Goodbye, Sweet Soo-Soo

A friend recently told me a quote she relates to, something along the lines of: “Parenting is one
long goodbye”. So heartbreaking, so true.

Before you can blink, your newborn is on solids and your toddler can ride a bike. Sure we
should celebrate these milestones, but we also mourn a little bit for the baby or child who has
grown up and floated away. Tying shoelaces and zipping snowsuits can be annoying, but it
is also a physical reminder that you, the mom, are needed. You are the provider of all things
comforting and practical. You make the meals for their tummies and protect them from the
cold. But, alas, they grow. And as they grow you prepare them for life by nudging them along
and saying goodbye to things. This past week the soother fairy came, which means W waved
goodbye to his beloved soo-soo and edged ever closer to independence.

My husband was the one who edged this along, as he could no longer stand having full
conversations while W clenched the plastic apparatus between his full mouth of teeth — okay,
so maybe it was time.

I could have almost cried in anticipation of the main event. I was so nervous that my husband
just did it. I came down for breakfast one morning and he mouthed to me, “Don’t mention the
soother.” He later filled me in that, while getting W dressed, he had mentioned that the soother
fairy was going to be coming to take the soother away, and then she would give it to new little
babies who really needed it. W seemed to understand this and apparently handed over his blue
soother.

It wasn’t until nap (long after my husband had left for the day) that loneliness reared its ugly
head. W wanted soo-soo back — badly. He was sobbing and begging me to “go get it.” He
pleaded that he had only given the blue one away and wanted the yellow one to stay in his bed
(actually a logical argument). I stayed strong, fought back tears, and said that they were gone
and the babies were happy with their soothers. He was sobbing, so I left the room. Ten mintues
later I went back and let him watch an entire movie on the couch. There would be no nap.

My husband came home and seemed so happy that it was all going so well. I bit my tongue.
The next day at daycare, W told the teachers MOMMY had taken the soothers away! Great —
Mommy’s fault.

He did cry one or two more times, but less each time, and seven days later he is still asking
about them occasionally. But he knows they aren’t coming back. He seems to have accepted
that that part of his life is over. It’s sad. He’s mature.

This may have been his first encounter with the physical pain of loss. There will be more of it —
high school romance, not making the basketball team, friends moving away or betraying you.
These are the markers of life. I guess as parents we also have to brace ourselves for what is to
come, because if every loss will hurt me this much, I better start toughening up.

Goodbye, sweet soo-soo.


-Tightrope Mama


[image: Stachifier Mustache Pacifier]

Dancing for Children in Toronto — What Age Should They Start?

As a child I participated in all levels of Irish dancing, from beginner to championship

level. I loved it! I loved the music, the shoes, the dresses, and of course the boys (as

there were so few). But I started late. I was about 8 years old. By the time I was in the

championship level I was 14 years old. I was ready to party, ready to play sports, and

definitely ready to spend three nights a week and all day Saturday at the mall.

Looking back I now realize that dancing not only provides physical activity, but also the
opportunity to be creative with your body, even if you are not coordinated or don’t end
up as an athlete later in life. And hey, it even helped on the dance floor at all of those
sweaty high school dances.

So I started to think about Lo starting dancing. At his age now, he is dancing and singing
all around the house and, well, any opportunity he can get, really. So I started doing
some research into dance in Toronto, and here are some options.

Movement Lab

“We celebrate the natural curiosity and creativity of our little movers, and use it as a
springboard into the art and technique of dance. Our creative movement approach gets
kids excited to discover just how far they can stretch their imagination, physicality, and
focus.”

Swansea School of Dance

2 Year Old Music & Movement
“Reach up high, curl down low, clap your hands and away we go! This program is for
our very youngest dancers and their caregivers. In this class, the students go on many
adventures to magical places and experience music and movement along the way.”

Pre-School Dance
“March right up! This program teaches 3- and 4-year-olds music and dance
fundamentals through nursery rhymes, songs, and games. Students develop
coordination and enhance their locomotive and mental development. They explore many
movement possibilities and begin to develop body and space awareness. Children not
only have fun in this animated dance class, but also learn important skills that enable
a logical and easy progression into building technique for future music and dance
programs.

Superboys
“This class is a great introduction to dance where boys can be boys. Following a similar
structure to the girls’ classes, they work towards developing an understanding of the
fundamental foundation of dance and movement. Challenged creatively and physically,
boys ages 3 to 9 can feel free to dance and move at a pace that is in accordance with
how boys learn.” *I love this idea for Lo.

