad.

Back to the social divide. I found that during both pregnancies that when discussing my reasons for finding out with those who would never do such a thing, I was often made to feel like I wasn’t playing by the rules. I remember when I was pregnant with Isla people would ask me if I knew the baby’s gender and then sigh with disappointment and say something like “oh, you found out?” when I told them we were having a girl. I eventually became a little defensive about it; as if I had to explain myself each time. So I would present my list of reasons, which ultimately ended up sounding like an over-rehearsed monologue. Basically I would explain that I wanted to have an appropriately themed nursery (of course I’m not saying that the alternative is inappropriate – I just really hoped to create a girlie room for a baby girl). I would then go on to say that I wanted to start calling the baby by name, which supposedly gives the bonding process a jump-start. I also wanted to have more colour options in her wardrobe (as I happen to not be a fan of green OR yellow). Then last but not least, and probably the strongest reason of all, Mike and I simply could not wait. Of course, with that said, it’s important to get a sense of what kind of people we are. When Mike proposed he warned me the glue might not be completely set on the ring and to make sure I kept a close eye on the diamond. He and I, clearly cut from the same cloth, are just incapable of being patient when it comes to surprises. So naturally, waiting just wasn’t an option for us. I applaud those who are able to endure the mystery; the magnitude of will power is impressive to say the least. So, regarding the disappointment I was faced with each time I told someone that there was no need for guessing because we already knew the sex, there it was – my list of reasons for finding out. I felt as if I was starting to sound like a tape-recorder.

I’m going to go out on a limb here when I say that it seems people who choose to embrace the mystery don’t have to undergo the same criticism. Actually I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone having to defend their reasons for waiting. Why can’t we all just agree to disagree? I mean, I don’t feel the need to impose my belief system on those who choose to wait for the big “surprise”. My need for quotations on the word surprise is because I disagree with the implication that those who choose to find out miss out on the ‘big moment’ in the delivery room. Personally, each time I found out the gender of the baby I was carrying, I was very surprised. It was as if I got to experience two surprises; the day I found out the identity of my little peanut, and the day I got to meet them. I’ve always said the moment that little baby (or in my case big baby) comes screaming into the world is so powerful and overwhelming that their gender is virtually irrelevant. In spite of knowing not only the sex, but also the names of my babies before actually meeting them, I was still quite surprised the moments they were born. You essentially walk in without a baby and suddenly there is one in your arms, looking up at you as if to say “so you’re my Mom”. Surprise!

I remember accidentally (on purpose) eavesdropping on a conversation at a maternity store. The mom-to-be was explaining to the cashier how since there are so few true surprises left in life; she didn’t want to ruin this one by finding out if she was having a boy or girl. As the cashier was agreeing with this philosophy, I just couldn’t help myself and had to interject (for some reason I found this conversation especially irritating– thanks again, hormones). I basically said that I was surprised too – just at what I thought was a more appropriate time. Maybe it was an inappropriate thing for me to do, but I’m sick of everyone acting like it’s some kind of faux pas to not have to refer to your baby as “it” for 10 months. That sounded more like a dig towards the opposing group than I had intended. Honestly, whatever a person decides is their choice and I think we should all be more supportive and less opinionative. Much like baby names, we have no right to be critical when it comes to what parents have decided for their children. These are very personal decisions and they should be respected.

Since the baby-naming subject has come up, I can’t conclude without mentioning this one thing: if someone shares a name with you, awful as you may find it, it’s probably just best to keep that to yourself. Obviously a lot of consideration went into this decision. It’s simply bad form to ruin it with a story about how you once new an A-hole by that name and now, by association, you don’t like it. As I’m sure your Nan would probably say “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all”. And think about it this way; if we all liked the same names, we would all have the same names.

You know what? You're NOT welcome!

