...And to All a Good Night.

So, I have some holiday cuteness for you.  Before you roll your eyes about how I'm posting about Ann AGAIN, please refer to the name of the blog, which indicates how much time I spend with her.  Would you expect me to talk about much else?

Moving on.

The nativity is out again. You remember this from last year (which I just re-read. Gingerb-Red District?  I kill me). While we have our hard 'G' sounds under control this year (less confusion over whether the mother of Jesus is a virgin or a vagina or a gingerbread [somewhat]), some of her nativity habits have stuck.  Namely, that she lives in a gingerbread house.

We have actually lost playmobile Mary at some point over the year, so she's replaced her with a girl from a beach set.  However, if you recall, she'd actually decided last year to switch the genders of Mary and Joseph (see above link), so what we're left with is Mary (born Joseph) and another Mary (the beach version).  Again, very progressive.  And probably blasphemous.  The stable was full, so they have been living in the dollhouse.

The giraffes are in the loft again.  It's getting a bit crazy.  Try the Inn.

Fun with Nativities.  There is Mary and Mary and Jesus, but also- Jesus's older brother.  And yes, apparently there was a T-Rex present at the birth of Christ. And there are toys, and even a birthday cake (in the oven) because it's his birthday, Mommy.  Clearly.

We bumped into Santa on the street this year.  He was leaving a toy store and must have been heading to his car, but Ann spotted him.  She chased him two blocks- yelling his name- and launched herself into his arms.  She's not shy, that one.  We will need to have many 'Stranger Danger' talks in the future.  She made such a scene that people passing by stopped to watch, and even videotape them.  She told him what she wanted for Christmas (a music box, news to me), talked about her school and her Christmas concert, detailed all the Christmas movies she's been watching, and discussed how strongly she feels about Rudolph (very) before Santa was able to escape.  She now refuses to go see him in a mall to get a photo taken, because they've had such a good chin-wag already this year.  What more is there to say?

"Look, Santa!  It's you!  Same, same!"

Please note my new bangs.  There was a grade 7 girl in my class last week who had the same haircut. 

Merry Christmas everyone!  We're off to Belize in two days.  Pending internet speed, I hope to post from there.  Enjoy your holidays!

 

Summer...is coming...

That's a Game of Thrones reference. If you don't know what that is, see here.  But just so you know, you've been missing out on a lot of gratuitous violence, and gratuitous sexual violence.  Two of my least favourite things. But still, it's addictive.

Anyways, summer is coming because we are on the countdown to Belize. We leave in 22 days. At which time we will probably look like this:


It's like looking in a mirror.  Did Ann get a haircut?  Who are those other children?





But really, there will probably be lots of nose zinc and birding hikes.  I will probably name that series of posts "Nerds in Paradise", or "Nerdwarks on Vacation" or something.

Stay tuned.

Dr. Sleeping Beauty

Society, in general,  puts so much pressure on mothers to be perfect.  Which is unnecessary, because it's not like we're gonna say; "No, no.  It's not that important, I'm just gonna half-ass this shit".   Unfortunately, as soon as your pregnancy test changes colour, the judgement begins (Is she eating nitrites?). It gets worse as the child ages, and any problems they have become Mom's fault. Of course, this means that the opposite is also true, and so whenever anyone comments on how sweet Ann is, I say "Yes. I'm an excellent mother".  Because I know that the other shoe on that will drop any day. And then it will be my fault that she hit your child, because I feed her too much processed food; or I let her watch too much TV; or because I talk behind her back on the Internet (ummm, that one might be true).  I might as well milk it while I can.

I do feel that as a mother, I am very lucky.  I had an outstanding example of what mothering and parenting is supposed to look like.  Specifically- deliberate parenting, which is when you take the time to think about the message your child is receiving from your words and your actions.  As opposed to reactive parenting, which is when your mouth opens and stuff comes out (this happens to me after 5pm).   My parents also believed in leading by example. When I was small, my mother was integral in unionizing part-time staff at the local college, and in introducing a Sex Ed curriculum in our district.  She and some friends wrote a feminist newsletter for women in the north.  We didn't eat McDonald's, Nestlé or KFC, based on their policies, not their food.  And I could talk ad nauseum about Nestlé's actions in Africa by the time I was ten (not surprisingly, I was a really popular teenager).  She also helped start eight million non-profit organizations and sat on an equal number of boards.  Do you know how hard that shit is to live up to?  Do you know how boring boards are?  Know what I did when Ann was a baby?  Eight seasons of Supernatural.

What this means, is that in addition to snooty judgement from society, I also have lofty expectations that I've made for myself, based on what I believe successful parenting/adulthood looks like.  And I try to meet those. I really try. Nestlé is still an asshole, but the problem is that I eat my boredom and my feelings, and they usually taste like Mars Bars.  I've been beating myself up about this for years.  The bar for good parenting/role modeling is set really high. Recently though, I've been working on the idea that I'm not my mother (ground-breaking, non?), and leading by example will look different for me.  There will be ample time for me to indoctrinate introduce ideas to Ann in my own, unique ways (likely with immature humour and quotes from sitcoms).  For example, a picture of our Halloween costumes last week:

Figure 1: Dr. Sleeping Beauty and her Pumpkin
Much to my chagrin, Annie loves princesses.  I hate princesses. They are valued only for their beauty and grace, and they helplessly sit back and wait for their Prince to save them- not just from evil witches, but also from the agony of a life of princelessness.
My genius plan (after seeing it on the Halloween special of 'The Office'), was to diversify her idea of princesses.  Hence:
Dr. Sleeping Beauty, Chief of Staff, Oncology.

I started explaining it to her, but her eyes glazed and she stroked my cheek, saying; "Mommy, you're so pretty...".

"Unfulfilled by life in a castle, Sleeping Beauty went back to school and pursued her dream of helping needy children.  Sometimes she waves her magical reflex hammer (not pictured) to perform miracles, but, more often than not; it is hard work and perseverance that makes the difference."

"Uh huh.  Where's your castle, Mommy?"

Cinderella's pumpkin turns into a carriage, mine turns into a resident.  One that has trouble finding veins.  She is a gourd, after all.