Academy of Ballet and Jazz — School of Canadian Ballet Theatre

Creative Movement
“This is a specially designed children’s program. It serves as an introduction to classical
movement through images, imagination, and rhythm. The ABCs of classical ballet.” For
ages 3 to 5 years.

The School of Toronto Dance Theatre

“Our Young Dancers’ Program (YDP) is designed to introduce children and young
people ages 3 to 17 to creative movement and contemporary dance. Dancers are
encouraged, both individually and in groups, to explore the dance experience in a
focused and fun environment.”

Gotta Dance

“An award-winning studio, located in the west end of Toronto, Gotta Dance is entering
its 11th year! We have programs for boys [50% discount], girls, and adults, both
recreational and competitive.” Jazz, tap, hip hop, ballet, acrobatics, breakdance, Irish,
lyrical, afro-cuban, gymnastics, and personal fitness for ages 3 plus.

The School of Canadian Contemporary Dance Theatre

“Instruction brings play-dance to the studio without removing its spontaneity. All classes
develop coordination, posture, imagination and fundamental dance skills.” For ages 3 to
7.

Joy of Dance Centre

Creative and fun ballet and hip hop classes. “Children experience story telling through
movement, creative use of props, and dance games.” For ages 3-7.

Brazil Dance World

This dance group offers Creative Movement, Brazilian dance, and Capoeira classes for
3- to 6-year-olds.

So what do you mamas out there think — is 3 too young to start dance? Should we wait
and let them ask to be part of dance? I am struggling as I see Lo dance around, and see
the joy he gets from moving to the beat — I think he is a natural!


-Gray Mama

[image: Swansea School of Dance]

Holding It In

It's amazing how long you can put up with a problem without dealing with it.

Correct that: It’s amazing how long I can go. And this lack of action now affects

someone else.

I wrote about my wonderful breakthrough with the Guppins, who finally, at

eighteen months, took a bottle. Well, that turned into a baby eating disorder.

She was going through thirty ounces of homo milk per night, in her crib — yes,

in her crib, teeth be damned — but she was suddenly, miraculously, basically

sleeping, and she was putting on weight…and constipated.

I’ll never forget the first time it happened. We were in front of the bathroom

mirror. I had just lifted her, squealing, out of the bath. Protruding from her bare

ass was what looked like the beginnings of a very solid footlong. She was

suffering. I had to think fast. I grabbed a tissue, wrapped my hand around the

bad boy, and pulled it out.

We are looking for a support group.

We started adding water to the milk, cutting back the milk, upping the fibre: the

usual Google cures. But unfortunately, the Guppins has developed this thing you

never want your kid to develop: fear of pooping.

Oh mamas, it is a vicious cycle. She feels the urge, but she holds it in. She’ll

do anything to hold it in, she runs on the spot, she clenches, she climbs stairs,

she cries, it goes on and on, and I hold her hands, I encourage her, I show her

my poop, but she is just too afraid. My mother suggested putting Vaseline on

her anus. It helped. She was encouraged and pooped a normal-sized poop the

next day. Four days later, no poop, much gnashing of teeth, long exhausted

freak-outs, tears…in short, misery. I picked up Dr. Sears. I read about glycerine

suppositories.

The image that came to mind: those yeast infection suppositories I used in the

90s: a giant Easter egg to be inserted by the Canadian Space Arm... Oh dread. I

didn’t think I could do that to her, but the alternative?

I go to the drug store.

Me: Hi there.

Pharmacist (warily): Hello.

Me: How are you?

(Wrong question. Small-town Ontario customer service, I am reminded, sucks.)

Him: Okay.

(He literally just said “Okay” like, “Fuck off, Lady.”)

Me: My two year old hasn’t pooped in days. I was thinking she might need a

suppository?

Him: Oh, she’ll need one alright.

Judgment!

He walks me up the aisle. Shows me the box. It’s little.

I procrastinate my way through the hair accessories. Finally I buy, drive home,

and wait. Sir Dick brings her back from the market. I take her inside.

I say to her, “This is going to be great. Mommy has a really fun activity planned!”

I say to Sir Dick, “This is going to be bad. Don’t feel like you need to stick around.

I mean, you can, you can if you’d like...”

We have these issues around pain and suffering and the child and him wanting

to have nothing to do with it. Just this morning, after our late-night conversation

around how to help our poor constipated baby, what to alter, what might help

her, he waltzed into my bedroom where she was attached to my boob (which he

hates) and says, “Hello! Would you like some HONEY?” offering up a piece of

toast slathered in it.