2012-02-08T15:45:00.000-08:00

Have you noticed lately that it seems manners are a thing of the past? One of my biggest pet peeves, to date, is the collective rudeness of society. What’s worse is that the blatant disregard of social etiquette seems to be hereditary. When that person walks through the door you’ve been holding for them without saying ‘thank you’, chances are that their child in tow, whom you would assume is old enough to acknowledge a good deed, will also walk through and say nothing. To those people I usually utter “you’re welcome”, which isn’t worth it because if they do turn around to shoot me a dirty look, it’s only a fraction of the time. Mostly they just keep on walking and I find myself wondering what has happened to people, and when did basic manners become so rare. I’ve always said that, without a doubt, my kids will be raised knowing the importance of politeness. What I didn’t expect is this simple practice, which is obviously a learned behaviour, will undoubtedly result in my children becoming minorities. I can’t help but picture the next generation forming a society of Neanderthals, grunting at each other in lieu of please, thank you, and may I. I know that’s a really dramatic way of looking at it, but it is truly disconcerting to imagine a culture of impoliteness.

One thing I’ve always found to be particularly annoying were those who simply answer “good” or “fine” when asked how they are doing. You know what? Scratch that, annoying isn’t a good enough word to use. It grates my nerves when these people, mouth-breathing into the phone, don’t have the decency to ask in return how I am. Since we’re being real I'll tell you right now, I’m not actually asking because I need to know how this person’s day is going. I will likely never talk to them again so really it makes no difference to me whether or not they’re doing well. I ask because it sets the tone to the conversation and is basically acknowledging that the faceless individual who is about to transfer my call is actually a person and deserves a little bit of respect. I ask because it’s polite. While the majority of communication with strangers is all business, it’s nice to know that by asking “how are you” the element of humanity, often missing, is somewhat maintained. Those who fail to return said question in a face-to-face setting is an interesting breed altogether (I say interesting because I’m being polite). Last week while shopping I conducted a little self-indulgent social study. I asked every salesperson I happened upon how they were doing. Of twelve, only three bothered to return the question. The rest answered, and then offered me a chilly stare which basically said “now what the hell do you want?” Apparently the older I get the less I care about how I come across (ok, so not the most mature of acquired traits) and to those people I said “OK………..” We then participated in a slightly longer than necessary staring contest. Instead of creating awareness of their lack of manners, which I suppose was the whole point of my little experiment, I ended up just sharing several very awkward and seemingly pointless moments with otherwise clueless sales staff. I wish I had the audacity to say something snide like “yeah, I’m fine too – thanks!”, but I probably would have felt bad for making them feel bad. Chalk it up to my manners, I guess. Maybe I need to clock a few more years before my filter is worn thin enough to get away with something like that and not feel guilty afterwards. At this point all I can do is educate my kids and hope that some of it sticks.

What do you mean I look pregnant from the back?

2012-02-03T08:43:00.000-08:00

Last night I was visiting a good friend whose daughter was born days after my Sam. She was telling me that on more than one occasion, while shopping, she was approached by various slack-jawed shoppers and asked when her baby was due. She was unfortunately put in the position I’m sure many of us Moms dread and had to explain that her baby was born…months ago. I can’t imagine it takes a genius to understand that achieving ones pre-pregnancy shape does not happen overnight. First of all, it takes time for a uterus to shrink back to size. Women look about five months pregnant for some time after giving birth. Another friend of mine was understandably annoyed at having to explain to the grandfather of her baby that yes, it’s normal to still look pregnant after giving birth. This conversation occurred in the hospital just hours after delivering her daughter. Really? Do you actually think that that enormous belly was literally ALL baby? Really? Open your minds, people! These things take time. Furthermore, Mothers (especially those who have more than one child) typically have to decide between eating, showering, cleaning the horrifying disaster that once passed for a living space, and sleeping. Not only can you not have it all, you usually can’t have more than one of those things per day. I can only speak for myself but if given the choice, sleep will always win. Since that’s not entirely realistic given my current situation, second place goes to eating. This usually means 3-4 bites of greek yogurt while breastfeeding which, incidentally, is one of the only times I have a chance to sit down. Now don’t get me wrong, in no way am I complaining because, as mentioned in a previous blog entry, maternity leave is pretty fantastic. So going back to the issue of baby weight, vigorous workouts simply just have to get in line with everything else. They say it takes nine months to grow and another 9 months to shrink. I tend to disagree, but at least it buys us more time than how ever long it takes us to push the baby out.