Let me tell you, I've said a lot of nasty things about princesses over the years.  In that dress and tiara, I was uncomfortable in the way only hypocrisy can make you.  But my daughter will remember.  And the reason it will be so memorable is because it was authentic.  It was totally something I would do.  I will never organize a rally.  No one would trust me with that kind of planning.  But I have other skills.  I am outgoing, outspoken, and outlandish (among other things.  Of which 'amazing' springs immediately to mind).  You can do a lot with that. Taming annoying teenagers, for starters.  It's all about making use of the resources available to you.

So, ya.  When she is 24, Ann may not be doing a women's studies project on the political impact that her mother had on society in the '80s, but she'll have a photo of that time I got all preachy about Sleeping Beauty's lifestyle choices.  Hopefully there will be lots of obnoxious photos of me by then.  Fingers crossed.

Or not. Maybe we'll have lost the photo and she'll just remember that time I was a pretty princess for Halloween.

Perhaps I need to rethink my approach.

The original 'Dr. Cinderella'.

**UPDATED** last weekend we drove up north. It was a long drive, and I was reminded of one of the times I drove across Canada with my parents. I was sixteen. Ontario had just made it legal for women to be topless. In celebration of the equality that represents, my mother went topless as we drove through the province. Do you know how big Ontario is? It takes a long time to drive from one side to the other. I was mortified.

That kind of behaviour is outlandish. A category in which I have numerous entries. Perhaps there's hope for me yet.

Living the Dream

Those of you who know me well, know that I loathe gushing.  I don't mind so much when other people do it, but I bore myself when I do it.  Mainly because it's harder to insert dry, sarcastic wit unless you are complaining about something (or someone).  And if it isn't amusing, it isn't worth saying.

Having said that, this post dangerously brushes the gush-line.  You've been warned.  I'll bullet-point it, so as to avoid waxing poetic.  Additionally, I will also do my best to make fun of others, to bring it down a level.  Adrian seems the likely choice, given proximity.  Stay tuned.

So, it was Thanksgiving last weekend.  Ann's daycare sent us home a little leaf made of her handprint, on which to write all the things that we were thankful for, this Thanksgiving.  The leaves then got put on a communal tree in the daycare kitchen.  This was harder to do that I thought, because Adrian kept policing everything I suggested as 'inappropriate'.  Things like: 'Mommy's finally employed', and 'Maggie's stopped peeing in my bedroom' and even, 'My parents discovered how economical it is to buy wine in bulk'.  Anyways, this activity was timely, as it's been a pretty awesome fall, and it gave us a chance to reflect on this.  Everything is coming up Milhouse right now (if you are unfamiliar with this reference, please see here).  For me.  Adrian still had to work a lot this fall.  That's a bummer.  Reasons for the thankfulness are:

1. It's not money.  Everything's not coming up money.  I was barely working, and I paid lots of daycare.
2. We are thankful that Ann is at daycare, with lots of new friends to play with; new stories to read; new games to play.  And that there is a castle across the street! 

It's a castle.

She is having an amazing time, which isn't a surprise.  She loves routine and institutions.  She'd excel in the army.  She likes to see how fast she can put puzzles together and then take them apart, like she were cleaning a gun.  Anyways, they suggested I leave her there all day, regardless of whether I'm working or not, to get her into a routine.  Sighing resignedly, I responded that I supposed I could find something to do with my time.  Which is this:


"I can't read any more, Mommy.  Impressionable women everywhere are biting their bottom lips in the hopes that some  billionaire will abuse them.  Why are you reading this asinine drivel?"

And I can do it guilt free, because someone else suggested it.  Though it is worth noting that all that extra time at the dog park earned Maggie a case of kennel cough (yes, she'd been vaccinated), so that's awesome.  We were under quarantine that first week.  And $180 poorer.

2. We were thankful that Mommy had so much free time.  Until lunchtime, I would putter around the house listening to CBC podcasts, cleaning and organizing.  Earning knowledge of the world, and getting all zeitgeisty.  While this is arguably not the same as earning wages, I think that we can all agree that being a well-rounded person is very close.  I can then enrich the lives of Ann and Adrian as well, bringing them up to speed on the tolls on the Port Mann Bridge, reviews of Salman Rushdie's new book, and the intricacies of Justin Beiber's latest prank.  Adrian might feel that there's more value in making money for a new home, or even a new boat motor, but I feel that's short-sighted.

I've also been running a lot more.  Part of this has to do with the fact that I have friends now (figure 1).  And said friends will meet up with me on their lunch breaks from gainful employment and run with me or have coffee.

Fig. 1. Em and Cloe.

3.  We were thankful that Mommy's been cooking.  Like- every day, because it may surprise you to learn- that's how often dinner needs to be made.  Clearly, this is all new to me, even though I've been home for the last year. 

While I think most of you probably figure that Adrian's life is filled with hilarity and self-congratulations at snagging me, it's not always the picnic we assume it is for him. Aside from being absent-minded and emotional, I am messy and my cooking is hit-and-miss (meaning that sometimes I cook, and sometimes I get distracted by the fact that it's 4pm and there's wine on the counter). 

"I haven't seen the cat in days.  Is it time to clean?"

For the past year, I've moped and thrown myself about the furniture about the fact that while this move has advanced Adrian's career, it's set mine back years.  My feminist upbringing caused a short-circuit in the reasoning part of my brain.  I think that to make it very clear that this was a temporary arrangement, and that I was not fulfilled being a homemaker, I refused to make the home at all.  As if, by making the most of my situation and enjoying my year at home (or, by showing any aptitude for it whatsoever), fate might bestow upon me the opportunity to do it indefinitely.

And then, this summer, a series of events occurred that allowed me to get over it.  I won't bore you with the gushy details (See, that could've gotten boring.  You're welcome).  I came to the conclusion that wallowing is actually a bit selfish when you belong to a family.  I love my family and am thankful for the opportunity to clean my toilet before I have afternoon tea in the sun (read: wine), and for the time to prepare a meal that isn't a cream sauce pasta.  I actually ironed all Adrian's shirts this week, and dropped them off at his office, because he walks to work.  And I even bought a cookbook I'd been eyeing up. With money from my Wine Allowance. That's a pretty big sacrifice, so you know I'm committed to it.

4.  We are thankful that the dog eats less stuff.  Mostly.  (to be continued...  Adrian wants to watch Boardwalk Empire on the computer right now.  I'll do number four later this week...).

