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Friday 28 December 2012

My Tim Hortons Holiday Moment



I'm feeling stressed. Nothing is really coming together as I had hoped this holiday
season. I had high hopes of Christmas organization, food made in advance,
baking, homemade gifts, the full-Pinterest works!

But instead I have a poorly (read: hastily) decorated tree and a store bought tin
of shortbread, and I spent this afternoon in a scarily empty outlet mall off the
highway.

I really want the holidays to be perfect for my kids; I want matching stockings, not
dollar-store mismatch. I want the lights in the windows, not stacked in a pile on
the porch floor. I want, I want — but all I seem to have time to do is shop, sort of
wrap, and do the bare minimum to get dinner on the table every night.

My mom is a saint and is sending me menus and grocery lists (she is even
going to do the Christmas dinner grocery shopping!), but still I can’t even find
the twenty minutes I need to reply to her email about whether I want the Gordon
Ramsay gravy or the Jamie Oliver cranberries. Yet again I am left thinking, How
did my mom DO all this when I was little? And then to top it all off, a fucking
mouse ran through my kitchen yesterday. Seriously!? I thought I had curbed this
problem. Merry Christmas (cue eye roll).

And don’t even get me started on my husband at the holidays!

Shopping, no way. Not till the 23rd at the earliest. I’m not materialistic, but
sometimes it is hard to accept that your gift (as nice as it may be) was purchased
twelve hours before at an overcrowded Bay. Sometimes I want to throw in the
towel (or at least buy my own gift).

But my faith in it all was restored just ever so slightly this morning when we
dropped of cards to W’s teachers at daycare this morning. I made him go around
to all the daycare workers whom he has a relationship with, and he said “Merry
Christmas” as he gave them $5 Tim cards (very Canadian!) with yellow marker
scribbles on the envelopes. And it was like a perfectly heartwarming commercial
— they all had huge smiles and big hugs and one even teared up.

It was a reminder; Christmas really is about the feeling — not the ornate antique
wreath (fuck you, Pinterest). It is about how wonderful it is to hear your two-year-
old saying “Ho ho ho,” and to see your gorgeous new baby and your brilliant
toddler in matching fleece pjs in front of a failed attempt at ornament making.
So I have banned myself from any more Pinterest until December 26, and
instead I am going to hunker down and watch Rudolph until the spirit comes back
to me.

Merry Christmas, mommies. Have a glass of wine (or Baileys) and try to relax —
no one except you knows there is a mousetrap behind the Christmas tree!

-Tightrope Mama

[image source: Pinterest]

Friday 21 December 2012

Secret Mother in the Kitchen, Part 4


Warning: reserve for holiday time only. Lethal farts.

My Mother’s Utterly Addictive Nuts and Bolts Recipe

Preheat oven 250°F. Mix together:

8 c Shreddies
8 c Cheerios
1 lb (2 c) roasted peanuts
200 g pretzels
225 g cheese bits (Goldfish or what-have-you)

Mix and pour over mixture:
1 tbsp onion salt
1 tbsp garlic salt
2 tbsp Worcester sauce
1 lb butter (melted)

Bake 1 1/2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes.

-Drama Mama

Wednesday 19 December 2012

Too Tired to Fight




My husband was having a moment this weekend (okay, it was more than a moment). For
days I asked what was going on, if he was feeling all right. I got little to no response or outright
aggression. As I was ready for bed and on my way Sunday night, he announced he was bored
with his life. I heard this as a criticism of me and our life.

My first reaction was to fly across the room and murder him. Was he seriously saying that all of
the work I was doing was not enough?

Instead, and only because I was too tired to fight, I calmly asked if he wanted to clarify what
precisely was upsetting him. He unpacked how he was feeling. Work was frustrating him, our
finances tiring, intimacy lacking, and he felt like everything had become about our son.

Still feeling defensive, I thought to myself, I get up at the crack of dawn, often after being up
multiple times over the night with J-man, while he soundly sleeps on the couch. I creep out of
the house and to the office in order to get in enough hours to get out by 6:00 or 6:30 p.m. Home
to make dinner. Clean-up is his job. That’s my “free time” when I play a bit with J-man before
I do the bath and bedtime routine. By the time I’m done putting him to sleep (usually well after
10 p.m. and sometimes 11 p.m.), I just want to go to bed. On most nights instead I come back
down so we can visit and unpack the day. What more could I do? Mounds of laundry, grocery
shopping, organizing and paying the household bills? Oh wait, I already do that.

By this point I was totally lacking sympathy. He was still talking about all of the things he’s
doing. They are all true.

He does get J-man up in the morning and he does the drive to daycare, toast in hand. As you
can imagine J-man’s never eager to wake, so organizing him in the morning is exhausting. Most
of the time my husband also does pick-up at daycare and gets me on the way home. His play
time is while I cook, and J-man’s usually a handful. He’s hungry, tired, and in desperate need of
some mama time. The truth is neither of us have much time that isn’t occupied with chores and
J-man care, and we both lack sleep (arguably l lack the most sleep).

Thus my second reaction: he is right about us not having enough me or we time. He is right
that our finances are frustrating. Thus my new job, which just compounded the lack of sleep
and lack of me/we time. We lack exercise, and often healthy food choices are abandoned for
convenience. We could really use some help with organizing everything that needs to be done
in our lives.

So I did what I could. Told him that I have my days of feeling the same and that I’m sorry that
things are tough. I gave him a big hug and said it’s almost the holidays and we could both use
a break. I gave him a kiss, ignored his comment about not thinking he could ever do the “baby
thing” again, and told him it could only get better.

Lesson learned? Sometimes it’s good to be too tired to fight. To listen, to sympathize, and to
let your partner vent without taking it personally (I know, hard unless you are too tired to fight). Parenting is hard and so is life.

-Sleepwalking Mama


[image: three red balloons II by Beverly LeFevre]

Monday 17 December 2012

Secret Mother in the Kitchen, Part 3


I hope you all don’t think this is a cop-out, but my recipe is from the back of a corn starch box!
But, I swear it makes the best cookies, and who can resist all the adorable cookie cutters at
this time of year? Plus, you can add lots of sprinkles, icing, and extra layers of sugar once the
cookies are out of the oven. If you don’t have cookie cutters, you can use the bottom of a glass
to make circles or roll into a rectangle and cut in to squares. Or, do as the recipe says below
and make them in to balls (BORING!)

Best served with hot cocoa and Bailey’s or eggnog with rum.

Grandma’s Shortbread (the name from the box)
1/2 c corn starch
1/2 c icing sugar
1 c all-purpose flour
3/4 c butter, softened

Sift together corn starch, icing sugar and flour. With a wooden spoon, blend in butter until a soft
smooth dough forms.

Shape into 1 inch balls. If dough is too soft to handle, cover and chill 30 to 60 minutes. Place
1 1/2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet; flatten with lightly floured fork. OR, roll dough to
1/4 inch (6 mm); cut into shapes with cookie cutter. Decorate with candied cherries, coloured
sprinkles or nuts, if desired.

Bake in 300°F oven 15 to 20 minutes or until edges are lightly browned. Cool on wire rack.
Makes 24 cookies (or fewer if you use cutters).

-Tightrope Mama

[Source: Canada Corn Starch box, image: in the kitchen]


Friday 14 December 2012

Secret Mother in the Kitchen, Part 2



Here’s another super-easy, super-yummy holiday recipe we love.

Fudge Pretzels

Nonstick cooking spray
2 tbsp unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
3 c semisweet chocolate chips (16 ounces)
1 can (14 oz) sweetened condensed milk
1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract
1/8 tsp fine salt
2 1/2 c roughly chopped miniature pretzels

Coat an 8-inch square baking pan with cooking spray and line with parchment paper,
leaving a 2-inch overhang on all sides.

Place butter, chocolate chips, condensed milk, vanilla, and salt in a medium heatproof
bowl set over (not in) a pot of barely simmering water. Stir occasionally until chocolate
just melts and mixture is combined and warm but not hot, 8 to 10 minutes. Remove from
heat and stir in 2 cups pretzels.