Now, with all of that said, I have to take this opportunity to grant those with an apparent lack of self awareness, some invaluable insight. Here goes: Unless a woman is literally giving birth before your eyes and you see a baby emerging from her body, do not assume she is pregnant. Even then, ridiculous as it may seem, I would probably just wait until she brings it up. This advice will save you, not to mention countless women, the embarrassing, awkward and (in her case) crushing moments which would most definitely follow your dim-witted and inappropriate observation. All of that aside, on a more serious note, consider the possibility that perhaps this person has always wanted children but was unable to conceive and/or carry a child. It’s like asking someone “when are YOU going to have children”. I’m guilty of this one myself. It’s a seemingly innocent question that every couple in a serious relationship is faced with at one time or another. However, having known a few couples who have gone through the devastating loss of a pregnancy, asking them what you perceive to be a harmless question could be exposing a flurry of emotions that they can’t, and shouldn’t have to, share.

So, while we’re on the topic of pregnancy, I feel inclined to enlighten you with appropriate things to say to someone you know who is expecting a baby:

You look beautiful!

You don’t look pregnant from the back whatsoever! (I was actually told I looked very pregnant from the back during my first pregnancy. That person then went on to tell me that when his wife was pregnant you could only tell when she turned sideways. Yeah thanks, a-hole.)

You’re all belly!

Pregnancy agrees with you!

I’m sure you get the drift and I don’t need to elaborate any further. I feel the next list goes without saying but I will present you with the things you should absolutely NOT say to a pregnant woman. Ever. All of these things were said to me during one or both pregnancies.

Wow, you’re getting so big!

Hey, fatty!

Are you sure it isn’t twins?

You look swollen, especially in your face.

How much have you gained?

Wow – you’re only 6 months pregnant? You’re HUGE!

You look really tired (this goes for all women, not just the pregnant variety. It’s basically saying “you look like crap”. Before you argue this point in your head, show me someone who looks both tired and good at the same time. Impossible. I have always found this especially upsetting because I’m usually told I look tired after a great sleep).

Are you going to eat ALL of that?

Wow! I almost didn’t recognize you!

I’m sure there are many, many more things you should not say but, quite frankly, who has time to read them all? I know when I was pregnant with Isla I became especially huge. Even my nose was fat. While I didn’t always believe those who told me I looked beautiful, it was still nice to hear. Whenever I was told how big or tired I looked, I couldn’t help it and almost always ended up crying like an idiot in the bathroom. Wow, that sounded a lot more tragic than I had anticipated (hormones are such little bastards). It was as if my sense of self was engaged in a battle; the former me in one corner, and the new supersized version of myself in another. My first pregnancy was both wonderful (for obvious reasons) and terrifying as I couldn’t help but wonder if my former identity would be gone forever to make room for this new person I had become. Since most books describe pregnancy as a miraculous journey (etc.) but happen to leave out the emotional elements associated with the abrupt physical transformation, I was somewhat blindsided by how I was feeling. I guess I imagined I would stay exactly the same but have a perfect little basketball-belly. One thing I absolutely did not expect was a fat nose. Thankfully in time I rediscovered myself in a new light. It was the old me, but better. So, as a comfort to anyone that may be in the midst of their first pregnancy and can somewhat relate: rest assured, you’re still in there.

When I was pregnant with Sam, he was much kinder to me. Of course they say girls apparently “suck the beauty out of you”, so maybe that was the issue with Isla. The worse you look, the more beautiful your daughter will be. I’m certain this is absolute BS but it was a comfort to me as I’m sure it has been for many others in that position. I also knew Sam would be my last baby, so I truly did try to savour each month I carried him. I have to admit that it’s bittersweet to think that I’m done having children. At least I was lucky enough to go out on a high-note because, while pregnant with Sam, I truly felt beautiful (well, most of the time). Knowing that my new shape was (somewhat) temporary, I wasn’t as sensitive to the incessant commentary I was subject to. Still, with hormones in place of rationality, I didn’t quite have the capacity to handle a blow to my already fragile self-esteem.