Sugar. There is it. From the diet of a war baby. Sir Dick was born in England

during a World War II blackout, raised on rations of sugar, pastry, gummy bears,

sticky syrup, marmalade, jam: he can’t get enough of the stuff. To him croissant

is a grain, wine gum a vegetable, and candied licorice (pause) vegetable matter.

I shoot him a look.

“Oh right!” he says. “You’ve got problems to solve. I’ll be leaving now!”

I hate hate hate him sometimes.

He beats a retreat. I take her to her bedroom. Gawd, this feels worse than sleep

training. I didn’t think it possible for anything to be worse than sleep training.

I open the box. I am encouraged. The glycerin — which, literally, is what it is —

is shaped like a miniature icicle. Smart. I unpeel the foil. Good, good...it bends to

my touch, it melts a bit, it reminds me, strangely, of honey.

I’ve gotten pretty good at coating her anus with Vaseline. Which I do, while

quickly inserting the icicle. She yelps but not much. I squeeze her butt cheeks

together as per the package directions and sing, “Old MacDonald had a BOOBY,

ee aye ee ay oh” at the top of my lungs and simultaneously shove her onto my

breast, all while keeping those cheeks pressed, one eye on the clock, waiting for

that crucial first minute to pass.

Super mom, I know. Right?

“Daaddeeee!”

Fair enough, I think.

I release her. We climb the stairs to his retreat. We can see in her face she’s

losing the battle. She grunts. She quivers. She stamps her feet. There are tears.

But finally she can’t hold it in any more. Resolved grimace... she takes her

father’s hands, she pushes, and all of a sudden a wide grin spreads across her

face. She throws her hands in the air and cries,

“Poopy! Yaaaaay!”

Two thumbs up.

Problem solved (for now, anyway).

-Drama Mama

Mama, Are You Still at Work?

A couple of weeks ago I had a major project at work. It took me out of commission for a couple
of days. My husband did everything, three nights in a row. I didn’t see J-man at all. In the middle
of the night, 5 a.m. on the second night, he woke and asked me if I was home. I told him I was,
pulled him from his crib, and told him since I hadn’t seen him all day he could come snuggle
with me in my bed. My husband had fallen asleep on the couch and would never know I was
breaking the rules. What I didn’t tell either of them was that I was just too tired to sit with J-man
until he fell asleep.

This week I had a repeat of the same work issue. I did manage to get home each night, after 9
p.m. but just in time to do the bedtime routine. On the first night he said to me, “Mama, I haven’t
seen you all day, so I can snuggle with you in your bed?” Where did he come up with that? I
had to laugh: my words turned against me. Have I created a monster who is going to argue
technicalities with me? When did the exception turn into the rule?

So I did what every good mom does: I lied. I told him to have his bubba in his bed so I could
eat my dinner (it was after 10 p.m.), and that when I came up for bedtime he could snuggle with
me in my bed. He was asleep in 10 minutes and long before I hit the sheets. Maybe he’ll need
therapy for this when he’s in his twenties.

The second night, he said the same thing. So I told him the same thing. After all, it had worked
the night before. Except this time, when I came up at 10:45, he was still awake. “I’m ready,”
he said. So I pulled him into bed with me. At 11:15 I banished him to his crib for failing to go to
sleep. I was too exhausted to cope. He had another bubba and fell asleep.

On the third night we had a repeat of night number two. “I promise I will sleep,” he told me.
Yeah, right, I thought. “No way, J-man. You sleep in your bed and Mama will sleep in hers.” At
2:30 when he woke, Consistent Mom bent the rules again. This time, however, J-man snuggled
for 15 minutes and said, “Mom, I’m ready for my crib now.”

So, what did I learn from this experience? Not much, really. Consistency is over-rated,
especially when you are tired. And kids are flexible. Maybe there will be some tears, but it’s
okay to say yes sometimes and no others. They figure it out and so do you. And if they need
therapy — by that time, hopefully you can afford to pay.

Goodnight, my love, sweet dreams. Mama works hard AND she loves you.


-Sleepwalking Mama

[image: by Julia Kisselmann]

Small Smiles

I just finished editing a particularly painful post, and I need a smile. It was painful to read because I love this person dearly and I can’t even imagine what she was going through and I am amazed by how brave and strong she is. It caused me to think of all the little things I do to make myself smile when I’m working on something difficult or have just dealt with a particularly torturous bedtime routine. Here are a few things that are making me smile right now.