"I'm sorry, Mommy.  They pacify me..."

Creative English in Rap: Should their teachers be Chided, or Commended?

Snoop posted this pros and cons list on instagram recently.  I've reposted the (somewhat) work appropriate version:

Mitt has a dancing horse? 

There are lots of things inappropriate about this, but we don't have time to get into all of them.  Some of them need no explanation.  I'm not saying that some of them aren't right- I mean, come on, Snoop has a point- his name is 'Mitt'.  How can you take a country seriously when their leader is named 'Mitt'? Would VP Paul Ryan become the 'Mitten'?

My main point doesn't have anything to do with the presidential election, but is only illustrated by this list, and it is thus:  Who decided that the plural form of 'ho' would be 'hoes'?  If you make up a word- demeaning or otherwise- do standard grammatical rules apply?  Is there a gangster panel that debates these things?  I have decided that there is, and this is what it looks like:


There are a gaggle of men sitting around a table in the board room.  They all have low slung pants, and there is a bowl of toothpicks in the middle of the table, for which to help them think.  Dre stands up to call the meeting to order.  He's the leader because he's a doctor. 

"All right gentlemen- pencils at the ready- today's meeting has been called to discuss the grammatical issue of the pluralization of 'ho'.  Our options are thus: Shall we go the route of 'pros' and 'bros' and simply add an 's'?  Or shall we follow the lead of 'potato' and end with an 'es'?  Research shows that the 'es' lends more credibility to the word, and helps its case when we vote on addition into the misogynist dictionary, next year."


And they will all listen to him, because he did his dissertation in lyrical dialects. 

I leave you with the end of the meeting, happy weekend!

"To discuss for next week, friends; Faggot: We get a lot of flack for its use, but it rhymes so well with 'Maggot'.  How to proceed?"


***Disclaimer: Adrian feels I should clarify that I absolutely do not condone the use of any of the terms in this post that debase or demean any group of people.  Regardless of their pluralized spelling, or how well they rhyme with other words.

Look How Well My Child Sleeps While I Shine Bright Lights in Her Face

So, I wake up out of a dead sleep on my child's bed, with her yammering away beside me- still awake, obviously, and doing her best to scrape the mascara off the inside of my lashes.  And her chances of actually getting to sleep are considerably slimmer given that I just started awake and yelled "sh!t!" into her face.  And that's because while I was dozing, I realized that I forgot my specialist's appointment today and I can't remember what their cancellation fee is.  And I can't believe that all this time I've been trying to coax her into a sleepy state and not only has she been resisting me every step of the way, but as soon as I (almost immediately) dropped off into a three-glass-o'-wine-snooze, she started creeping her plastic doll's fist into my ears and nostrils.  And now she'll be up for ages, all jazzed by my cursing.

I've included a couple of photos to show what the opposite is like; when I'm awake and Ann is asleep, cross-hatched with her ankles across my throat, or worming her feet down into my sports bra because her toes are cold.  She also finds it very comforting to sleep with her hands around my throat.  Like- in a choke hold.  Given my self-diagnosed Nocturnal Anxiety Disorder (more on that here, and here), this can be very alarming to wake up to.  Equally as alarming is when she then whispers- hoarse in her groggy state- "You're so hot Mommy, you're so hot".  She, of course, means that the warmth of my throat is very soothing, but it is creepy and makes me uncomfortable nonetheless.  I will not even get started on what she does when her hands are actually cold and need a more thorough warming.  That habit requires an entire post all its own.

Ignore that I look like malarky in these photos.  The point is not what I look like in the middle of the night (when I'm taking photos of myself, like all normal people do).  The point is that three-year-olds have no regard for the fact that they are already pushing the boundaries by being in your bed in the first place.  And that whether she's asleep and I'm awake, or I'm asleep and she's awake; I'm uncomfortable.

Immediately after this shot, Adrian sat bolt upright in bed and asked, "Did you just take a f@ck!ng photo at 3am?"



I sent this one to Adrian when I was in PEI so that he could see all the fun sleep he was missing out on.  Given the 4-hour time difference, he received it at a reasonable hour, and so some of my frustration would have been lost in translation. 
Seriously- what is my face doing in this photo?  Who do I turn into while I sleep/not sleep?  How alarming.

I should point out that early morning snuggles make it all worthwhile...

Hand near the throat!  Look how uncomfortable I am!

That Fish Carcass is Staring me Down.

Adrian got home tonight from his annual fishing trip.  The few hours after he gets home are arguably the worst part of the whole trip (for me).  What takes place is a veritable ichthio-massacre.  Our kitchen is unusable as blood and flesh get strewn across every available surface.  This is revolting, but when you take into account that I loathe raw fish entirely, it becomes unbearable.  I am less than helpful.  I usually hold my nose, complaining loudly and throwing myself about the furniture.  I think that last year I took myself out for a long lunch.  To be fair though, the year before that he had made soup stock and I nearly died in horror.  The stench of steaming fish carcass was seared into my nostrils and I dreamed of their little skulls at a rolling boil for days.

This year, however, the trip came after a lovely week in PEI spent reflecting on how wonderful my life and my family are.  I was seized by a fit of love and generosity and offered to help (Yes, a fit.  Like a seizure).  In the interests of full disclosure, there was a trade involved. I got Twizzlers and Thai food, and he had a date at the dog park before dinner.

I was somewhat surprised when Adrian stripped down to his underwear prior to processing the fish.  Obviously I understand now, as processing fish is like wrangling limp wet eels into body suits.  They oozed fluids all down my arms and even into my shoes.  There were scales inside my elbow.  And I used the term 'wrangling' and not 'slicing', as Adrian wisely put me nowhere near the knives and I safely stayed in my vacuum pack corner.  

Not surprisingly, I picked up the vacuum packer skills easily.  I am remarkably quick-witted, after all.  I gagged and whined my way through the whole ordeal, but it took only half the time it usually does to process it all.  Thanks to me, the gamest partner ever.  And Adrian was in great spirits, saying cheery things like 'isn't it nice to spend time together doing something different for a change?'.

By the end, our kitchen was awash in revoltingness.  And Adrian was standing in the middle of it,  still holding his filleting knife with blood up to his wrists (and, remember...in his underpants), like some scene from Deliverance (I don't know, I've never seen the movie.  They hunt in it, right?).  And why are we saving that bloodied bowl of belly flaps?