Transfer mixture to pan and smooth top; press 1/2 cup pretzels on top. Refrigerate until
set, 2 hours, or overnight wrapped. Using parchment, lift fudge from pan and cut into 36
squares.

For a variation, use trail mix, your favorite chopped candy, or crushed cookies in place of
pretzels.

[Source: recipe and photo martha stewart]

-Gray Mama

Wednesday 12 December 2012

A Moose from Santa




East End Mama wrote an AWESOME post that encapsulates just one of the reasons Christmas
can be stressful. I have read it about 100 times, it is just so spot on and funny as hell. (Even
though I know I shouldn’t be laughing too hard, because she is definitely stressed about the
family dynamics aspect.)

Here is the Christmas update from my neck of the woods. W is old enough to “get” Santa. He is
not creeped out, he doesn’t have questions about what will happen in our chimney-less house,
he is all over advent calendars (“open MORE”). This, combined with all the gifts he is receiving
to celebrate his new bi-brother-ness, is creating a type of gift Olympics over here. W is training
and is in fine form for the pile of “stuff” coming his way.

However, he is still young and innocent enough that this is not yet completely off-putting and
greedy. Case in point: he has asked Santa for a moose. Yes, a moose. Don’t ask, I have no
idea what this means. Nor do I have any idea what exactly he is expecting (a real moose?!).
So I went to the fancy toy store and bought a fairly realistic-looking stuffed moose (for $40).
Technically the tag says it is an elk, but I am going for it.

I was nearly skipping when I found this toy; however, I should have known. The day I bought
(and wrapped) the moose I asked W what Santa was bringing: he said “drums” without even
skipping a beat. I swear you could have knocked me over with a feather. “How could this be
happening?” I wondered. When I later relayed this to my own mom, she said, “Welcome to hell.”
Ummm…

My husband said we are smarter than him and we will make him want the moose. So that is
what we have done. We are in full-fledged Moose Talk over here. We have also primed every
person who enters our house to talk about how amazingly cool moose are. I think we have
turned the ship around, and drum-mentioning is way down. For future, my mom says you have
to get them to commit to a Santa gift, and then you mail a letter to Santa way in advance so that
once the letter is gone, there is no changing their minds! Manipulation at it’s finest. Love it.

As for the rest of his gifts, I have instructed family to buy one wooden Thomas train each. If this
actually occurs I will be shocked. No one has mentioned buying him a laptop, so at least I can
be thankful for that.

-Tightrope Mama

Monday 10 December 2012

Secret Mother in the Kitchen



Holidays! Yay! Baking, cooking, cleaning, entertaining, cleaning, sobbing over rum and
eggnog…ugh. How ’bout some recipes — easy, family-friendly, recipes for the holidays?

I’ve got a few vegan friends, and I don’t want them to feel completely left out around the goodie
tray, so I make a couple vegan cookies. And somehow I think vegan cookies are less evil for
little ones, although obviously I’m deluded. Anyways, these ones are actually awesome. Can’t
even tell they’re vegan, I swear. The only really “weird” thing you need (other than tofu, but is
that weird anymore?) is coconut oil, which totally makes me think of this video:
Sh*t Crunchy Mamas Say.

Chocolate Apricot Drop Cookies

2 c unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
2 pinches salt
1 tsp arrowroot flour (or cornstarch)
3/4 c dark chocolate chips
3/4 c diced dried apricots
1/3 c vegan margarine (like Earth Balance), at room temperature
1/4 c coconut oil
1/4 c maple syrup
1/2 c packed brown sugar
1/2 c mashed firm silken tofu (my Cookie loves to help with this part)
2 tsp vanilla extract

In a medium bowl, combine flour, baking soda, salt, arrowroot or cornstarch, chocolate chips,
and dried apricots.

In a large bowl, combine margarine, coconut oil, maple syrup, and brown sugar. Using an
electric mixer, beat on medium speed until the mixture is smooth and fluffy, about 3 to 4
minutes. Scrape down the sides of the bowl and add the tofu. Continue mixing until all of the
tofu is fully incorporated, about 2 minutes. Add vanilla and beat briefly to combine.

Gently fold half of the dry ingredients into the margarine mixture. When the first half is
incorporated, fold in the second half. Be careful not to over-mix. Scrape down the sides of the
bowl and cover the dough with plastic wrap. Chill for at least 40 minutes.

[This kind of recipe works well for me and Cookie. We make the dough together and have lunch,
and then I bake them while she’s napping so I don’t have to run interference with the stove.
See, kid-friendly!]

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Position a baking rack in the middle of the oven and line a couple of
baking sheets with parchment paper.

Scoop dough from the bowl with a tablespoon. Place on the prepared pans, leaving about 2
inches between each scoop.

Bake cookies for 20 minutes, or until just golden around the edges. Let cool on the pan for 4
minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

This recipe came from a little vegan zine called Small Potatoes. Recipe by Lisa Gorman; photo
by Robyn McCallum.

-East End Mama

Friday 7 December 2012

The Gift Grinch



I am the most ungrateful gift recipient there is. I really only realized this when Cookie came
along. I’m not really truly ungrateful, but I have a hard time not being honest when someone
gives Cookie something I don’t want. When I was pregnant, I had all these plans to buy fair-
trade, toxin-free, made-in-Canada, organic, yadda yadda. That included, very importantly,
non-directed-play toys — blocks, balls, musical instruments, art materials, etc. And of course
we have all those, and of course very few of them are non-toxic or not made in China, and of
course when they were given to us I barely refrained from saying that we don’t really go for that kind of thing. But they were given with only the best of intentions, I remind myself.

So it’s Christmas, a time of year I dread for this very reason. Family members will give
inappropriate gifts (pink, princesses, TV characters), and I’ll say passive-aggressive things
like, “Cookie really has no idea who Bob the Builder is” (a lie since she’s watched the show at daycare), or “Oh lovely, pink. Gee thanks.” I am a bitch.

In an effort to avoid this ritual, my mother-in-law sends out exploratory emails well in advance, which I appreciate, but which inevitably I have no response for. Now that she’s retired, she gets most of her gift ideas from The View, which just stuns me, but whatever. Did I mention I’m a bitch? Bit of a snob too, apparently. Anyways, recently they featured a laptop for toddlers. So she sent the link and suggested that maybe my parents could buy the software since the gift was so expensive, but that they’d have to get the Level 2 software because Cookie was already too old (at two, mind you) for Level 1.

Okay, wait a second: what?

First of all, if a gift is too expensive, then don’t buy it. It’s not necessary.

Second, she’s already too old for a beginner laptop at two? No. Unacceptable.

Third, I actually recall seeing this laptop featured somewhere else last year. Specifically,
a “worst gifts of 2011” list from Parenting or some such fairly reputable source. Reputable on
this subject relative to The View, anyways. Mainly because it directs play, which in a two-year- old stifles imagination and doesn’t promote outside-the-box thinking and all that stuff.

I have not told my mother-in-law any of this. I’ve not responded at all, assuring myself that it’s
my husband’s responsibility to respond to his mother anyways, not mine. But mainly because
I don’t know what to tell her. I know it’s wrong, I know I don’t want this in my house, but I can’t
give her a good reason why, and I know that she’ll ask for one.

Part of the problem is that my husband wants to get her something like this. He works in
computers, and he wants her to be tech savvy, and he thinks it’s time to introduce her to
technology. I argue that she’s already swiping her way around her iPhones and telling us that she’s checking our email, so that’s more than enough for now. I’m afraid that’s not enough for him.

So I asked my Secret Mothers for advice. Someone mentioned that computers aren’t good for developing eyes. Raffi tweeted about problems schools in the States are having in classrooms that use iPads (no one goes outside anymore, they have to limit iPad time because that’s all kids want to do, stuff like that). I’m sure there are many studies and arguments that I could easily find, but I’m overworked and over-screen-timed myself right now, so I’m not that ambitious. I just want someone to tell me that I’m right and why.

