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

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

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

Biting

So Lo is getting bit at school. His bestie has very few words and uses his teeth
and other objects to communicate his disdain and reluctance to share. What is a
mama to do?

Lo speaks about his playmate all of the time. He wants the same shoes; he tells
stories about how much fun the two of them have and how they “kick the ball.”
He also shares stories about how his friend bites him, and his response is, “It’s
otay, Mommy.” Which destroys me….

It’s not otay!

He is playing with a friend who hurts him often — and being the little boy that he
is, how does he understand that? His friend, whom he enjoys and who plays with
him all of the time, also hurts him. I am wondering if this is life, if this is a lesson
that is inevitable. Those we love hurt us at some point, no matter how much we
enjoy being with them. Maybe…but Lo is so little, can he understand what is
happening — that his friend has no words to express himself and is therefore

expressing himself physically by biting? Likely not, but why does he say, “It is
otay?” Why does he enjoying being with someone who is hurting him?

It worries me.

I think about who I have been socially through my thirty-seven years. As a young
child, I was easily led, whether that was by the male neighbours to the dark
corner of the furnace room to kiss, or by friends to their houses to look at all of
their toys. As I got a bit older, I followed further — I wanted to be friends with
the pretty girls, and experienced that feeling of being accepted but bullied at the
same time. It is this memory that haunts me as Lo experiences the high of having
a friend and the low of being hurt. And in the end, he says, “It’s otay.”

I don’t want him to get used to giving a lot and getting hurt. I don’t want him to be
the one who learns to accept that being hurt by people is normal and you cannot
trust anyone without being disappointed, over and over again. I am worried that
this experience with his little friend is setting up a lifetime of expectations — that
will inevitably disappoint him.

Does this cycle ever change?
Does pleasure always include pain?
Does being human always mean we will be hurt?

I know there are a million life lessons to come for Lo. I am hoping that the impact
of all of these lessons does not dim his light and charm, hold him back from
taking risks, affect his ability to love and be loved.

I hope I make it through…make it through each lesson. I do not want to
protect him from it all, but I do want to show him that I will always be there —
unconditionally. Even though I am sure I will disappoint him too.

-Gray Mama


[image: Biting My Fingers]

Mingling with the Locals, Episode Two

2: Alice Munro Land

I have scampered out to gather drugs in this one-horse town; we have colds. I take this
moment to steal into the “expresso” bar and crack my food-encrusted MacBook.

I will tell you a story.

The Perils of Smalltown

Once there was a girl (me) who liked to shop at Mennonite thrift stores. (Think Witness
— Harrison Ford? Kelly McGillis? Anyone?)

Why? Because deals abound, they are clean, maybe no bugs yet, and yes, Santa, I
discovered they DO host public bathrooms (refer to previous embarrassing post where I
desperately pissed into three of my daughter’s diapers in the parking lot.)

I also like to shop at the church on Thursdays and occasionally go to auctions with
Eldora.

So about a month ago I bought a coat at the church. I love it. It is shaped like a
stingray, which suits my tall frame. It is quite elegant, has a decent collar, and is warm.
It is cream in coloir, and you can zip it up from the bottom as well as the top — very
versatile. Fourteen bucks.

Now I am in Shoppers, arms loaded up with Kleenex, drugs, diapers, etc. (Why didn’t
I get a cart? Because I am happy to not be pushing a stroller around, thank you.),
checking my iPhone shopping list when suddenly I am caught unawares by a woman,
not a day under 80, must be 80, with her friend, also 80, maybe 75 (they really look
good, actually), and she sings, from her slightly hunched frame:

“Did you buy that coat at the church sale?” Eyes shining.

In an instant a feeling of...shame, intrusion, self-judgment, general weirdness comes
over me for having been caught wearing an 80-year-old lady’s coat.

“Yes I did!” I respond cheerily, a faltering smile that says, “I love old people!”