If you’re guilty of sometimes realizing that your foot is no longer on the floor but instead lodged firmly in your mouth, don’t beat yourself up about it. We’ve all mistakenly, and innocently, made someone feel bad. This is simply to use as a point of reference should you be interested in avoiding future “cringe-worthy” moments. Cringe-worthy meaning those awkward memories you so desperately want to forget but sadly never will. I have a few and cringe just thinking about them. Most are pretty silly and from a time when my verbal filter wasn’t as efficient as I’d like to think it is now. Really it comes down to self-awareness (one of my favourite topics that I promise to revisit). Regarding pregnancy let it be known that one should never assume that touching a belly is OK. Trust me, I get it. Nothing is more beautiful and enchanting than the miracle of pregnancy and sometimes putting a hand on a belly is simply irresistible. Unfortunately not all women subscribe to the unspoken understanding that it’s suddenly acceptable for anyone and everyone to touch them. Lots of women find it creepy and weird, and for some it’s actually a source of anxiety. A close friend of mine is afraid of how she’ll, or rather how her hormones will handle the situation should it present itself. She fears her only option to keep people from touching her belly will be to wear a novelty t-shirt with a clear warning to stay the hell away from her. Funny as that visual may be, it’s sad that it’s come to this. Maybe it’s just another example of how uptight we North Americans are, but I’m on board and encourage everyone to respect the personal space of a pregnant woman. If you simply must touch a belly, at least ask permission first.

God bless the makers of stretchy pants.

2012-01-31T10:38:00.000-08:00

Facebook; what a strange thing when you think about it, or not even when you think about it. I’m sure everyone would agree this “social networking” revolution has put a weird twist on the perceived image of people and their families. Before you would just assume that that acquaintance was as seemingly perfect at home as they are at work, or what have you. Now you get inundated with tidbits in the “news feed” which are all encompassing in terms of capturing their overall awesomeness. I find myself thinking “really? Now you’re baking how many cupcakes, from scratch, just for the hell of it?” Facebook is basically a new way for these super-moms to make you feel bad about yourself without actually spending any time with them. These Moms and their ‘mobile updates’ have always made me laugh. “Hey world! Look at me!! I’m at the grocery store picking up the ingredients for homemade butter tarts!” Really? Homemade butter tarts? Why would you ever do something like that when Zehrs makes a whole tray for like five bucks? Ah well, I guess that’s just another reason why I will never be able to write “supermom” on my resume. I can barely keep up with the odd facebook message I receive. Usually I skim through and make a mental note to reply only to remember months after the fact that I need to facebook so-and-so about that planned get together that came and went. I digress. That made me sound far more “facebook popular” than I actually am. In spite of this, you would expect I could handle something as simple as writing one or two people back in a timely fashion. Oh well, coulda-woulda-shoulda, I guess. It’s a miracle I can even dress myself in the morning....who am I kidding, in the afternoon. Oh, you caught me; I don't get dressed. Unless lulu lemon pants and a tank top, spotted with baby-vomit (that I wore to bed), count as getting dressed. In that case, I get dressed every day. Oh lulu; so expensive, so silly, so amazing. Last year around this time I declared, rather obnoxiously, to a co-worker that I am absolutely NOT the kind of person who would ever justify buying $100 stretchy pants. Now I stand before you, four pairs richer, all because last summer I squeezed my pregnant “A” (oh, I abbreviate swear words now thanks to Isla) into a pair and instantly decided that my “A” has never looked better. Even more surprising was that while staring at myself in the properly lit lulu change room (God bless them), I was the only one who could hear the radio-edit of Baby Got Back. Even my imagination is edited, apparently. Speaking of lulu lemon, I refuse to believe I'm the only one who is utterly amused by that store. The motivational sayings scattered all over the walls and on the bags about “dancing, flossing, doing something that scares you every day…etc” are all too much. They’re lucky they have pants that make my “A” look like a Christmas ham; otherwise I would only go in there to make fun of it. I hope it’s OK that I don’t dance and floss in those pants, let alone do yoga. I wonder if I’m violating some sort of unspoken sales agreement. Anyway turns out, yes, I AM someone that would happily spend $100 on stretchy pants. Who knew?