At a party the other night, I ran into friends who kind of did just that. He works in computers too, and he said he was shocked recently when a friend asked him what Nintendo DS he should get for his one-year-old. He had gone into a tirade, explaining all the reasons he thought children shouldn’t be exposed to this stuff at all (creativity and eye sight among them) — ending with the fact that there’s no need since they’ll probably have no problem picking up on it when it’s time to learn. After all, he works at the forefront of computing, and even though he hadn’t seriously touched one ’til he was twenty-three, it hadn’t really been a disadvantage.

His wife mentioned that they go for brunch on Sundays at restaurants full of families, and see
tables and tables of children with their heads down, focused intently on their iPads. Sure, it
allows the parents to enjoy their adult conversations without interruption. But did they ever stop to consider that the lack of socialization and manners means their own children would probably have difficulty having their own conversations some day?

I’m not really an outside-the-box thinker myself, and I didn’t get my first electronic toy ’til I
was ten. (A Radio Shack blackjack game. Blackjack! Talk about inappropriate. Also, good for teaching math.) So I’m not sure how much of creativity is nature and how much is nurture, but I’m pretty sure this stuff doesn’t help. My argument to my husband is that some exposure is fine, but we know from the fights over the iPhone how easily “some” exposure becomes “all the time.” Do we really want to add that fight when we’re already fighting about food and potty and naptime? That worked. For now.

Today we worked on Cookie’s list for Santa. She asked for a piggy bank and cake. I’m happy with that list — perplexed, but happy. Maybe I’ll ask Cookie’s nan to fill the piggy bank with the money she would have spent on the laptop.

-East End Mama

[image: diy gift wrap]

Wednesday 5 December 2012

Big Brother

Okay, I had a second baby, and of course along with the joy, pain, nipple callouses, etc.,
came my old friend GUILT.

W, my first son, is two and a half, and while I knew that a new baby would come with its
challenges for all of us, I anticipated it would be hardest for him. I was right.

I myself am an only child so I really can’t relate to the whole sibling love/hate thing, but
I have witnessed it many times with friends and family. My husband and I talked a lot
about the baby beforehand to prepare W. We encouraged him to be a “Big Boy” with a
new bed, some new toys, swimming lessons, a potty (FAIL), giving up bottles (but not
soothers) for the baby, etc., etc.

At first everything was going pretty well. W came to the hospital and was moderately
interested in his new sister. He held her and kissed her, was very gentle, and then
occupied himself with the magical hospital bed for about 45 minutes. When we
came home, he wanted to sit with her and have his picture taken with her. Again, I
thought, “Okay, this is pretty good. “

But this is week #3, and I think W has realized a few things, namely that the baby is
staying and sometimes I HAVE to put her needs over his. The rational part of my brain
knows that this is normal and I have to help the infant, and that though W is crying
hysterically, the “booboo” he has from throwing himself off the bottom step to get my
attention is not life threatening. He is also doing all the classic things, like needing help
with tasks he could accomplish ten days ago and talking baby talk. He has been throwing
things and refusing to get dressed for daycare (very unlike him), and though I stay calm, I
do get firm when the situation demands it.

Even though everyone (teachers, friends, grandparents) brushes this behaviour off
as “normal,” I find it gut-wrenching and difficult to watch. My heart is bleeding for this
little man and I totally get that the conflicting emotions of jealousy and love that he feels
for his sister are very complicated and extremely challenging for a two-and-a-half-year-
old to tame, let alone articulate. I don’t want to go overboard here, but some of the looks
he is giving me are downright heart wrenching.

Then I see it, the familiar look in his eyes — GUILT. I am passing this terrible,
complicated emotion down to him either by DNA or by example (probably both). He
immediately knows that he is doing the wrong thing or acting the wrong way, and so the
tears start to flow. He works himself up into a big whirlwind of emotion because he can’t
seem to say “I’m sorry” or “I acted this way because…” How can we expect a little kid
to handle these huge feelings with dignity when most adults can’t even give meaningful
apologies?

I know that this too shall pass and I know that my son has a wonderful heart that loves
his sister, and that good will prevail. I just have to keep reminding my self of that old
mommy mantra, “I am doing the best I can.” I am loving both my kids and starting
to understand that it takes more than love to raise your kids. You have to try and get
inside their little brains and put yourself in their tiny dino rain boots as often as you can.
Looking at the past few weeks from W’s eyes, I think I might break a few crayons too.

-Tightrope Mama

Monday 3 December 2012

Small Town Hair




This from Rob Brezney’s Freewill Astrology page:

The Four Foolish Virtues

Traditionally, the Seven Deadly Sins — actions most likely to wound the soul — are
pride, lust, gluttony, anger, envy, sloth, and covetousness.

But we have formulated a fresh set of soul-harmers, the Four Foolish Virtues. They are as
follows:

(1) being analytical to such extremes that you repress your intuition;

(2) sacrificing your pleasure through a compulsive attachment to duty;

(3) tolerating excessive stress because you assume it helps you accomplish more;

(4) being so knowledgeable that you neglect to be curious.

***

My daughter is not yet in daycare in our new small town residence. And I am really tired
of watching my semi-retired partner come and go as he pleases whereas I can’t. Why? I
think Rob has the answer here. Number Two: A compulsive attachment to duty.

I have, for the first time, left the house without “permission.” No one has ever told me I
can’t leave without permission. So why do I feel like I’m breaking the rules?

I mean… I shouted up the stairs, which is what Sir Dick does.

Me: “I’m heading out for a coffee!”
Him: “Who is?”
Me: “I am. You can follow me if you want,” I add weakly, not meaning it.

I could have said “I’m going out to get diapers and juice,” (not that I ever do that) but I
didn’t. I said coffee.

And now I am here, in the café with my Americano, and now I am guilty. And I am being
petty about my coffee. The barista put it in a tall skinny cylindrical pottery mug. I look at
it. I deserve better than this! I have just walked out on my baby!

I tell Barista “I’m worried when I drink it the coffee will hit me in the face.”

I want it to hit me in the face.

When I left home, the Guppins was crying, shouting from the top of the
stairs, “MomEEEE!!” But she had bitten my breast — she’s been sooo grumpy, she has
not been sleeping — and a whole bunch of other crappy things happened.

Like: the glorious week in which I had home care for two to three hours per day…ended.
(See my previous blog entry.)

Like: East End Mama travelled to Smalltown to visit, to party (her aunt was going to
babysit), and the second she arrived I came down with stomach flu. And the Guppins
bit her daughter in the face, which makes me absolutely crazy and helpless and
embarrassed…and fear for my daughter’s mental health and my parenting skills…and
worried for Cookie’s, well, face. We didn’t get to go out that night. I never get to go out
at night. Except the last time when I was out by myself and wrote about it the whole time
I was out.

And the next day (today), I had planned, with much effort and leviathan convincing, to
escape to the city for a rare overnighter to:

Get my hair cut and low-light my “silver”
Have drinks with friends
Go to an important theatre opening (if I miss another one I know they’ll take me
off the invite list)
Have more drinks with friends
Get eight hours sleep
Go to a nutrition appointment for the Guppins (okay, I’ll admit I was planning on
cancelling this one)
Have a decent coffee with Secret Weapon Mama
Hit the Mennonite thrift on the drive home
Drop off a letter of introduction for a job in Smalltown (the only thing I really
needed to do)

But Sir Dick, suddenly, came down with the stomach bug I just got over.

So I cancelled everythiiiinnnnnnggg.

Then, two hours later, he feels fine.

He doesn’t seem to get that I am disappointed. He sees it all as a money-spending
excursion.

Him: “How much does it cost to get your hair done in the city?”
Me: “$95 dollars” (lie) (it’s way more)
Him: “Can’t you find someone here to do it?”

(Choking back tears…seeing where this is going… I don’t WANT to have small-town
over-highlighted orangey-spikey hair. I want my city locks, subtle and ashy.)