Glancing down to meet her gaze, I take in the ragged state of the coat, unraveling
bottom zip, black crap clinging to it, the Guppins’ winter boot prints at breast level from
late-night shoulder rides, and baby food in general — it’s a mess. When I picked it up it
was pristine.

“It was from one of those fancy stores in Toronto, wasn’t it?” the friend asks winkingly.

“Oh yes! It’s a goood coat, nice and warm.”

The previous owner pulls the coat open to reveal the “Virgin Wool” insignia and points at
it.

I apologize for its unkempt state.

But this lady, God, she’s beaming.

“It suits your tall frame,” she says.

And off they bustle, trying to remember what’s on their shopping lists.

I feel lost. Who am I? What am I doing here? Where is MY coat from the fancy shop in
Toronto? This would never happen in the city, you never MEET the people who have
died or donated your thrift store treasures. You don’t have to get The Story; I mean,
there is no one in Toronto putting a damper on your New Find.

The world around me dissolves and I am in the middle of an Alice Munro story: I’m
having an affair, and my lover, the school gym teacher; his Granny is Fancy Coat Lady,
who, when a girl accidentally murdered a stutterer at summer camp because her best
friend pressured her into it, and the coat was bought at the surviving stutterer twin
sister’s store years later in Toronto. Out of guilt, or hatred, or…oh God, help get me out
of Alice Munro Land!

The world re-shapes around me. I bring my empty coffee bowl to my lips. I look around.
The expresso place is empty.

I am the only one left.

I am the only one left.

-Drama Mama

What Lice Taught Me

As you recently read, W had his first round (I’m sure there will be more)
with head lice this past summer (cue: itching). Upon reflection I realized I actually
learned a few things from the experience.

Because, as you have also read, I don’t quite work in the most pro-parenting/supportive
office environment, I didn’t miss any work as a result of the lice. Honestly, you may be
thinking, “Well, obviously, who would take a sick day for lice?” Really it would have been
a much-needed mental health day for me (reminder: I am pregnant and cranky and it
was about 45°C here in Toronto during the incident).

One day, on the walk from the parking lot, one of my co-workers from another
department came running up behind me yelling out my name. I was in the middle of
composing a text message to one of my single friends and holding back tears as I
congratulated her on something but inwardly cursed her joy (not very nice, I know).
When this co-worker (who has two pre-teen kids) saw my face she said, “What’s going
on?” with a tone that implied she could tell I was about to have a full-fledged melt-down
on the sidewalk. I burst into tears about lice, and mouse shit, and how my husband
wasn’t checking my hair well enough, and how the daycare wasn’t posting signs about
the lice and, oh, just about everything under the sun. She listened totally patiently as I
said cliché things like, “I know every kids gets lice, but…” and “I know it doesn’t mean
that our house is dirty, but…” and when I finally stopped, she told me a story.

She told me that when her son was three months old, she got lice from her niece. She
said she was postpartum and had to have her mom come over and do the lice treatment
on her TWICE. She also confessed that while her baby never got lice (thank god!), one
time a bug fell from her head onto him while she was changing his diaper! She said
she was bawling and bawling and felt miserable and terrible. But you know what? Her
story made me feel better, and she knew it would. She trusted me enough to confide in
me about a time when she felt like a shitty, out-of-control parent, and was able to laugh
about it now. It made me feel good enough to actually make it to my desk and move on.
Which really was the most anyone could have done for me in that moment.

This is the kind of support women and co-workers need to give each other. Just
compassion and understanding. When I told my boss why daycare was calling, I caught
her in the bathroom ten minutes later checking her head for lice in the mirror. I kid you
not — this happened. I swear, who could make that shitty act up?

When I caught her, she turned beat red. Yeah, as if I could say the word “lice” and a
million microscopic eggs would jump across cubicles from my head to yours. (And for
the record, I never did get lice myself.)

Thanks to that supportive co-worker, and all the people like her who know how to listen
and comfort without one single ounce of judgment. I wish there were more people like
you out there.

-Tightrope Mama