Anyways, this was part of the haul, and while I look somewhat thankful to be finished, I am also wary as I will be expected to stomach much of this fish:

"What?  There's another cooler?  You're joking, right?"

I know what you're going to say, and no; I did not wrangle fish in that dress.  As soon as we were finished filleting and sealing I immediately changed into something nice, even though it was 10pm.  One has to be careful not to go too far when setting precedents.  There must be a line somewhere, people, and when the kitchen is swimming in blood and slippery carcasses, this dress and glass of wine clearly state:
 'All right.  Come chat with me when you're done.  I'll be the clean, drunk one'.

Adventures in Urine

So, we're potty training.  And obviously when I say that, I mean 'we ran out of diapers and I wasn't in the mood to drive out to Costco'.  So, we're potty training.  We had a package of Dora pull-ups kindly left over from an older cousin, so it worked out pretty well.

Potty training is kind of like going into battle.  You're using all your training and the skills you've developed as a parent to address your child's needs.  And keep those needs from wetting the floor and their underpants.  Dilligence, patience, foresight, mindfulness...  I've developed none of these skills.  This is why we've put it off so long, under the auspice that 'she'll let us know when she's ready'.  It takes a herculean effort for me to be prepared and organized for anything.  Instead, I am great at staying in the moment.  I am just perpetually late for that moment.  I am always fifteen minutes behind schedule leaving the house no matter where we're going.  In my hurried dash for the door, I barely remember to bring Ann, never mind to ask her if she needs to pee and give her a calm and collected moment on the potty just in case.  My timelines are too tight for that, people.

So this has been challenging for both of us. My first discovery was that unless her undercarriage is completely bare, she thinks she's wearing something to safely contain any emissions.  Underpants are for professionals, nudity is safest until you've got a handle on your functions.  Which leads me to discovery number two: it is very difficult to look like a competent parent when you are potty-training.  In general, you look like an irresponsible a$$hole, and your child just looks poorly-behaved.  Aside from flashing private parts at everyone, they pee in the most inappropriate of places.  The first day, Ann peed in the grocery store line-up.  Being the irresponsible customer I am, I abandoned the pee puddle to push through the throng of people at the till ("Oh- sorry, sir!  Excuse me, ma'am.  Heads up, people!  Watch your feet!") to try to rush to the toilet to contain some of it.  Instead, the urinary trail just continued to the washroom.  It was like Hansel and Gretel.  Then I had to bud back in line, and politely ask for an extra bag for her urine- soaked underpants. Yes, plastic. Of course I'll pay the extra charge.  Now I'm rude, out of pocket, and killing sea turtles with plastic bags.  Even worse is if she was wearing pants, and we have to walk back to the car with all her business on display.  Can I get arrested for that?  Toddler-hood is fraught with opportunities to get a criminal record.

The next day we had to go to the building supply store.  It's one of those ones with an underground parking area to pick up 2x4's, shingles, etc.  Of course Ann had to pee.  With nary a washroom in sight, I tried to find a secluded corner that didn't contain bags of cement and helpful men in fluorescent vests wanting to fetch me lumber.  How embarrassing to have to get your child to do something you might yourself be arrested for, but outside of carrying a special car potty, what are you going to do?  And then you have a potty in your trunk filled with pee, and I'm just not careful enough on corners for that to be practical.  But I digress.  We did our squat as quietly as possible.  Which isn't quiet at all because there is a 'Pee Come Out' song, and applause ("Say 'whooaaa', Mommy").  Additionally, I didn't get her shoes off in time.  I tried to walk back to the car with dignity- nodding politely at the workers in vests- but urine kept squelching out the holes in her crocs.  And it had distance, velocity and height.

Continuing in my series of mortifying, toilet-related incidents; last week, we ferried to Vancouver for a single night on three separate occasions.  Numerous things:
1.  Ferry washrooms.  With their extremely loud and unpredictable automatic flushes, these are scary places.  Ann screams when they go off and bangs on the door with her fists.  Again, not behaviour associated with 'good' parenting.

2.  Docking.  They really don't want you to hold up the unloading of vehicles.  But obviously she had to pee (though she didn't have to, mere seconds earlier).  After banging my head against the steering wheel, I yanked her out of the car and up the stairs to the washroom just as the gates were opening. I briefly considered trying to find a quiet place to pee on the car deck, but it's different than a building store parking lot, what with every car being full.  Of grumpy travelers.  Watching me abandon my vehicle during unloading.  I managed to make it back in time, and get her buckled in (which is good, because the ferry in Tsawwassen pretty much empties onto the freeway) with no mishaps.  I had forgotten to put her shoes on in my haste, but that wasn't a big deal until we were wiping and I noticed she was standing on the dirty (sooooo dirty) bathroom floor in her bare feet.  Still not a big deal until twenty minutes later, when I noticed in the car that she was storing carrots between her toes as she ate them.

3. Ferry playgrounds.  So, the great thing about toilet-training girls is that you can put them in skirts and dresses, which, combined with our bare undercarriage policy, makes for extremely fast transitions.  Except that she can just hike up her skirt in anticipation.  Or to show strangers what a big girl she is, being out of diapers.  Or just for a cool breeze.  The identifiably religious family sitting next to me did not appreciate it.  The other problem is that slides are difficult due to the incredibly frictionable surface area between her ankles and hips, slowing her down and burning the skin off her sensitive areas.  But she just didn't care.  Clever little girl that she is though, she figured out that if she shifted her centre of gravity to her back by putting her legs straight up in the air and leaning backwards, she'd fly down that slide.  Much to the horror of the aforementioned parents sitting next to me.  Who were thinking 'incompetent parent, naughty child' (see earlier paragraph).

"Incoming!  Brace yourself for the squeal of labia on slide!"

It look like she's moving fast, but she's really not...

Another challenge has been trying to convince her that it's better to go to the washroom indoors than out.  She feels that if the backyard is good enough for Maggie, it should be good enough for her.  To be honest, I could really care less, but I feel it could get out of control if I don't try to manage it somewhat.  At first she limited it to our backyard.  And deck.  Sometimes I'd find her on the deck, just standing there, looking pensive and relaxed.  In a puddle, in her pajamas.

"I fertilized your plants.  You're welcome."