Me: “I really hope you are still feeling sick.”
Him: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

When I was sick, he didn’t offer to help. He didn’t feel the need to stay home. I had to
plead: help me, please do the night-time routine…falling against the wall, choking back
vomit.

The truth is, I know he’s just not up for it. He’s…well, he’s older. He’s a brilliant father,
don’t get me wrong, but the pace of it, the energy it takes… maybe I have an over-
attachment to duty, but I feel like…like there’s no one else.

When that little stomach bug started coming on, it wasn’t just disappointment I felt about
being landlocked. I began to panic. I am not strong enough to be sick and be a mother at
the same time. But who will look after her? How will they cope? How have women, for
so so many centuries, been looking after kids while they have the stomach flu?

It makes me mad.

And yes feel guilty.

And I feel trapped.

I rush home from the coffee shop only to discover his car is gone, where did they go?
I burn around town (for once I’m glad it’s small) looking for them. I see them! Parked
outside the coffee shop. Relief floods me. The Guppins spots me, and shouts “Mommee!”
her little face beaming. I begin to weep. Sir Dick looks at me like I am crazy. This is
usually how it goes.

The rest of the day is a family day. No TV, we do some shopping, we make out in the
car while she naps in the backseat; we pick up lots of new secondhand books for her,
he drives me to the big theatre in town and I drop off my resume; there’s dancing in the
kitchen at suppertime. It was… is, pretty perfect.

And at one point I catch myself saying to my daughter, “You see? You can’t always do
everything you want to when you want to.”

Kindly, Sir Dick asks me if I would go to the city tomorrow since I missed out today. I
say, “No, it’s okay. Look at all the good things that happened. It was good to focus on
family.”

I said that.

Then:

“What fun things we gonna do tomorrow?”

So maybe the thing to do is transform duty into pleasure…at every chance you get.
Because this is all…well, take it from a gal with a near-septuagenarian boyfriend and a
two year old… it’s all going by pretty quickly.

Duty into pleasure. But keep your big city hairstylists. Please.



-Drama Mama

Friday 30 November 2012

You Don’t Have a Penis!

J-man is absolutely obsessed with his penis. That’s right, ladies, and it started basically as soon
as he could figure it out.

I spent the entire summer cleaning sheets because J-man would pull his penis out of his shorts
and fiddle with it while he was falling asleep. I would diligently go into his room before I went to
bed and tuck it back in — hoping I could manage before he’d wet the bed. But inevitably he’d
find it in the middle of the night. “Mommy, I’m all wet.” One night it happened three times —
seriously! “What happened?” I'd ask. The answer, either, “I pulled out my penis,” or “I played
with my penis and I pee.”

He loves to say the word. We never react, and speak very openly about his penis in the hopes
that he’d get bored and stop talking about it. But that hasn’t worked at all.

Potty training has been particularly fun. “J-man, you have to tuck your penis into the potty.
You can’t pee when you are playing with your penis.” I’m convinced the fun of the potty is free
access to the penis!

I was thrilled when fall came. By this time J-man knew he could play and then tuck and then
pee…and then play some more. Yes, we do a lot of hand-washing. But more importantly, I was
happy for the cool weather and the onesie pj’s. “I can’t get my penis,” he says every time I pull
a pair out. Then he laughs hysterically and shows me how he can’t find it. He’s so long his toes
are about to poke out, and no one — I mean no one — makes them in size 4. I may have to just
cut off the feet.

I still have to remind him to keep his hand out of his pants and to point his penis down when
we are out and about, but because we are potty training we are working on going to the potty
enough that there are fewer accidents.

We are also working on who else has a penis. He goes through the list often. “I have a penis,
Mommy doesn’t have a penis, Daddy has a penis, Nana doesn’t have a penis, Grandpa
has a penis.” You get the idea. We go through all of his friends; his daycare teachers; his
cousins, aunts, uncles, and brothers. Sometimes multiple times a day. He’s developed a
joke: “Uncle ‘John’ doesn’t have a penis; he’s a little girrrl!” He can laugh at this joke for a
remarkably long time.

I have explained that girls have vaginas, but that appears to be of no interest to him — they
merely lack a penis. An interesting development for a mom with a women’s studies degree:
how do I change this thinking? I have not yet explained to him that actually I do have a cousin
who is a boy but is trans-gendered and therefore actually does not have a penis. Probably too
confusing at this age, and it might raise more questions than it is worth. We’ll hope it doesn’t
come up at Christmas dinner.

Anyway, for someone who has never had a penis, and quite frankly never thought too much
about them, my life is entirely about penises. Welcome to Motherhood, at least if you have my
son!

-Sleepwalking Mama

Wednesday 28 November 2012

Papa



As I am getting older, obviously so are my parents. My father’s health is declining rapidly
these days and it has made me think about how long Lo will have his Papa.

Since the first time Lo was in his Papa’s arms, there has been a connection. The two not
only look alike, Lo loves his Papa. He asks about his Papa when he is not around, he
hugs and kisses him when he is, and when he leaves him Lo calls out, “I love you Papa.”

This past week, my father was in the hospital. He had a major surgery, and as a result
there have been some consequences to the procedure, and he has become increasingly
confused. During his stay at the hospital, Lo wanted to pray for his Papa — on his own
suggestion. He prayed that “Papa’s tummy was better” and that he would “see Papa
soon.” It broke my heart. I struggled with how much information to tell Lo about what was
happening to my father, and also struggled with not telling him anything at all. So I kept it
simple and so did Lo.

An unbelievable thing happened when my father returned home. As we drove up to
my parents’ house, Lo was so excited to see his Papa. We got to the door and Lo ran
straight over to Papa and hugged him, planted a big kiss on him, and told him he loved
him. Everyone was close to tears.

It is inevitable; there will be a day when I will have to sit down to have a discussion
about death with Lo. I will have to struggle with the sadness, anger, and grief of not only
myself but my little Lo. I know a few people who have done some creative things when
explaining death to their children. I have heard of having a family pet — such as a fish,
since they aren’t likely to live long — and using it as a chance to unpack the impending
loss.

I have come to realize that kids are very aware and know that things are happening even
when we think they don’t know anything. Lo knew his Papa was not feeling well because
I was honest. We spoke about Papa, we prayed for Papa, and when we saw Papa we
hugged him. When death happens to our family, I hope I can be just as honest and open
with Lo. Because he will know the reality, because his Papa will not be there anymore.

-Gray Mama

[image: cate james illustration]

Monday 26 November 2012

Daylight Savings


If you’ve read any of my previous posts, you’ll know that I am totally preoccupied with sleep.

Last night was a typical Sunday night. At 11 I gave up, put myself to bed, with J-man crying in
his room. I pleaded with him to let me sleep and threatened to sleep downstairs in the spare
room, abandoning him to be alone on the second floor. Eventually he quieted down. At 4:30 it
was time for a quick pit-stop, then straight back to bed for fear of waking the monster. (Post-
baby, the bladder, for some reason, refuses to let me sleep through the night.) Surprisingly, I
think I fell back to sleep relatively easily.

At 5:30 a.m., I heard the dreaded screech, “MOMMA!” I waited to see if he was just talking in
his sleep. Then came another, some crying, and then even through the pink foam earplugs, I
heard him get up. He’s still in a crib, like a prison cell, because his parents fear they may never
sleep again once he’s freed. I tip toe into his room for a quick hug, I calm him, tuck him back in,
and he drifts back off to sleep. I crawl back to bed, change the alarm from 6:20 to 6:40 a.m. I am
exhausted and know there is no way for me to get back to sleep with any real effectiveness for
less than an hour.

I wake at 6:20 a.m., anyway but as is the normal course on a Monday morning after a disrupted
sleep, I’m still tired. I’m still lying on my back, knees slung over a pillow, when the alarm clicks
on. I leap out of bed and quiet it quickly for fear I will wake the monster. I slip into the shower,
dress in the dark, and creep out of the house in the dark and without breakfast because the
other monster fell asleep on the couch (I suspect he does this sometimes on purpose to avoid
waking the monster upstairs).