Wine

Obviously.

Chad Brownlee 

I frequently curse my parents for instilling a begrudging yen for country music in me during my childhood (also, show tunes), but then someone like this comes along and makes it all worthwhile. Dreamboat! Is the song any good? Does it matter?

The Lizzie Bennet Diaries

I am an unapologetic fan of Pride and Prejudice. I didn’t think it could get any better. But it can. This modern take on the saga, told through new media, is so adorbs and addictive. Watch it from the beginning, four minutes at a time.

9-Eyes.com

9-Eyes is a project by photographer Jon Rafman, wherein he sifts through Google Street Views to collect screenshots of the most outrageous and incredible images caught by Google’s roving cameras. Demilked has posted some of the best, like one of a tiger just strolling across a parking lot: 

Aston Martin V12 Zagato

I have a crush on a car. There is a house around the corner from me that has a Vantage parked out front several months of the year. Obviously it’s not there now, because it’s February in Toronto, but that’s okay because every day in November that I walk down the street and see it there I feel anxious. I just want it to be safe, away from the salt and the slush. And I know it’s really truly spring when I see it again in March or April.

I still remember when I saw my first Aston Martin in real life, shortly after they first came to Canada. I was marathon training in a hoity-toity part of town when it rumbled past. I was exhilarated enough to speed up and chase it for a little while. I’m pretty sure I was a bit turned on. By a car. Whatever; anyways, I knew then that I was in love, or lust, or something like that. Then, in Gatwick airport once, I got to sit in one, but not nearly long enough before they chased me away so someone else could sit in it. Then we moved house, and for some reason someone down the street from us actually owned one. It was dark grey and perfect. I had to be near it.

Then they traded it in for a “cobalt blue” one. Really? Okay, maybe grey isn’t for everyone, but… I’m all about the neutrals, so I shouldn’t judge. It’s still pretty. If I see it driving in front of me, I can’t help but tailgate a little.

The crux of the matter is that I get more excited by my neighbours’ car than I do by a lot of things these days. Sad, but true. So I also got excited about this video for the V12 Zagato.
I’ll take one in “carbon black,” please.

Wallbanger by Alice Clayton 

Right, so the smutty book thing is still happening, which is fine by me because these things are too much fun to edit. In the interest of market research, I read a few from time to time. This one I fell in love with, utterly. It’s friggin hilarious and pretty hot too.

Rookie Mag 

The closest thing I can find to Sassy. Remember Sassy? God, I miss it sometimes. 

Anticipation…

Skyfall  is out on DVD on February 12! It will be my Valentine’s Day gift, I just know it, at least if Cookie’s dad knows what’s good for him. I will probably stay up far too late on far too many nights after Cookie is in bed in order to watch this. Possibly on February 14.

Beckham in His Undies
Just... this:

Videos of Cookie

Obviously. Also, she’s currently into The Sound of Music, so it’s pretty hilarious to hear her go through the entire songbook. Apparently the show tunes thing is hereditary in my family.

Please share with us the little things that make you smile in those spare moments between chaos and exhaustion. We could all use some.

-East End Mama

The Accidental Email

Oh my my my my my. Where and how to start?

I am lying with the Guppins on the cushioned floor in her bedroom, having just read
some sleepy stories, her sucking away on a bottle (I know — tooth decay). It’s nine p.m.,
she nods off, I decide to check my iPhone for messages in the dark, maybe play a few
moves on the fourteen neglected “Words with Friends” games I have going, relax, but
instead I read this email from my mother. Sent to me, but not addressed to me in case it
isn’t clear:

Hi B___ [my brother],

l have just read an email from [me] and she asked how you are and if you are still
coming for a visit this summer and she doesn’t know J___ [my other brother] is also
coming. How do l answer it? l don’t know if she could come anyway and if so it would
only be for an overnight and l would love for [the Guppins] to meet about the only
relatives she has however l don’t want you to be upset. l really don’t want to lie but l
don’t want to spoil even a minute of your holiday either. Tell me what to do, be totally
honest with me and l will happily do it.

Mom

“Spoil a minute of your holiday”

Some context:

My mother is 73. She isn’t all that computer savvy. And she just accidently sent this
email to me, clearly intended for my elder brother “B.” B lives in California. “J” lives in
Australia. Both have large families, three kids each. We are estranged.