Now she's branching out into new outdoor territories though.  Case in point- at the dog park yesterday, one of the women said, "Hey, check out what Annie's doing".  I turned around- nervously, because there were a number of horrifying things she could be doing- and found her, in the middle of a swarm of dogs, standing with her feet stretched far apart and her dress up by her ears, peeing away.  For the rest of the playtime, whenever anyone stepped onto the field she'd put her hand up and yell, "Stop!  Careful!  You're stepping in my pee!".

"What do you mean that was inappropriate?  Party or not, it is a backyard."

Anyways, I was under the impression that as they got older, they got easier.  So far, using the toilet means that I have to drop whatever I'm doing- eating, talking on the phone, driving, peeing- to get her set-up.  I had more leeway when she was an infant.  This involves more laundry, more foresight and organization, and me being mortified numerous times a day.  I suppose that during this transition, I'll have to take the victories where I can get them.  Like when I didn't accidentally drop her down the outhouse while we were camping.  I was pretty anxious about it, good on me for that.

I May Have to Rename the Blog.

...Because I'm somewhat employed now.  I've been hired by a local district.  I've been working for them for about six weeks.  I was subbing at first- and aside from the usual hooligan antics, it was pretty awesome.  Flexible days, low responsibility (outside of school hours), and most importantly- money.  And then Adrian 'encouraged' me to start applying for postings.  The last three weeks I've had a short contract teaching alternative education for grade nine students.  This contract has been sufficiently challenging, and tremendously entertaining (entertaining from an objective perspective.  From my perspective, it's just been exhausting).  My father advises me that I can tell you all about the experience in this public forum when I retire from teaching.  So stay tuned for that.

Anyways, this whole 'work' thing will be short-lived as the summer approaches.  It will be back to austerity measures and beaucoup de toddler time come July.  Just enough working hours for me to get used to whining about other people's children again, as opposed to my own.  There really isn't a need for me to change the name of the blog just yet.  Though I think that when I do, that's what I'll name it- 'Other People's Children'.  Because 'Other People's Children are Obnoxious' was taken.  And probably rude.

Anyways, in this short period of time we have gotten into quite a lovely routine.  I say 'lovely' because alternative education doesn't start until 9:30am, which is positively civilized.  One of the few parts of alternative education that is civilized.  Because you're dying to know, this is what our day looks like:

7am: Adrian and I get up.  Ann keeps sleeping, because early morning wake-ups are for crazy people.  We save that sh!t for the weekend.  Weekdays are for sleep-ins.  Maggie gets up on the bed for Annie-snuggles as soon as Adrian is out of the room, and waits patiently for her to get up and play.  Sometimes she helps her along by pushing her.

Yes, if you look carefully you can see that Maggie's paw is on Ann's forehead.

'Honestly Ann.  You're such a sloth.'

'She takes after you, you know.'

8am: Dog park.  Annie stays in the car, eating her toast and listening to Dora while Maggie poops, jumps on me, and irritates the neighbourhood dogs.

These are her 'naughty' ears.  When she's really up to something, both of them stand at attention like that.

"Cheese?  Did someone mention 'cheese'?"

4:30pm- Afternoon dog park.  This really had been the most amazing discovery.  Before dinner every day, a collection of up to 13 dogs and their owners gather at a local high school to play.  This has pretty much saved my sanity as Maggie has soooo much energy and a terribly unreliable recall.  We can safely run our little hearts out in a fenced field with numerous other pups (fig.1).  Annie also loves it, and puts on a good show for the rest of the owners.  She's quite tired at that point of the day from all the fun of daycare, and the effect can be similar to when I have approximately 2.5 glasses of wine.  She's social, chatty and enchanting to be around.  And about an hour from turning into a total crazy person.  This week she has been quite delighted to discover that some dogs have penises, and takes great joy searching them out at the park.  And discussing it with the owners- "Dat's his penis.  I touch it?".  I think the fascination has come from a little male friend at daycare.  They've been learning about 'privacy', because Ann likes to watch what happens when he goes to the bathroom (what's wrong with his 'gina?), and applauds enthusiastically when he finishes. Still being in diapers, constant potty use is an impressive feat deserving of much praise and encouragement.  Adrian finds it less endearing than I do when she does it.  I love any kind of applause.

Fig.1- look at the fawn-coloured dog in the foreground.  She's all 'Look at me, I'm soooo pretty'.  That's Maggie behind her, in her 'come hither' position

530pm- the nice thing about the dog park is that Ann runs around outside, and it leaves no time for television when we get home, exhausted.  While this is really just a by-product of a long park play, I still like to congratulate myself on what an excellent parent I am, limiting television the way I do.

Bedtime- I have been sleeping so much better since I've been back at work.  This might be for a couple of reasons:

1. Other People's Children are exhausting.
2. Having a dog around has really helped my self-diagnosed nocturnal anxiety disorder (NADs).  Not only is it comforting to have a dog around, but when she was little I would have to take her out into the dark and scary backyard at several points throughout the night.  The number of times I wasn't raped and murdered has been reassuring.

Anyways, the contract ends in two days and I'll be back to vacation mode.  And then I can post photos of all three of us girls snuggling past 8am on a weekday.  Cause that's the way we roll.

PS Happy Birthday to my Father Bear!

40 Days of Extreme Nice.

So, I started this blog- about what a bad blogger I am- numerous weeks ago:

Man.  I'm really a useless blogger lately.  I have a number of excuses for this:

1. I'm sooooooo lazy.
2. I have a puppy.  When we were talking about it recently, Adrian was unconvinced that this is the reason for my blog drop-off (blop-off?).  Probably because he gets home at 5pm and Maggie sleeps from like- 8pm til morning.  That means she's asleep for 80% of the time Adrian is home.  And so he doesn't see her boxing Ann, or stalking and trying to eat her ponytail, or chewing her toys and clothes, and diapers.  Or sneaking in and drinking out of her potty before I have a chance to empty it (to be clear, I empty it after we wipe, wash our hands and redress.  It's not like I leave the pee-filled potty out in the open for hours.  Most of the time).
3.  I'm out of the house four nights a week.  Two nights of french class, one night of puppy-training, and one night of volunteering.  I mean working (I don't get paid much).