Today when I open the front door, however, there is something that brightens my day. As tired
as I am, I can’t help but be lifted. There is daylight. I have not seen daylight when I’ve opened
my door since before September, when I started my new job. Maybe that’s not quite true, but it
certainly seems that way.

Thank you, daylight savings, for a little ray of sunshine to start my day. It really is the small
things in life, isn’t it?

-Sleepwalking Mama

Friday 23 November 2012

Dear iPhone


Canadian Thanksgiving has passed, Christmas is coming. This is a time for reflection on the
things we’re thankful for. It’s a stretch, because I spend one-third of the year thankful for sun
and warmth, so the gray, dreary days of November leave me downright crusty. But at least I
have my iPhone.

Oh iPhone, you came into my life a mere two months after my precious daughter. The gap was
probably a good thing — any sooner and that whole attachment parenting thing might not have
happened. I attached to you like a newborn kitten desperate for that first suckle, clambering
over the baby to get to you when I needed my fix of Facebook and Sudoku. Your Daniel Craig
wallpaper reminded me that I was still a silly girl; your iBook app reminded me that I was still
literate. When I was trapped for hours under a feeding baby, you allowed me to avoid watching
The View and instead listen to NPR podcasts or stay in touch with friends who were out in the
world doing things and going places and drinking lots of wine. You caught my tears when I read
their wine-related status updates. You recommended a wine to go with my post-partum rice
cake binges.

During long sleepless nights spent bouncing and rocking and pacing, you kept me awake with
mah-jongg and Twilight books; you told me what I’d missed on The Soup; you provided the
lyrics to “Hallelujah” — all twenty-seven-or-whatever verses (FYI, not the most appropriate
lullaby, but I was running out of ideas, and most of the ones your Safari provided were pretty
lame). For these things I will be eternally grateful.

Now you hold thousands of pictures and videos of Cookie. And she knows this only too
well. “Video of Cookie!” she pleads, grabbing you in her grubby hands and punching uselessly
at the passcode keypad until she dials emergency services. I’ve added a few apps she might
like, but I’d rather have you all to myself. You send me countless tweets that distract me from
my work and lead me down the Internet rabbit hole to dangerous and exciting places. You play
all my favourite songs when I need a lift. You let me know when (if) the sun will shine again.

But now you’re not well. I can no longer clean your screen. Your button is not responsive to my
touch. Our time together isn’t over; according to our contract, I have to wait three more months
to update you. I won’t wait so long next time. Next time I’m getting a two-year contract. I want
you to stay young forever, since neither I nor Cookie can.

-East End Mama

Wednesday 21 November 2012

Thankful


Ages ago, like a month ago, in honour of Canadian thanksgiving, East End Mama
challenged us to write about what we are currently thankful for. (I’m pretty sure she’s
going to write about her iPhone.) As odd as this it sounds, I thought of one person — my
financial planner. Let’s call him Brad.

I have been dreaming of a guy like Brad for a long time. Don’t get me wrong, I love my
husband and would not trade him for anything. No, this is a different dream, one where
my money is organized and I don’t live paycheque to paycheque. One where I have
savings (SAVINGS!) and where it all seems to happen effortlessly. Are there families
where this happens? (Please say no.)

Brad is my knight armed with a calculator and a portfolio!

I believe that finding someone like Brad was on my long list of “to dos” during my first
mat leave, but we all know how those dreams are quickly traded in for fitting back in to
your jeans and showering. So, this time, I really am taking charge and crossing things off
the to-do list. Watch out, life: you are about to get purged and organized!

So, in comes Brad to our living room one evening at 8 p.m. (seriously, so convenient).
He never shamed me or my husband (though he should have) for having neither life
insurance nor a will. (I know, the guilt is ridiculous.) He just nodded and said, “I can help
you do that,” and, “Let’s make that a priority.” Seriously, I love him. I was like someone
in one of those hokey banking commercials where the middle-aged couple is nodding
vigorously at the person across the desk, and their life goes from black and white to
vibrant colour when they realize that they CAN retire at 85. He made us feel like saving
was attainable and helped us prioritize what we needed to do. A house with a pool:
probably not soon. New furniture and a vacation not on credit: yes! Life insurance for
$50 a month: yes!

On our second meeting, he also came up with a few simple ways to make our savings
stretch a little further and also told me that we weren’t in bad shape at all (still not sure
what qualifies as bad shape, really, but I am happy to be in the mediocre pile for the time
being).

So, that is what I am thankful for. I guess I am thankful that I finally sent the email to get
this ball rolling, that it is working out pretty well, and also that people like Brad exist to
comfort people like me.

Okay, I have to go, I still don’t have a will…

-Tightrope Mama


[image: vintage coin bank]

Monday 19 November 2012

Home Care

I finally took the leap and put my daughter in a “homecare” situation. Though it’s
unregulated (those were all full), my friend has a grand-kid in and recommended.

Today I walked in to pick up the Guppins and beheld my friend’s grandson, a three-year-
old, standing facing a wall with his hands in the air, crying.

My dreams of liberal childcare in a small town were shattered.

Let alone my state of being.

I adore this kid. First time I saw him I grabbed him and put him on my lap and kissed him
and hugged him. I have always, always been stand offish with “toddlers.” Maybe having
the Guppins warmed me up. But really I think it was him. B is my guy.

As Sir Dick pointed out (after I told him what I saw), B can be a bit of a little shit:

“I’ve seen him poke at the dog when no one’s looking, use his hands to whack at
things. Maybe this is the new age alternative to punishment: i.e., taking off the strap and
saying ‘All right, you—’”

“So they were taking it easy on him?”

Back at the homecare B is crying. He looks like he’s been crying for a while. He looks
like his arms are sore (I have no idea if this had been two minutes or ten); he keeps
asking to bring them down. But Childcare Lady’s husband is standing in close range, his
voice all-powerful:

“Keep ’em up or we start the clock all over.”

I say, “Hey B, how you doing?” then to the babysitter “What’s going on with B? A little
time out?”

I am balancing a number of emotions. I am trying to act normal, but with just enough
prescience to ask what the fuck is going on. And the husband, well he’s standing there in
the background making dern sure this little boy keeps those paws in the air.

Child-minder woman, a very sweet woman, a very calm woman, says,

“Oh well yes, he’s having a time out, he does things with his”… she stumbles
here… “well, he just has to put his hands up.”

This is a mess. This is unbelievable. Suddenly I’m back in grade one with Mrs. Shaw as
she terrorizes a small boy in the class, hauls him across her lap, pulls down his pants in
front of us, Bobby’s screaming and crying, his bare bum is showing …who she spanked
in front of us…

This is wrong.

I bundle up the Guppins. It’s a Friday so I say, “Okay, so Monday I’m not sure about, I
have a friend visiting with her daughter [true — East End Mama and Cookie]; I’ll call you”

From the wall:

“I need to sleeeeep!”

I say, “You get your nap in, okay? You get some sleep,” and I wish I could say I nail her
with a look but I don’t. I just…look. Pointedly.

And I’m out the door.

The Guppins is happy enough; she happily waves goodbye and says, “Ta ta.” They are
teaching her manners. I take it they are good at that.

I question her in the car:

“Do you like [Childminder Lady]? Do you like [her husband]?”

“Ya!”

“Do they make you stand in the corner with your hands in the air?”

This question comes up several times during the remainder of the day in the following
forms:

1. Guppins wakes up from her nap, stands on the bed next to the wall, and leans on it.
She’s crying, in a bad mood. I say, “Did she make you do that today?”

2. Later watching TV there’s some little animated character who, remarkably,
coincidentally, is dancing up against a kitchen wall with his hands in the air. I ask, “Is that
what B did today?”

I try to calm down. I try to get perspective. I google:

Is making a three-year-old stand facing the wall with his hands in the air child abuse?

Two things come up. One is the Dr. Sears’ treatise on time-outs; the
other is a porny site.

I recommend the Sears. But NOWHERE in it is there mentioned a time out facing the
wall WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR.