The fact that we are estranged has just become very, very clear to me. In fact, the fact
that it is quite possible that my mother (who lives on the other side of Ontario) is also
estranged from me, but keeps it up because her relationship with her closest living
(distance-wise) grandchild, my Guppins, is important to her, is worth putting up with me
for.

Was it really just today that I said to Sir Dick, “I’m feeling happy. I’m feeling really happy!
I love you, I love our life, I love that I have a job [I finally have a job], I’m feeling settled
into our new life in old Smalltown…” Did I really just say that today?

Of course I did.

I start to shake. I think, Oh no. Oh no okay. It’s okay. This is going to hurt, this is going
to mess me up for a few days but I will weather it. I will breathe, I will take half a Xanax, I
will…what? What will I do with the avalanche of feelings I know are about to descend:

Total fear and anxiety
Anger
Defensiveness
Self-doubt and loathing
Self-blame
Confusion
Rage
Days of unspeakable sadness

Still in the dark on the floor with my precious sleeping daughter, I flip to my Facebook
app and look up my brother. I flip to Safari and Google, “How to unfriend someone from
your mobile app.” Because I don’t want to wait another second.

Unfriend my brother. What a joke. I’m thinking: Don’t do it. Just wait. Don’t do anything,
just sit tight and let this play out. I’m thinking: keep your enemies close. I’m thinking: No
one in my family wants me.

My father died three years ago. I helped my mom through it. After my father died I was
there for her. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t change her attitude towards me. I talked to
my therapist about it. Then I confronted her about her and my father’s drinking and
parenting. I was hard on her. I was trying to create some boundaries with my mother.
Which didn’t work. She sees it is totally differently, and ever since it’s been a process
of her being very cold, occasionally warm, but mostly shooting me daggers and saying
things like, “So you didn’t have a totally horrible childhood after all?” whenever I try to be
positive about the past to help ease things.

My brother, who lives on the west coast, was furious with me for Abandoning My Mother
At Christmas. (I didn’t, I just didn’t want to immediately commit to driving four hours
down a dirt road through blizzards with a baby in the backseat to see a person who was
pretty mad at me without deeply considering it.) Our conversation concluded with my
brother counting to ten out loud (how ridiculous, I thought), and hanging up.

The same brother who once visited me when I was working in England in the greatest
gig in my life, only to inform me that our parents always put us second, that they put me
second and didn’t even bother to come. As he did.

Confusion.

Now this.

What do I do? With these feelings?

The email also implies that my other brother, J, also hates me. He’s travelling from
Australia and doesn’t want me to know! I suppose I could have had a clue when years
back he visited (from Australia) and kept changing our plans to see each other the night
before. Or when both of them came for my father’s…well, there was no funeral, my
mother insisted on taking Dad’s ashes and pouring them into the ground behind her
garage next to all the dead dogs. During this…Event of Death, my brothers basically
never spoke to me. And I was paralyzed by, well, grief. I could not connect. I feared I
was going to die from the pain of my father having died practically in front of me after
heart surgery, from having stood before his freshly dead body in the recovery wing,
bloated, tongue protruding, dead. Dead dead dead.

My therapist once told me that children of alcoholics often transfer feelings of
abandonment onto each other. It’s a sibling thing. Well, she sure got that right, because

I have been experiencing feelings of abandonment from both my older brothers for…a
long time.

There were years of intense closeness. There was even competition between them for
my affection. But as we got older, all that changed. To blame. To misunderstanding. To
distance.

I am not blameless. I missed J’s wedding in Australia due to a theatre gig. (My parents
also didn’t go; my dad wasn’t well.) And I once called him in Australia at a bad hour — I
miscalculated — and woke up three crying babies. I now can relate to how much hatred
a mistake like that might fuel.

I admitted once to B that in his presence I feel irrational pain and fear. Irrational? B is
a brutally aggressive uber-conservative male Harvard business grad under a ton of
pressure to be perfect.

Who also, it seems, might be dying. Or not. No one will tell me. I sent him a heartfelt
card. Maybe not so good, but it was something. I ask Mom, she falls apart… It’s some
weird…fungus or something…that subsumed his entire digestive track and now he can’t
get off the steroids.

Oh, I’ll just stop here. I’ll STOP. It’s family. It’s complicated. It’s hard. And I am the
bad guy. I am the one to be exiled. It doesn’t escape me that this is a drama that has
repeated itself over and over in my life.

So what do I do?