Please stop this madness

2012-01-31T10:35:00.000-08:00

I’m new at this blogging thing so if that first entry didn’t suffice as a good enough introduction to my life, my sincerest apologies. On that note, as promised, I would like to just dive into my first rant of the day. Ah, there’s nothing like a cup of Costco coffee and a good rant. So, on that note, what is with people inserting their dirty finger into the mouth of a crying baby? Is this a generational thing? Was this taught in “home ec.” circa 1985ish? I can’t for the life of me figure it out. Maybe it’s because the paramedic part of me is a total germ-a-phobe and I can’t imagine anything more disgusting than a finger that’s been God-knows-where. I’m sorry if while reading this you’re remembering a time that you’ve had a finger and/or knuckle in the mouth of a child you did not give birth to. I’m not trying to offend you or make you feel bad about yourself. Honest. I get that it’s probably an automatic reflex and was probably passed down from some matriarch in your life, and I’m sure nothing ever came of it in the long run. However, this practice, on the grand scale of ‘things you should not do to someone else’s baby’, is right up there with smoking a cigarette in my child’s face. Like really. Think about what you’ve touched today and the last time you washed your hands. Also, think about how long you spent washing your hands when you did. I’m sure, positive actually, that you didn’t sing “Happy Birthday” twice in your head to ensure the antibacterial soap has had a chance to do its thing. To put things into perspective; how would you like it if I put my finger in your mouth?

I'm not a Paramedic, I just play one in real life

2012-01-31T08:54:00.000-08:00

A good friend suggested I start blogging. I suspect it’s because I seem to be on a run-on rant which probably has lasted, let’s say, five years. I’m not a negative person by any means. I think I’ve just found myself at odds with the rest of the world, especially as of late. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the vast majority of my socializing is with a toddler; a genius, but a toddler no less. So I thought to myself that maybe this will be good; a healthy way to express my many qualms about society and people in general. Not only that but also it could be a great way to convey the joys of my day. As mother of two and wife of a shift worker, I actually experience some hilarity that may be worth sharing. Or maybe it’s perceived hilarity and it’s actually the by-product of being cooped up all day long because I’m too much of a suck to go outside in the winter. My husband Mike, whom I casually referred to as a “shift worker” is a Paramedic. I used to be one too, but since the commencement of my maternity leave I’m feeling more like a dairy cow/chambermaid/professional laundry sorter. I guess you could say that I’m not a paramedic, I just play one in real life. Don’t get me wrong, I love everything about being a mother. Isla’s sweet little voice calling me from her room in the morning, telling me that yes, she would like a combination of cheerios and rice krispies in the green and white bowl, with enough milk left over to spill all over her bare legs because, incidentally, I forgot to put pants on her again. Every morning, in spite of the very specific requests regarding her cereal, I still manage to screw up the ratio and, like clockwork, we engage in the first battle of the day. Cue time-out, followed closely by a scream so shrill I’m sure it’s the reason my van window cracked last week (seriously, how can something so small be SO painfully LOUD?!), followed by a brief exchange of somewhat insincere apologies (after said time-out), and then finally the eating of the now soggy cereal. Wow. Don’t get me wrong though – carpe diem. Bad, good; love it all. Then there’s Sam, oh Sam, with his perfect little face with the perfect little dimple in his right cheek, looking up at me expectantly, wondering why I’m walking around with a boob out but not yet feeding him. I say wondering and there’s probably an implication of patience, but this child, like his father, does not like to wait when it comes to mealtime. So I try to breastfeed whilst doing all of the other things on my morning to-do list. It’s quite the sight. It’s like I’m a primate. I’m just waiting for the day that I walk outside to take out the recycling or something only to realize, much too late, that during the conversation with the neighbours I’ve had one or both boobs exposed. It’s going to happen one day, there’s just no way around it. So if any of my neighbours are reading this, I’ll just go ahead and apologize for flashing you in advance. You have to understand, things can sometimes be a bit chaotic with a two year old and a three month old. Having a boob out is the least of my concerns at this point.