I call my friend. First I bake (just to calm me down because the emotions are coming fast
and furious), but I call. I try not to be judgmental. She responds perfectly. She says “His
hands in the air?”

“Facing the wall. But he wasn’t on a seat [I reference Dr. Sears], he wasn’t alone, at
least; that’s a good thing.” (reminiscent of Blair Witch final moments)

“It’s good you called. We’ll talk later.”

The bread is baked (it’s a total flop), the baby wakes up, and my incredibly happy week
of having three hours a day, not including the afternoon nap, all to myself…

ARE OVER.

Sir Dick: “You shoulda known five bucks an hour for a babysitter was too good to be
true.”

Too true.

-Drama Mama

Friday 16 November 2012

Fertilizing Once Again?




When we decided to try and conceive, we first stopped using protection for about six
months. I tracked my cycle and, of course, read almost everything about trying to get
pregnant. After six months, I spent hundreds of dollars on tracking devices and cycle
counters. Nothing worked. We were not pregnant.

So a year in, we decided to try fertility testing. I had to attend a very sterile and sad place
every day for four months straight. I had to endure a full internal examination with a very
large probe…yes, a probe. It was violating; it was like a large dildo with a condom —
hitting it hard. Then blood was taken…I fear needles, and it never became any easier.
As a result, I left the clinic every day at 7 a.m. — I had to get there before 7 so I could
get to work on time — feeling mismanaged and drained. Horrible.

Everyone who sat on my side of the clinic was there for the same reason, trying to figure
out what was wrong. On the other side of the clinic were couples who came in for IVF.
It was so sad to see the couples on the “other” side. They looked tired, and most looked
angry and were not speaking with each other. They appeared to be embarrassed,
defeated, and, for sure, broke. It was very hard to sit on my side of the clinic and worry
about the reality of maybe having to visit the other side one day if this fertility testing did
not find an easy fix.

After the four months of testing, I was becoming very resentful of the whole process and
of my partner, since he was all snuggled up in bed while I snuck out of the house every
morning at 6 a.m. I was the one who had to publicize my infertility every day to nurses
who did not care and very rich doctors who made millions off my “old eggs.” It ended up
that the issue was I had stale eggs: they were old, as I was also becoming, being 35 and
all.

There was a light at the end of this probe. After months of testing, it was clear I needed
to move up my cycle with medication and take a hormone to increase the stickiness
of my wall. And it worked…after two months (I screwed up the medication for the first
month). The hormone worked so well that the egg was so stuck I could not move from
pain for a week.

But Lo was there; he was nestled on my wall and I was pregnant.

Now that the discussions about another child are arising, I wonder if I want to go down
this road again. It won’t be as bad or as long…but is it worth it?

Hmm. I will let you know.

-Gray Mama

Wednesday 14 November 2012

You’ve Got Ten Minutes — What (Else) Should You Read?


After learning about what East End Mama is readingI thought I would share what I have been reading, or trying to read, lately.
By M.L. Stedman
I kept seeing this book pop up on “new and hot”-type lists, so I thought I would give it a try. It is about a post-war Australia that still relies on lighthouses to guide ships. Lonely ex-soldier meets free-spirit town girl and they decide to live together on a romantic island where they, and the lighthouse, are the only inhabitants. After they make love on every inch of said island (not gratuitously, I might add), she suffers much heartbreak and is unable to carry a baby to term. Then one day a boat washes ashore with a dead man and a living baby; what to do? Keep the baby, obviously. Her husband is very torn about this, mainly because he lives and dies by the lighthouse code, which is to write everything down in the log. But, of course, the wife NEEDS this baby and believes it is divine intervention. So here the moral dilemma begins. What to do? What to do?
I can’t say I really fully agreed with anything that either character does, but it was thought-provoking and did more than accurately capture the intense and powerful connection between parent and child. I won’t ruin the ending for you, but there is some heartbreak, to be sure. It also made me ask my husband a lot of questions about what he would have done if WE lived on the lighthouse island (cue his eye rolling).

By Paula McLain

This is loosely based on Hemingway’s relationship with his first wife and their years spent in Paris. As a wife of an intensely creative man, I felt for her as she patiently sat by his side and urged him to keep writing and keep trying. I also really felt for her when she lost his prized manuscript (in the days before email and USB keys) on a train. I have done things like this, and you are never REALLY forgiven in the eyes of the spouse. (But I digress…)
This was a quick read that gives you extra smart points because I think it is technically historical fiction, so you can whip out some Hemingway knowledge at an upcoming dinner party.

By Erin Morgenstern
(Disclaimer: I listened to this on audio — but it was unabridged, so that counts.)

This was a book unlike too many others I have come across, not only in subject matter (the full history of a truly magical circus) but also in complexity. There are many characters, and they are all fleshed out in lots of detail. No one disappears from the story and you feel really satisfied by the end of it all. There is a mysterious romance plot, but it never gets too “sexy” (maybe the one minor flaw…), and there are elaborate descriptions of the sumptuous black and white circus, with lots of attention to detail and food, in particular. This is a book to fall in with (maybe on vacation or a sick day) and let your imagination go. I am sure there must be a movie of this book in the works somewhere.

by Rohinton Mistry
This isn’t on my most-recently-read list, but whenever I talk about books people should read, this book has to be on it! HAS TO. It is a long, sprawling tale about India in the mid-70s, with a strong focus on the actual people living there, mostly in extreme poverty. If you are able to read this book without crying, you are a weird person to be sure. This is one of those books that stick in your head for years after reading it. They don’t get much better than this.

-Tightrope Mama


[image: books]


Monday 12 November 2012

My Shopping Compulsion


Do you ever find yourself buying things that your baby or child doesn’t really need and you can’t really afford? 

I do.

I was never much of a shopper before I had J-man, but now I find it hard to resist shopping for things for him. This impulsion covers all kinds of things: toys, outfits, art supplies, hair products, videos, books, and food. I am not certain what the draw is, but I see things and I find myself talking myself into buying things. Last week I bought him Spiderman shoes. They are way too big and probably don’t have good arch support, but they were just so cute!

When I returned home, my husband looked at me sideways. “What does he need those for? It’s going to be a while before they fit — no?”

I was caught and didn’t have much to say — they will fit eventually. They were just so cute!

It got me thinking about all of the things I’d previously bought — a pair of rain boots that never did fit, crafts that he can’t use until he’s a little older, noise toys that drive us crazy, a dinosaur set that is so spiky he could poke an eye out. They were all just so cute.

Do you remember your baby shower? How many things did you get or put on your registry that you thought you needed but never used? I had a few, but wasn’t everything just so cute?

I don’t have an answer for why the advertisers or product developers get me, but they do. Just thought I’d toss it out there. I have a house full of things that I’m not sure we need and certainly couldn’t afford. Do I just want him to have everything and to try everything?

Sleepwalking Mama

[image: shopping carts]