I decide to tell the mamas of this blog. I am writing this story now; I am sending it to
them the second I am done. Because they will love me, they might think, “Oh, it’s
Drama Mama, it’s all a little rich,” but I will never feel their judgment because all I have
felt from these women, who are writing with me, bravely, gorgeously, is pure and total
acceptance. Which is why we do it. And East End Mama will edit it, and Secret Weapon
Mama will post it, and the entire world can, if they want, read my mother’s fucking email
because THAT IS THE BEAUTY OF AN ANONYMOUS BLOG.

So do it. Write it. Find your mama friends. And tell THEM. Because it may be the half
Xanax, it may be the shot of tequila I jut downed, but I have stopped shaking and feel a
hell of a lot better.

Here are some guidelines for us all to help me, based on the writings of don Miguel Ruiz
(which we learned about in our mothers’ group):

The Four Agreements

1. Don’t take anything personally.
2. Be impeccable with your word. [I like to think of this as being true to yourself.]
3. Don’t make assumptions.
4. Always do your best.

But in the meantime, I’m going to stare at the beautiful sleeping child in my crazy world
and focus on US.

-Drama Mama


[image: Accordion Sea by Brooke Weeber via Mammoth & Company]

Kids and Coffee in Toronto

Being that our one and only Tightrope Mama is now with her second baby, I have been
thinking about my mat leave — many moons ago.

I loved having the day open — well, outside of naps — to visit with my mamas, friends,
and family. And of course, to have coffee.

Here’s a list some of my favourite kid-friendly coffee shops.

Lil’ Bean n’ Green

A café and play space in Leslieville.

From their site:
“A creative, warm and cozy space, lil’ bean n’ green is a place where families relax and
feel comfortable, connect with others and the community, share experiences and ideas,
feel nurtured and recharge. Park your stroller, pick a spot and unwind…”

Playful Grounds

A café and play space on College Street.

From their site:
“The mission of Playful Grounds is to provide delicious and nutritious food and superior
coffee to customers while they relax knowing that their children are playing safely
nearby. Committed to using organic and local ingredients wherever possible, Playful
Grounds is dedicated to creating a warm, inclusive and community driven environment
because it takes a village to raise a child.”

The Good Neighbor

This shop in the Junction has a whole section with cool kids’ books and some toys. The
walls are covered with interesting faces and other relics. They do not have a website, but
here is the blogTO review.

Crema 

Crema has 4 locations all over the city. It is a coffee hot spot where you will always find
loads of kids and beautiful art.

By the Way Café

A family-friendly spot in the Annex with great coffee and brunch. It is a neighbourhood
favourite that loves kids.

Mabel’s

Last, but not least…Mabel’s on Roncey. This was a regular spot for our mamas because
of the fresh food, good coffee, and location right across the street from The Revue, a
not-for-profit theatre that has a moms and tots movie weekly.

Let us know some coffee hot spots you frequent. Share the wealth and the caffeine!

-Gray Mama

[image: via Crema coffee]

Back to Work

I think I’m being bullied at work.

The reason why I only “think” is because it appears people who I don’t know are
bullying me. They work in another department. How do I know this? Because
employees who work for the people in the other department who I have regular and
happy contact with are showing up at my office, closing my door, and saying things
like, “I just want you to be prepared,” and, “So-and-so is pure evil,” and, “We don’t
want you to be blindsided.”

“The emails are going around. She’s going to email all the heads of department.”

About an issue in general in my department?

“No, about YOU.”

I take care of VIPs and company members for a large arts organization. How I take
care of them and the patrons of this organization is tracked in a computer program.
(Basically they get free passes.) It is a very large arts organization with separate
venues. I run one venue; the folks who are ganging up on me are at another. My
boss calls them “Bettys,” says that on the chain of command, or graph of power (you
know, the corporate chart thingy), they are here (he waggles his hand horizontally)
and we are here (he waggles his hand up and to the left.) Confusing? Yes.

I used to be an actress. What happened to being an actress?

I talk to my boss. Unpacked every little detail of how I do my job — a job that is new,
six months’ new. I speak with my HR person. She reassures I am in the right. She
will investigate. She tells me I am well-liked and respected, I’ve done a great job; the
people who are after me have recently unionized and are testing their power. Why
are they picking on me?

My contract ends in about a week. I work nights. I work days. Most of my paycheque
goes to my $10/hour brilliant-yet-bossy nanny and to daycare. Daycare. I finally took
the leap.