But really:

1. Game of Thrones.  Five books.  Every one of them longer than the last, and incredibly addictive. 

Anyways, the purpose of that post had been to discuss Adrian's upcoming birthday.  He turned forty on April 20th!  He really is the most IMPOSSIBLE person to buy for, or to plan for.  This is because he hates lots of attention and focus, and so a big 40th birthday party- with lots of singing, back-slapping and conversations about his general awesomeness- is a nightmare for him.  We couldn't be more different.  I would happily absorb all those back slaps for him.  And I love to talk about how awesome I am.  It's like, my favourite pastime.  So, anyways, we had a quiet dinner out.  No applause.

I agonized over a gift.  Given that I was still soooooo unemployed, for Adrian, really, the perfect gift would be if I had been quietly saving money for months, and then sneakily put it all against debt on his birthday.  He agreed that that would have been genius.  But I'm terrible at saving money.  I finally decided on something I called '40 days of Extreme Nice'.  For 40 days- 20 before his birthday and 20 after- he could ask for one really nice thing for me to do every day, and I'd have to do it.  Before you get all mind-guttery about it, keep in mind that post-children, there are many onerous tasks throughout a parent's daily routine that warrant intense bartering.  Who gets up first in the morning?  Whose turn is it to read stories?  I'll trade you backyard poop pick-up if you iron my shirts?  It's a constant negotiation that Adrian had an automatic 'out' of, once a day, for 40 days. 

And then a funny thing happened.  Once you give a gift, you have to follow through, even when you are tired and grumpy.  Though not always selfless acts of love ('I'll effing iron your shirts, but I'm not going to effing like it'), Acts of Extreme Nice are extremely nice, even when given somewhat begrudgingly, apparently.  They had a domino effect.  They were followed by gratitude, which was then followed by more acts of selfless generosity.  I found myself enjoying doing his chores, because it made him so happy.  Enjoying chores- that's cray-cray (as my students say.  I don't know what it means.  I presume it has something to do with crayfish). I found myself exceeding my quota of kindnesses, and Adrian would too- and he didn't even have a quota.

Anyways, my point is that I'm the best present-giver ever.  My presents are so good that they result in me not having to cook dinner.  I'm a genius.  I should write a book.

I'm a Slob. Part Two.

So I don't want to bore you guys by droning on and on about how my hygiene standards are slipping, and I know that the negative changes to my life post-baby are a rather pervasive topic already, but... I have one more post.  Well, at least one more.

My friend Davina was here last week.  She came for four wonderful days.  She was an excellent houseguest- she filled the empty dishwasher, helped cook, took the dog for a pee while I strapped the child into the car.  She did pretty much everything I forget to do while I'm busy chatting. Which is why I'm an awful houseguest.  I'm terrible at multi-tasking socializing with- well- everything else.  Except for drinking all the wine in the house, of course.  I'm pretty good at multi-tasking that with chatting.

Anyways, petite Davina is perfectly put together and came with a fleet of cute dresses, pretty cardigans and nautical handbags.  Her scuffless boots smell like smoked cow, and her black hair is long and lustrous and shiny.  On the other hand, I went through my weekly rotation of five hoodies, and -as we all know- for me, getting ready means putting on a real bra and pinning back my greasy bangs.  There is nothing like having a beautiful, childless, young professional in the house to put your reality in harsh relief.  For example, aside from the obvious differences in personal appearance:

1. I forgot I had numerous appointments while she was here.  When we made plans for her to come visit, I assured her I was free and clear.  Because generally, I have no life.  After she got here I realized (read: Adrian reminded me.  Because we've come to understand that, for whatever reason, I can't be trusted to remember important dates at this point in unemployed time) that I had at least 3 appointments while she was here, and one of them was an interview.  I had forgotten I had an interview.  Another one was a two-hour class.  That I have at the same time every week.
2. We were no less than half an hour late leaving the house for almost everything we planned.  And I was still the under-dressed of the two of us.
3. I was reminded of how much I like shopping.  I used to love shopping.  I haven't been shopping much since I had Ann, and even less since we moved here in July.  As Adrian pointed out in Costco the other day when I was bragging about how much wear I was getting out of my bleach-stained jogging pants, "At the risk of sounding crazy, I think you're too committed to our budget".  So we went shopping.  Davina's really good at it.  And Victoria is FULL of amazing little boutiques.  Looking at all the beautiful spring dresses I remembered what it was like to have disposable income, and entire weekends to try on great outfits in stores and congratulate myself in the mirror on how banging my pre-baby body is.  I got so carried away that I forgot I even had a child, and she ran reckless through the stores (just kidding.  That would be irresponsible.  Davina chased after her).
4.  I yell a lot.  At the dog to stop biting, at Ann to stop teasing the dog.  At them both to let go, get down, come here, stop that!  I think that sometimes I forget at whom I'm yelling.  And why.  I think that probably makes me a tyrant. 

The difference between this sad, pathetic post and the last sad, pathetic post is that Davina did point out there is a lot of joy going on in our home.  And by 'joy' I mean that we're laughing at the ridiculous things Ann is saying and doing that she will rue as a teenager.  And we are unlikely to forget, because like parents everywhere, the entire lexicon of our home is changing with Ann.  Because some of the words she mispronounces are too adorable not to adapt into everyday conversation.  To the delight of all our normal friends.  For example:

• Bwankwet- blanket
• Gyna- vagina (...not that it comes up in conversation with other adults very often...)
• Pooter- Computer
• Higherduck- an under-duck on the swing
• Wunch- lunch

Unfortunately, imitating your child and mimicking other people's accents can sound surprisingly similar.  This makes us both cutesy and racist.  You would probably not want to hang out with us either.

Adding to my appreciation for my spirited little girl lately is that one of her little friends has just been diagnosed with Leukemia, and is undergoing chemo this week.  Every time I feel myself losing it on Ann, I remind myself of how lucky I am that my little almost-three-year-old is healthy and strong.  And then I have a little more patience when she pushes the chair up to the counter so she can climb up and cram marshmallows into her face, a little more time for eight more higher-ducks at the swings, a little more joy for ten more minutes of bubble-blowing at the pool, and a lot more gratitude for ferocious hugs that may or may not have been coerced with a promise of marshmallows. 

Happy Weekend Everyone!

How the superficial have fallen. Namely, me.