Friday 9 November 2012

Childcare



In the last 48 hours I have encountered two one-armed persons.
The first was a crabby YMCA counterperson.
I’m trying to find ways to have some time from my kid. In Toronto I had the West End Y with the merry band of ex-fighter-pilot childminders. Only four bucks an hour, two or three women, crisp uniforms, gorgeous open space, coupla babies, coupla two-year–olds; Shirley running things like a sergeant major (I mean, running the other childminders, who clearly fear her). The Guppins would melt at her “Whatsa matter — you gotta problem?” attitude and dissolve with ecstasy into her wise womanly arms. I’d get a sauna, whirlpool, bit of stretching, say hello to several other unemployed actors…what a dream.
I’m missing Shirley and the gang.
Here in Smalltown I’m greeted by a very nice woman who escorts us to an airless cubby in which sits a baseball-hatted babysitter watching her own snot-encrusted three-year-old, her five-year-old, and her five-year-old’s friend, an obnoxious brick shithouse of a child. I tremble. I can’t turn around and leave — the room is too small, it would be noticed. The three-year-old is all over us like a dirty shirt. The beleaguered babysitter (who shares my real name, which makes it pleasurably easy to remember) barks at the five-year-olds while shooting me strained smiles that say:
Please stay I am desperate for company and hate children.
Only five bucks from 9 ’til 12! My dreams of Smalltown childcare realized.
I did not leave the Guppins alone in the room. Though, truth be told, she had a pretty good time chasing around the bigger girls.
I return a few days later. I’m greeted by a different customer service rep (one-armed) who tells me no, it’s SEVEN dollars, even if I leave my kid for the one remaining hour, because I am a visiting member.
I decide to not argue with the one arm.
Door swings open, babysitter running out the door, no intention of turning back.
One Arm stops her in her tracks.
“If there’s no one here by 11 I leave,” she whimpers with determination, kids tugging at her clothes, pale face, monster pick-up running outside.
One Arm gives her a murderous look, says to me (also with a murderous look), “She’ll stay if you want her to.”
Tense silence.
All I’m thinking is get me outta here.
(I mean, the change room looks like a dated dirty high school locker room, they have a co-ed sauna — who wears a bathing suit in a sauna? — the price just went up, I’m clearly an outsider, there’s a whole lot of desperate aggression going on. I mean, what would I possibly have to gain by staying?)
Freedom.
I pretend to be generous.
“No, go ahead, it’s totally okay.”
“If you come earlier tomorrow my daughter’s friend will be back.” (…to stomp out innocence.)
“Okay, great!” I lie.
One Arm’s eyes dart from me to her.
I shift the Guppins to my left hip.
Nobody’s moving and I’m thinking, JUST TURN AROUND, WALK CALMLY TO THE EXIT, DO NOT ENGAGE FURTHER, AND START THE CAR.
The second one-armed person I met was a guarded, intense, edgy little girl named Ariadne, at the community centre drop-in. I think she is my first new friend. (Besides, potentially, Graham Greene. If the name doesn’t ring any bells, your mother might have the Dances with Wolves VHS box set.)
Ariadne let me photograph her artwork.
P.S. The paint is real chocolate.

-Drama Mama

Wednesday 7 November 2012

Your Words Are Music to My Ears


Today I am thankful for my daughter’s ability to speak well. How quickly I’ve forgotten those
months of frustration when Cookie desperately wanted something but couldn’t get me to
understand, and collapsed into screaming fits from frustration. Now the screaming fits come
because I say no to her perfectly articulated requests. Success.

Speech has been a preoccupation of mine. My sister is a speech language pathologist who
works with school-aged children, so her tales of children who have limited words or sounds, or who just can’t speak at all, fill me with terror. I decided against baby signing for fear of delaying speech. There’s a theory that children who know how to sign resist speaking because it’s easier to ask for something in a language they already know. Studies have proven this theory unfounded, but anecdotally, before I had Cookie, every child I knew who had learned signing was delayed in speech. Perhaps they were still in the “normal” range, but their parents panicked and struggled to get them to speak.

No such problems with us. Cookie was right on schedule, and at under two-and-a-half she
recently shocked her grandmother by telling her, “Actually, I’d like to go to the park now.” So I’m proud and relieved and satisfied. Until…

My sister-in-law tells us about a child she knows who is just about Cookie’s age and “fluent”
in three languages. And about two others slightly older who are fluent in Mandarin (they are
most definitely not Chinese). My reaction is physical — I feel phantom hackles rise on my back; my body flushes with an angry heat. The competitive aspect of raising a child infuriates me so much that even the slightest allusion to what someone else’s kid is doing brilliantly immediately brings about this reaction. These comparisons are pointless, and they depend on factors almost entirely outside our control, like culture and economic status and geography. And I’m sure in many cases they make little difference on the end result. How many Mandarin-speaking toddlers will go on to be diplomats or CEOs of multinational companies? Just look at children’s pageants: kids are rewarded for being the prettiest and most precocious, but how many of them end up having high-paying jobs for all their effort and pain as three-year-old beauty queens? Give me a study on that. Perhaps most of them — hey, who knows? — but somehow I doubt it.

When I was little, one of my aunts was convinced that her nieces and nephews needed to learn Japanese if we had any hope of being productive members of the society of the future. My parents laughed, and that was that. (Particularly since I grew up in northern Ontario, which has a rather slim Japanese population.) And look how that turned out — Japan is pretty far from being our evil overlords. Now Cookie’s aunt insists that she needs to learn Mandarin. Maybe she’s right, and maybe one day we’ll regret not giving Cookie lessons when she was young, but first off, we have more pressing things to spend our money on, and second, isn’t being half fluent in English at two-and-a-half good enough? Besides, most Chinese people I know aren’t anywhere close to fluent in Mandarin. Let’s give the Anglo toddler a break on this one, shall we?

One of Cookie’s daycare friends is almost incomprehensible. He’s a couple months younger,
and he’s a boy, so there’s that, but every time I talk to him, that old worry comes back. I want
him to have everything a little boy deserves (after all, this is not a competition!), but now he’s a big brother, so I’m afraid his speech development will take a back seat to myriad other demands on his parents’ time and attention. The most I can do is ensure that Cookie is a good role model for him. And that is one thing I am confident about, at least.

-East End Mama

[image: hello in 42 languages]

Monday 5 November 2012

The Toy Box


On Monday morning, in the staff kitchen, a colleague asked me how my weekend was. Although I had been up with J-man at 1 a.m., 3 a.m., and 6 a.m. and could hardly stand, I politely said it was wonderful. Interested, I guess, he asked what I did. So I explained that I had spent Sunday shopping at IKEA, which of course meant I spent Sunday evening building furniture. It was well after 10 p.m. when I first sat down for the day — a load of laundry still in the dryer.

“What a nightmare,” he replied. “What’s wonderful about that?”

It was the reaction I would have expected of my dad, who always said IKEA was a four-letter swear word. “Well,” I explained, “I bought a toy box for my living room.” I then explained how tired I was of tripping over J-man’s toys, which seem to have taken over my house. I also bought a contraption to organize his teddy bears in his room because there are nights I can’t find his crib through the bears. Being a dad, he was quick to respond that he remembered the days of toys taking over his life to the point of being a safety hazard. He agreed that organizing children’s toys, which seem to quickly take over our lives and our spaces, was well worth a day at IKEA.

On Monday night I returned home to a house that was unusually serene. My husband, ever the tidier, in the morning had tucked the toys back into the box. I put my feet up and thought about a glass of wine. It was peaceful for a full ten minutes. At that point I jumped to attention and started to organize supper. J-man started a new game, taking everything out of the box one by one onto the living room floor. I hope I can teach him that it’s equally fun to put it all back.

Ten minutes of peace, of feeling organized and on top of my life, was well worth the long drive to IKEA, the ridiculous tour through the entire store (like somehow I have nothing else to do but browse) with a cranky husband, the rude and unhelpful warehouse guy, the check-out line that took forever, and the icing on the cake — delivering the boxes home only to have to build the toy box. Oh, the things in life that make us happy — even the small things!

-Sleepwalking Mama

Friday 2 November 2012

The Santa Experience



Note: I wrote this last year, when W was one and I wasn’t pregnant with #2. But I’m still questioning my sanity, as well as the whole “Santa Experience” sign-up process, so I thought it was worth sharing.