And we’ve had colds. And Sir Dick has been away shooting a film in Sault Ste. Marie
for six weeks. Is it good to let your kid Facetime with her dad? I am learning that
shorter is sweeter. I have a feeling it is doing something bad to her brain, seeing him
through such a tiny window.

“I see you soon, Baba!” he ends every call.

Strict Nanny: “You have to tell him he won’t see her soon, that soon to her means ten
minutes from now.”

And it’s true. When he calls, she wants him that night, next morning. Right now. Last
night she woke up screaming, “Daddy Daddy Daddy!” crying, awake, inconsolable. At
1:30 a.m. It’s heartbreaking. It’s annoying.

So today, exhausted, sleepless, over-worked, bullied by an unknown enemy, on day
five of cold, not needing to go to work until later in the afternoon, I take my kid to
daycare.

“I don’t want to go daycare!”

“Don’t you want to see Delores?”

“Noooo!”

We’ve been reading Daycare in the Caillou series. Strict Nanny warns to beware of
Caillou. “If the kids don’t already have the problem and they read about him having
it, they’ll engender the neurosis.”.

Never mind. I take the Guppins to daycare. I put her in Delores’s loving arms, tears in
her eyes.

Dolores hugs her, speaks with her with such quiet, soothing tones.

“Would you like to come sit with me and listen to the story?” Guppins nods. I
disappear from her world. I walk to the car. I get behind the wheel. And I break
down and cry.

Is it so weak? Dolores’s love came right into me too. I needed to hear it too. I need to
feel love in the face of adversity too.

As long as they can feel our love.
As long as they can feel it.
Maybe everything will be all right.

-Drama Mama

[image: photo by Lauren Peich]

People Are So Strange about Skin

J-man absolutely loves it when I have a bath with him. It is his favourite! I don’t do it very often
because bedtime is generally rushed and I tend to shower in the morning. Also he likes his bath
a little cooler then is comfortable. Having said that, it is way easier to comb out his curly hair if I
can manage to get behind him, which I can if I’m in the bath. So sometimes it is convenient.

At dinner the other night I told J-man that it was time to clean up and then it was time for his
bath. “You come in my bath with wif me,” he proclaimed. My husband gave me a sideways look
and said, “About that.” There was a long pause. He then said, “When do you think you will be
stopping that? It’s gross,” he said, “and he will be traumatized as a teen and pre-teen when he
recalls those memories.”

WTF — is this man serious? Is there anything unusual about this? In my ever diplomatic way I
said, “Well, when we get a new house, we’ll have to get a bigger tub so we can both fit until he
decides it is gross. In the meantime I think we won’t just yet teach him unhealthy lessons about
sexuality and being naked.” Needless to say that was the end of that conversation. But it did
make me stop and think.

J-man is the happiest when he’s naked. He dances all over the house at bath time shaking his
penis at everyone, singing that he’s naked. I have no objections to this process and I laugh and
tease him as I chase him to the bath.

I already draw the line when he tries to rub his penis on his brother, age 12, who is with us only
a couple of nights a week. J-man figured out early that this totally freaked out his brother, so it
has now become an endless game. I have to explain that it’s not okay to rub yourself on other
people because they don’t like it. (“If they don’t like it” seemed too confusing a message.)

Do I really have to tone down the rest? Is he going to be traumatized? I don’t think so. My
husband likely never saw either of his parents naked. I, on the other hand, with four people and
one bathroom growing up, never had a bath or a shower uninterrupted. That included my father
barging in to use the toilet. I was never traumatized and I’m not nearly as freaked out about
these things as my husband. So I figure I’m working on making him less, not more, traumatized
about skin!

-Sleepwalking Mama


[image: photo by philip newton]

Snack Time!

So, I read this article — “Against Snacks: A Mother’s Manifesto.”
And I instantly felt guilt (ironic that is came from a Catholic site — which a family
member sent me to; I don’t visit these sites on my own).

When I read it I was like, “Yeah — no more snacks.” But then a voice in my head was
like, “But W realllly likes fishy crackers and gookies (a.k.a. cookies)” — you know the
voice, the one that makes you buy cheeseburgers and mini donuts at the fair.

It is the same voice that is allowing him to still be in a crib and use a soother and carry
his Guy (any soft blanket is named Guy — don’t ask, I don’t know) around all day with
him if the mood strikes.

My husband is much more firm; he says, “No, he doesn’t need a soother in the car,” “No,
he can drink from a cup, enough bottles,” and, “Yes, he is ready for a (race car) bed.”