So.  A lot has been going on over here.  We got a puppy.  A little 10 week old boxer.  She's amazing and sooo cute, but I'm too tired from yelling at her to stop biting EVERYONE that I'm not ready to talk about her yet.  But I'm sure you can stay tuned for stories of her eating Ann's poop.  And Ann eating her poop.  And everyone getting worms.  That'll make for a hysterical post.

I also started a french class.  Two, technically.  I started out in a higher level course and dropped down after one very stressful week.  I couldn't follow the class, it was like they were speaking another language. 

Tonight I got to class 'a l'heure'.  That means 'on time'.  I was a bit flustered though; on the way out the door- as I rushed to suck down my veggie chilli- Maggie bit Ann's foot as it dangled (tantalizingly) from her high chair.  She bit it hard, and during all the yelling, crying, and panic that ensued, she also bit Adrian.  And then she peed on the floor.  And then I went to class.

We did a class activity and I got paired with another woman.  She was impeccably dressed with black heels and perfect hair and makeup.  She also had naked legs (in February! The dedication to sex appeal).  Seated next to her, I tried to fix my hair and more prominently display whatever expensive jewelry I had on.  Lately, whenever I find myself in situations with potential new friends like this I want to explain "Hi-I'm-Nora-I-usually-dress-much-better-than-this".
But I've had an epiphany that recently this is untrue.  I reflected on this as I looked down at myself.  I was out of the house with adults, so I was actually in my good jogging pants.  I'm no stranger to joggers, but I used to at least try to wear something flattering 75% of the time (all right.  50%).
Everything else I was wearing was Joe Fresh.  This season's line, because that's the way I roll.  But at least it was joe fresh from pee.  Mostly.  I'd stepped in dog urine on the way out the door and had changed only one of my socks.  I'm lucky if I can make it out of the house without someone else's boogers in my hair (that Adrian, he's so sniffly), so I don't bother to style it.  And lately, my favourite outfits are ones that transition seamlessly from daywear to sleepwear.  And then back to daywear the next morning.  There are weeks when my breasts go days without seeing daylight.  Who needs perky breasts when you can sleep in your bra?

It just so happens that this revelation has come up during an obsession with the video for Sh!t Girls Say.  Consequently:

Sh!t I would've said three years ago:

• "I need to find some heels to go with my new $300 jeans.  My old ones won't match the threading on the pockets."
• "Spaghetti squash is such an amazing substitute for pasta.  I don't even miss it!"
• "It's only too much cleavage if your nipples are showing."

Sh!t I say now:

• "Oooooh... I bet there are leftover Zoodles in the fridge!"
• "Let's hit the park, I'll just put jogging pants on under my nightgown.  Can you throw me your hoodie?"
• "Smell me, do I need to shower?"
• "It's just Boston Pizza, Adrian.  But I guess these jogging pants are a bit snug.  I'll wear yours."
• "Does it smell like I have any dog poop on me?"
• "I straightened it yesterday, I don't need to brush it due to the 'carry-over' effect.  That's the whole point of a short haircut."
• "It's good for your hair follicles to let your armpits express themselves every now and then."
  

While I know that many of you are feeling sorry for Adrian for having to smell check me so often, keep in mind that I am the victim.  It's my dignity that is suffering.  But my resolve weakens every time I get banana on a clean top (and god help you if it's dryclean only...), or when someone is climbing on me as I apply eyeliner, or I get yogurt in my freshly straightened hair.  I lose sight of the point.  The only people that see me are the ones at the pool and the grocery store.  And the liquor store. 


Anyways, at class these days all I can do is hope that this very well-dressed person will look past the boogers in my hair to the narcissistic friend underneath who wants to know where she got her shoes.

Cheap Wine on a Wednesday. It screams 'Bad Parent'.

It was one of those days today.  First of all, I worked.  But among other exhausting things, I was working in a kindergarten classroom.  We have discussed this before, I am not trained for this age group!  Oh, the tattling...  When someone interrupts to complain that Stu is on the wrong page, or that Jimmy called Samantha 'mean' I resist the urge to say "Who the f@ck cares, Grace?  Can I get back to the story?" or "At least his hand isn't in his nose, Sammy".  And the whining!  I wanted to yell "just cut out the circle Bobby, it's not f@cking rocket science!".  I am (clearly) not equipped with the primary skill set yet.

Anyways, after an exhausting day developing new skills, all of a sudden I was at the cashier in the grocery store with Ann.  I was in Adrian's oversized winter coat and old, wet runners with jogging pants (it was after 5pm. That's post 'real-pants' time).  I was buying bread, four Dr. Oetker pizzas (in my defense they were on sale.  Do you know how expensive they are?) and a big bag of dill pickle chips (not full fat though, they were baked. It's a weekday- I'm not a savage). Under my arm was a bottle of ten dollar Malbec, and Ann's hair was in her eyes.  There was so much yogurt in it, it was sticking out at weird angles.  And to her cheek.  She was overtired and grabbing at the gum rack.  Repeatedly.  I looked up, and caught raised eyebrows, derisive sniffs and the whiff of judgement in our general direction.  Including: Is that what that mother is feeding her child tonight? (yes. It's fewer steps than KD.  And it's made by a Doctor.)

Man...   I was such a better parent before I had a kid.  And- before I had a kid- I was also a better looking, more polished mother.  With more frequent haircuts and expensive jewelry. 


Speaking of wearing clothes after 6pm, 20sec of 30 Rock for your morning...

I need more friends.

Sooooo... I like to read.  I could read a book cover-to-cover if I didn't have a family and responsibilities.  And I probably did sometimes, back before I had Ann.  If I wasn't too busy being thinner, sportier, more well-slept and wealthier.  But I digress...
When Adrian goes away for work, I get lonely and tend read straight in the hours between Ann's bedtime and mine.  Or dawn, sometimes.  I substitute real adult interaction with fictional characters.  Which is TOTALLY NORMAL I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.  When he went to Europe for ten days this summer, I read 'The Help'.  Pretty much overnight.  The only problem with this type of compulsive reading (Well.  One could argue there are many problems.) is that you get too immersed in your novel's setting.  And the characters.  And the story.  For days during that trip our conversations would go like this:

MOMMY: Law... This heat is fixin to kill me.
ANN: Laaawwww.
MOMMY: Child... We need us some lem-moe-nade.
ANN: Nade.

Which isn't just strange, I'm pretty sure it's racist too.