I’m starting to wonder about the kind of parent I am.
I mean, I know I am a good, kind, and funny parent. But lately I have been wondering if I am slowly crossing into insanity. Here are two pieces of evidence that may prove the theory.
First: My best friend is getting married, and as co-MoH I am organizing her bachelorette and shower...on the same weekend...at my house. I have planned a fancy dinner out and a trip to a vodka bar, and this will be amazing fun, but I am not what I used to be. I can’t walk in heels and “club.” I don’t wear Spanx (but might have to start), I don’t order bottle service, and while I have NO problem getting drunk, I physically just cannot be hungover. It is actually painful and lasts a minimum of one day for each bottle of wine I drink. I am also hosting the bridal shower the next morning — post “club” and mid-hangover. Insane. Don’t worry, I’m an organized person; I printed make-ahead recipes and ordered cupcakes. The other MoH is bringing mimosas; it will be all right. Just keep telling yourself that, right?
All this is fine, however LAST weekend I invited over fifty people to our house for a Halloween party. It was good times and the kids (I think I have to stop saying “babies”) were just too cute for words. (Amazing costumes included a ladybug, Princess Leia, a turtle, a lion, a fireman, a cat, a pumpkin, and a puppy!)
What I wasn’t thinking when I thought, “Oh, let’s have some friends over and look at costumes” was, “OMG, I have to be the world’s best friend and hostess in six short days.” Now as I look around, I see I have to take down plastic bats from my ceiling, peel weird plastic blood drippings off my window, and pick up over 250 balls from the playroom floor (husband bought the balls, as if that needed to be clarified), and then transform my place into Martha Stewart’s chic city pad complete with eggs Florentine and bacon biscuits! Fuck. Oh, yeah, and while I do have the perfect gift for my perfect best friend, I forgot to drop it off weeks ago (I’ve had it since May) to get framed and am now paying a rush charge of $40. Fuck. (Side note: I am cheap, and things like “rush” charges at quaint framing stores bug me to no end.) I called the cleaning lady; she’s coming over. One spark of sanity.
Second: I thought I would wear a cute, pre-baby black dress to the bachelorette weekend of amazing-ness. False. That dress looks like someone who just had a baby is squeezing into something too small. So I rushed out last night to the local “nice” mall (i.e., not my usual mall, which actually has an eyeglass store called “Spexx” and a hat store called “Lidz”). I had one hour and fifteen minutes, and I tried on three dresses in store #1, and two were decent. I had one hour left to peruse. Then, I saw it, a big line in the middle of the mall. I thought, what are all these people lined up for? A blood donor clinic? A book signing? NO! Santa!! WTF? (Remember how I said it was just Halloween?) So, I read the big poster: Sign up for Santa, in person only. OMG — what to do? Shop for myself or stand in line to secure a Santa Experience? You guessed it, I stood in line. Fuck. Insane. I know. I texted my husband thinking he would say, “Silly, go shop, buy yourself something pretty.” What he actually wrote was, “Sign. Him. Up.” So, at least if I am insane, he is too.
This was the first day of Santa sign-up, and the woman behind me told me that people were there right when the mall opened that day and waited four hours to sign up. Take a second and soak that in, people. They spent four hours of their lives waiting to sign their kids up to see Santa. At a mall. We all know he isn’t real, right? Twenty-four hours later I am still unsure whether I did the right thing. W has no idea who Santa is, or what the difference is between a “Santa Experience” and watching Elmo on YouTube.
In case you actually remembered that this was about a dress, don’t worry, I ran back to the store and bought a tight leopard-print number. I think that is my third and final example of insanity. Leopard print? Yep, yep I did.
I rest my case. I am an insane mother who hosts back-to-back events in my own home, signs my kid up for things called “The Santa Experience” one and a half months in advance, and buys cougar dresses. What shocking personality disorders will next week reveal?
-Tightrope Mama

Wednesday 31 October 2012

Screw Spiderman — Dress Your Kid as Don Draper!




Cookie is going as Pocahontas for Halloween this year (not that she’s “going” anywhere; I’m
trying to avoid the whole candy thing as long as possible, as pointless as that may be), mainly because someone gave us the hand-me-down costume for free, and because it’s a dress, which definitely trumps the handmade pumpkin costume her grandmother slaved over. Cookie will wear anything as long as it’s a dress. I’m hoping that’ll change before next year, before she outgrows the pumpkin. Yeah right.

But I really want her to have a unique costume. Last year she went as Princess Leia, which I
thought wasn’t too bad. (Look at that: two princess costumes in a row from the anti-princess
mama.) However, I was blown away by this Flavorwire post.

The year after the pumpkin, Cookie’s totally going as Frida Kahlo.

-East End Mama

Monday 29 October 2012

The Wait



Okay, here I am six days overdue with baby #2. Brief history, W was induced at nine
days over, so I guess you can say that my babies are not really in a hurry to be born.
That’s okay, I suppose; I like to hit the snooze and sleep in whenever possible as well.

I vacillate between being flattered that my kids love my womb so much they never want
to leave, and on the other hand finding myself a little resentful that I may face another
Pitocin-fuelled labour. Come on, baby, I paid a lot of money to learn how to hypnobirth
you in to this life, so let’s get going. (Not very Zen of me, I know.)

As I write this, I am waiting for them to call my name for my post-due ultrasound at
my OB's posh fertility clinic. Usually I see her in a hospital, but this is clearly the job
that pays for her cottage. There is a waterfall in the waiting room and classical music
playing. It is actually making me very contemplative as, judging from atmosphere around
here, I have nothing to complain about. I am healthy, my kids are healthy, and yet...I do
complain. Is it just human nature?

With W I tried every trick in the book: pineapple, sitting on a balance ball, walking, sex,
acupuncture...and more. But nothing worked. This time I just kind of assumed that
what everyone says (“second babies come quickly”) is true; that I would not need to do
anything except wake up one day and push a few times. Not true.

I envisioned getting everything organized and then sitting down to check my emails just
as my water broke in a light trickle that could easily be contained without a package of
Depends undergarments. Then I would call my doula, we would meet in the room and
have a latte, and my light hypnosis would carry me on a strawberry mist in to bliss. HA
HA!

I know I am not great with change and I know I am a bit of a stress case. And yes, I
know that you need to be relaxed to go in to labour (ideally). I keep thinking of this story
I’ve heard about how cats will stop labouring and find a new place if they aren’t 100%
sure they are safe. Well, what the fuck, cats? Apparently they have never been married
with toddler and had to listen to an OB and a doula full of mostly conflicting advice....
Geez, safe! I don’t know — I’m just hoping for fast.

I’m getting to the point where people’s well-meaning texts, tweets, and emails are
becoming severely irritating. (Chalk it up to hormones.) My mom says she can’t sleep,
she’s so excited. This makes me want to punch her. I’m not sure why.

So, I will conclude by saying my new mantra: Come on, Baby!

-Tightrope Mama

Friday 26 October 2012

It’s all about Teeth



My father once told me that the “terrible” in the terrible twos is all about teeth. For a man in his late sixties, he knows a lot about babies. I’m not sure that he has this one entirely right, but when you consider the teething and the biting, it certainly seems to be part of the picture. Being unable to fully express yourself may be another.

Regardless, right now it is all about teeth. J-man likes to brush them; “It’s my turn,” he demands the second I pick up his toothbrush. “I want toothpaste,” he continues, like there was ever a day when I forgot the toothpaste. I insist that I give his teeth a full brush before he has his turn. Sometimes we “fight about it” and he refuses to open his mouth. When that happens I pin him down and tickle him until he opens it. Sometimes this is really funny, other times it ends quickly and in tears, but either way, they get done.

We’ve also been counting his teeth — something a friend who is a dental hygienist told me to start doing in preparation for his first dental appointment. “Let me count your teeth,” I say, just like the dentist does (he has eight on top, and as of this week nine on the bottom). Next he counts mine (I apparently only have ten; well, sometimes I have one-teen — he can’t quite figure out eleven).

The new addition to his bottom teeth took some serious work. After a particularly fussy day, he went to the Advil bottle and insisted that he wanted some. I of course thought he wanted it because he likes the taste. So I distracted him with his toothbrush. And then, “Let’s count your teeth. Oh my, what a red bump in the back…” and I quickly got the Advil and Orajel. How long had he been trying to tell me it was his teeth? Oh well, he’ll survive. For the next couple of days he’d demand cream for his teeth, and then after it was applied, “Spicy,” he’d exclaim. A week of sleep-disturbed nights, the crankiest of days, and a tooth was born.

When I counted last night, there were more coming. Maybe my dad is more correct than I thought. We have six months until age three, and I fear we’ll be dealing with teeth, sleeplessness related to teeth, and temper tantrums related to teeth until then!

-Sleepwalking Mama