On further reflection, I really just don’t think mommys should have manifestos — it’s
so hard. Mantras, yes. Manifestos, no. I think being a mommy is about being flexible.
Sometimes you snack, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you are firm, sometimes you
aren’t.

-Tightrope Mama

[image: whole wheat goldfish crackers, recipe via Smitten Kitchen]

Stroller Wars

When the hubby and I were young, newly married hipsters living in our hipster condo in
Hipsterville (kidding; we couldn’t even pass for hipster-wannabes), we went down the street one
day to our favourite hipster bar for a Saturday afternoon cocktail. (Sigh…) Anyways, we were
shocked — SHOCKED — when we discovered that we couldn’t even enter the bar because
there was a goddamned stroller blocking the entrance. Righteously indignant, we huffed off to
the next bar and railed on about strollers. (Not the people bringing babies to the bar, mind you;
we could totally empathize with the need to drink when you have a kid. It was just the blatant
disregard for the needs of others-slash-fire safety that infuriated us.) A couple of days later,
the sandwich board in front of the bar had a snarky comment about strollers on it, and we were
smugly validated.

Fast forward a couple of years. I’ve been home from the hospital with newborn Cookie for a
week. By all reports the early June weather is glorious, but I’ve been confined to the condo and
leaking all over things all week so I wouldn’t know. I’m gagging for a beer (I do need to up the
milk production a bit, is my excuse) and fresh air, so we wrestle Cookie into the sling for the first
time and head to the nearest patio. No one cares, some probably don’t even notice she’s there,
and I have to cut myself off after half a pint ’cause apparently I have some training to do if I’m
ever going to drink like a grown up again. Whoa. Maybe it’s the sun. (BTW, I only ordered half a
pint. Nursing and all. I’m not completely irresponsible.)

Over the next month I go out a few times with friends and Cookie in the sling and nurse a sad
little half pint that warms in the sun. It’s freeing and relaxing and I feel a part of the world again.
Sometimes I get strange looks when people notice the infant in the sling, but most people just
ignore us. After all, we’re hardly in the way, and I stay close enough to home that I can settle up
and race home to nurse if she gets cranky. Win-win.

But eventually we have to take the stroller out. Very aware of the space it takes up, we start to
choose our destinations according to space available for stroller parking. This rules out most
of our favourite hole-in-the-wall bars and cafés. But then we move to the east end, which has
much fewer bars and cafés (at least in walking distance of our place), but the ones that are
there have a bit more space. We frequent a pub that has high chairs and a children’s menu, and
we park the stroller in the dart alley but keep an eye out so that as soon as someone stands and
starts to pull their darts out, I’m moving the stroller before they even notice it’s there. We are
ever mindful of how fucking annoying strollers are.

In my new neighbourhood, things are farther away. We must use transit on occasion. I hate this.
For one thing, you can get the stroller on the bus, but the bus only goes to a subway station
that has no elevator. There’s a subway station nearby that has an elevator, but to get there you
have to take the streetcar. So, either way, you’ll need to rely on the kindness of strangers or
streetcar drivers. There are very few kind strangers or streetcar drivers when you need them, in
my experience.

And now our troubled but beloved transit system doesn’t want our strollers to inconvenience
anyone anymore. They’re considering a maximum number of strollers per vehicle, so that if your
bus comes and there are already two strollers on it, you’ll have to wait for the next bus. Which
could also already have two strollers on it. And then you miss your doctor’s appointment or are
late for daycare drop-off and then work. Or you and your child are just really, really cold and
cranky. Which will make your fellow passengers LOVE you when you do finally get on a bus.

I’m not going to get into the ridiculousness of this idea, or even the arguments for it, some
of which are just as valid. People have already been doing enough of that. So here is one of
my favourites: Heather Mallick’s commentary in the Toronto Star. I particularly love the bit about the retiree who thinks that “parents should plan their day better.” Ha! No amount of planning a day with a baby will ever prevent you from inadvertently ending up
on a streetcar at the worst possible time with the worst possible people. Something will always go wrong.

Thank god we’ve given up on the stroller now. Cookie would rather push it anyways. Good
riddance. And best of luck in the stroller wars, Tightrope Mama!

Update: The transit commission conducted a poll, and the overwhelming majority of
respondents said they didn’t think strollers were a problem. There appears to be a truce, at least
between riders and mothers.

-East End Mama


[image: wooden stroller kid crave]