This week I've been reading 'Game of Thrones' which is loooong.  And violent.  And I've been reading too much of it.
I was taking in an armload of groceries today when I dropped a box of frozen raspberries:

MOMMY: Annie, my hands are full, can you pick those up for me?
ANN: Too heavy.  Mummy do it.  Mummy carry.
MOMMY: Ann!  Where is your honour?  There is no more time for games, Winter is COMING! Grab the raspberries!  Winterfelllll!
ANN: eh-heh
(which is the passive agreement noise she makes when she's ignoring me.  She's already very good at ignoring me)

Clearly, the nerdiness is out of control.  So tonight, I threw in several hours of TV.  Just to be healthy.

Memory Lane

When we left Vancouver, our amazing and beloved daycare provider gave us a cd of photos of Ann that she had taken over the year.  My mac wouldn't open it, but we just got a pc that will.  Hence, a slew of photos of Ann looking cute.  Mostly.

Age One.  So cute.  I don't even remember her looking this cute.

Not as cute.  There is liquid oozing out of every facial orifice.  That's what daycare does.

I'm interrupting this photo montage to tell you about Ann's crooked bangs.  Who do you think cut them?  If you guessed me, you'd usually be right, but in this particular instance we have no idea who cut them.  We asked everyone, all to no avail.  I couldn't even really figure out when.  I think I had it narrowed down to a two day period, but c'mon, I was a working mom.  It was suggested that perhaps I was overworked and overtired and had cut them myself.  I scoffed- like, who blacks out on cutting her child's hair?  But then later I did sit Ann down and get the scissors and go through the motions, trying to jog a memory.  So I am very confident it wasn't me.  It had to be our daycare provider.  Now, daycare providers are like the waiter you don't want to spit in your food.  They are helping raise your child and have eight-hour access to her every day.  You do not want to piss them off.  Additionally, ours was the most wonderful person alive and we adored her.  I casually asked her if she'd noticed Ann's bangs, and then just as casually asked if she had done it.  She said- in the sweetest and loveliest way possible- "No.  They were crooked, so I assumed you did it."  Which i get, but still.  Also, this woman was perfect. She wouldn't have cut crooked.  This left the possibility that some toddler at daycare had done it, which is too horrifying to imagine.

I didn't really care that the bangs were terribly crooked (we're used to that), or that someone didn't ask our permission, but there were two things that bugged me:
1. Some undetermined person saw a need that my child had and filled it before I could get around to it.
2. Someone had scissors by my child's eyes, and I have no idea who that person was.

Anyways, it has given me an entirely new appreciation for bangs.  When they need to be cut, what they should look like, and how long it takes them to grow out.  Which is a long time.

Halloween.  The bangs almost grown out...

OMG you guys!  Tonight is going to be soooo fun.  Have I told you I love that that top? Totes adorb!
Let's get us some beverages!

Man...What was in those drinks?  Seriously...The room is spinning...

I'm sorry... Who are you again?

OMG!  I just had the best idea ever!!  Let's get POUTINE!

Her second birthday party.  Look at how happy she is.  And then we uprooted her and took her away.

You might notice that her name is spelled wrong.  We don't care.  We loved that woman so much she could have renamed her 'Jambalaya' and we would have just smiled politely and nodded.

Social Filter Short Circuits

This one is an old one that I wrote and posted on facebook.  I want to have everything in one place:
Everyone has a social filter.  It is that subconscious regulatory body that prevents you from relaying your favourite Family Guy jokes to your boss, telling your parents about that truly embarrassing yet hysterical thing that happened to your best friend when she was having sex with that guy last week, or discussing hemorrhoids when your landlady asks if your baby is everything you thought she was going to be.

Near the end of my maternity leave, I started to notice that my social filter was malfunctioning.  Off-colour jokes were coming out in mixed company.  Snide things that I'd sometimes think, but would never say were being said.  Perhaps it's because I wasn't spending enough time outside the house.  Perhaps I was too high strung (many of you who know me might say 'entirely likely').  Perhaps if you comment on your baby's bowel movements too many times with other adults, your social filter actually short circuits (social filters do not condone poo talk.  No matter how many times your baby exploded out of her diaper at inappropriate times).  Perhaps I just needed a hobby to bring me into more contact with other adults.

Case in point:
My first incident occured when we were buying a new car.  I had the baby on my knee and she was squirming and whining and generally being annoying.  We were going through the paperwork and because I was a foolish female and my auto-savvy man wasn't there, he was trying to convince me that even though I had a 5-yr factory warranty, I should still get the super-double-extended-warranty for my gas cap, rearview mirror and the decal on my keychain (which- to be fair- I bought.  And then later my auto-savvier man called in and opted out of).  My patience was really thin and I was snappier than I might have been (many of you are shocked, I know).  He said: "She's a rascal isn't she? (sign here) I bet sometimes you want to send her back where she came from! (initital here)."  To which I responded "Well, I sometimes think about it, but I don't think she'd fit."  And then, I palmed her head.  To show how big it was.
Awkward silence...  Honestly.  Was I thinking that this would make the process go more smoothly and painlessly?  Without your filter, it's just verbal diarrhea (my filter just spiked at the mention of diarrhea- clearly it's working now...).

Incident number two:
I was in a medical waiting room with a bunch of other new mothers-all of us with a sheet containing 'Baby's First Milestones'.  As often does, it became a competition of whose baby was more developmentally advanced.  The first woman- reading the milestone for 9mths that says 'can take socks off' (like really people- are we going to get competitive about that?  We're setting the bar pretty low aren't we?  It's not like they've knit those socks themselves)- said "My baby can take her socks off AND her pants".  To which another replied: "MY baby can take her socks and pants off, and her shirt too".  Normally I'd think something nasty and snicker quietly to myself, praying for the situation to end.  I'd also probably be smugly praising myself for not engaging in the parading of my baby's worth based on whether or not she can make a 'pincer grasp' , but my filter was one step behind me.  It didn't stop the 'make fun of these women' impulse in time.  I said "MY baby can get her socks and pants and shirt off, and THEN she makes out with boys.  She's VERY advanced."
Instant social pariah.  This time not just with the one car salesman, but with a roomful of cranky and underslept women.  Who clearly did not get my joke.

Anyways, my point is- when on maternity leave, get a hobby.